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nillegible · 3 years

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the JGY amnesia Fic

[AN: Someday I will come up with decent titles for my fics... but not now XD I hope you like this fic, the premise is that the issue with XY and NMJ happens before JZX’s death, and so the argument and the stairs moves up in the timeline! And JGY hits his head and gets TV-show amnesia, and remembers no one, not even himself, but is otherwise his sharp, suspicious self...]

He wakes up sure that he is dying, nothing else could hurt so sharp, agonizing pain radiating out from the back of his head, stabbing sharply every time he is swung, and he forces his eyes open. The light burns, but he can make out an earth green and brown collar, and a strong jawline. He is being carried by this man.

He doesn’t know who this is, but he feels… safe. Even though every step this man takes makes his eyes water.

He blacks out.

His name is Jin Guangyao. It rolls smoothly off his tongue, but sits wrongly in his mind. “Temporary amnesia,” the doctor had informed him, when Jin Guangyao could not tell him the answers to any pf his questions; not his name, or the date, or where they were.

A fancy young master in white-and-gold robes, who introduces himself as Jin Zixuan, is the one who sits by his side and tells Jin Guangyao the basics of his life. There is such an obvious lack of detail that it leaves him intrigued. And Jin Zixuan looks ashamed when Jin Guangyao asked if he was Jin Zixuan’s uncle. “No, I’m your older brother,” he says. “We… we share a birthday, but you’re a day younger.”

Jin Guangyao watches him for a moment, and wonders at the source of his brother’s shame. “I’m a bastard, aren’t I?” he asks.

“My father legitimized you!” Jin Zixuan protests. “You’re my brother.”

Jin Guangyao smiles at him. This man is clearly naïve, but has no ill-intent. The man who had named Jin Guangyao Jin Guangyao, however? He is yet to ascertain that.

Jin Guangyao’s memory doesn’t return within the first week. With his head injury healed, though, he’s allowed to leave the infirmary which allows him to collect a lot more useful data.

There is a lot of work piled up in his room. Disorganized, as if someone had gone through it to take the important paperwork to work on while he is <infirm>. That he was assigned so much work that was non-essential makes him wonder if he was actually pretty low on the social ladder, here. He goes through all of them anyway, most of it is useful information, painting a picture of Jin sect’s activities, and the sorts of projects that they allow to drag on for weeks. Jin Guangyao has left meticulous notes in a separate notebook about how to put everything into a more sensible order. That such reworking was required

His accessories, or lack-there-of, are even more enlightening. There’s also a scholarly-sort of hat, and only a few cheap hair ribbons. Nothing at all like the intricate jade hairpins or crowns with intricate metalwork and precious stones that Jin Zixuan and Jin Zixun wore daily.

Jin Guangyao’s place here is… obvious.

He wonders who the man who had picked him up after his injury, was. No one tells him, not even Jin Zixuan, he just pats Jin Guangyao’s hand and says, “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.” The implications of that are obvious, of course, that the stranger was the one who had hurt him. And yet it’s a subject no one speaks of, of how Jin Guangyao had fallen down the thousand steps of Koi Tower, and he hadn’t asked after the first two times. He stays wary, watching everyone. Someone had tried to kill him, and he doesn’t even remember which of his acquaintances might want him dead.

Lan Xichen arrives two days after his release from the infirmary, Lan-Zongzhu, according to everyone else. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful person that Jin Guangyao has ever seen. Since he remembers all of a week, this doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Jin Guangyao could probably search for decades and not find anyone more beautiful. It would not be fair.

They have tea together, after Lan Xichen – “Call me er-ge, you are my sworn brother, A-Yao,” – has checked him over worriedly, and checked his meridians, and pressed his fingertips gently to the back of Jin Guangyao’s head, to where his head injury had been, and ascertained that he truly is well.

“They did not tell me you were injured,” he says. “Da-ge had to, and this is the week of new students for the summer lectures, I could not leave. Jin Zixuan promised me you were well, though,” he says. Sincerity shines through him, and Jin Guangyao wonders what on earth he, an unwelcome child in his own family, could have done to make this man care for him.

So he asks.

Lan Xichen describes a heroic young man, who gave him shelter when he needed it most, who had smiled and laughed at him, and helped him with chores he could not do, and gave him the strength to fight a war. Lan Xichen tells him that this kind young man had gone into a war that did not affect him, only to help, that he had turned spy against a raging mad man, and finally taken off his head.

“So that is why my father took me in,” says Jin Guangyao. There’s a flicker of pain on Lan Xichen’s face as Jin Guangyao tells him what he’s surmised about how he’s treated here. “Did you know?” asks Jin Guangyao.

“I suspected,” Lan Xichen says softly. “But you were too proud to tell me. You insisted you were happy here. I visited when I could, but I never… I’m so sorry.”

Jin Guangyao reaches out to pat Lan Xichen’s hand, it feels so familiar, even if Jin Guangyao can’t remember doing it before. He must have, Lan Xichen’s sad face cannot be borne. “I’m sure I didn’t want to bother you, er-ge. You’re overworking yourself even now.” The signs are there, even behind his flawless composure. “You look so tired.”

“I had to come,” says Lan Xichen. “I was so scared that you…” He trails off, then turns his hand, holding onto him tightly. “If you don’t remember your place at Koi tower, do you want to return with me until your memory recovers? We’re still reconstructing, but Cloud Rececsses is still an excellent place to ”

“This Jin Guangyao is honoured, but what if it doesn’t?” asks Jin Guangyao practically. “I can’t just leave my home like that.” More quietly, he adds, “There must have been some reason I didn’t leave before.”

“You never said, exactly, but I believe it was because of your mother,” says Lan Xichen. “She wished that you would gain your father’s recognition, and a place at Koi Tower.”

“Do you know anything about her?” Jin Guangyao is not an idiot, he knows from the snide remarks, the way that people try not to touch him that he is of low birth, that his mother’s occupation was. That. He wonders if Lan Xichen will lie to him.

“She was an educated woman,” he says. “A renowned beauty. You’ve told me that you take after her, in many ways. She was skilled in the arts. She never taught you art but she was your master in calligraphy and music. She loved you very much and wanted you to have a good education because she knew… she knew that A-Yao is so incredibly smart and destined for greater things.” He squeezes Jin Guangyao’s hand. “Her life was not easy. She suffered, but she loved you. She would be proud of you, to know how much you achieved.”

It should matter, it does matter, Jin Guangyao’s heart squeezes, but it is from sympathy for what Lan Xichen is feeling. The dark honey-gold eyes are bright with tears. Clearly Jin Guangyao had loved her very much, before. But Jin Guangyao cannot find in him any love for a woman that Jin Guangyao cannot imagine. A woman with his face, a prostitute, but educated, talented. And ambitious to have Jin Guangshan’s son.

“My father did not take her in, I gather?”

“He did not. She died of illness shortly before I met you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” says Jin Guangyao.

Lan Xichen stays an entire afternoon, and readies himself to leave at dusk. Jin Guangyao accompanies him to the sky-pavilion on Koi Tower that the Jin disciples use to take off from.

There’s a last nagging question that Jin Guangyao hadn’t managed to slide into the conversation, as it meandered into cultivation theory and Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen had tried to piece out some kind of pattern in what kinds of cultivation knowledge he had retained, and what he had forgotten. It had been an interesting exercise.

“Er-ge, before you go,” says Jin Guangyao. He looks around cautiously, but no one is near enough to overhear. “You’re older than Jin Zixuan, aren’t you?” he asks, and Lan Xichen nods. “So our da-ge… you never said. Is he… did he die during the war?”

“No!” cries Lan Xichen. “A-Yao no, he’s not. He’s fine, he just could not find time to visit.”

Lie.

It’s the first time Lan Xichen has lied to him today, but Jin Guangyao is certain of it.

“No one talks about him, and I couldn’t find any letters from him. I did find a few of yours. No one even says his name. Who is he?”

“Nie Mingjue,” says Lan Xichen, sounding defeated. “Of course you would think to ask, but his name is Nie Mingjue.”

Everything falls into place. Jin Guangyao has seen some Nie disciple couriers on their way to private meetings with his father and the Jin council of elders. Hard faced and angry looking, they kept to themselves and departed the moment they could, without staying for a meal or entertainment.

“You think he pushed me down the stairs,” says Jin Guangyao.

“No,” says Lan Xichen. “We know he did. He kicked you down the stairs. He–”

“And you believe that?” asks Jin Guangyao.

“Of course I do,” says Lan Xichen. “Da-ge was the one who told me. I knew that things were difficult between the two of you, recently, but I had not imagined… It does not matter, we are looking through the records now, so that you can be free of your vows to him, and even if we can’t find something, he won’t visit Koi Tower again, Jin-zongzhu has forbidden it.”

“Oh,” says Jin Guangyao, mind whirring. “Okay then.”

“Is A-Yao afraid we’re covering something up?” asks Lan Xichen. Jin Guangyao is not sure what gave it away, he thought he’d kept his face smooth.

“Naturally I trust er-ge,” he says, smiling up at him. “I just remember him, vaguely. He picked me up. He saved me.”

It’s Jin Guangyao’s first memory, pained and fragmented though it is.

“He did take you up to the infirmary right after,” Lan Xichen agrees. He looks faintly puzzled, like he’s not sure why that matters to Jin Guangyao.

“I understand,” says Jin Guangyao. “Nie-zongzhu would of course regret his action after his moment of anger.”

“He does,” Lan Xichen assures him. “You should write to him, if you are willing to accept his apologies, but Da-ge is terribly sorry.”

“Thank you er-ge, I will,” Jin Guangyao promises. The relief on Lan Xichen’s face is too pure for this world.

He waves goodbye after Lan Xichen takes off, and steps back into the maze of Koi Tower, mulling over all the new knowledge that Lan Xichen had brought with him. He was right, he should write to Nie Mingjue.

But after some more research.

What could they have possibly quarrelled about so badly?

Jin Guangyao makes his way back to his rooms, keeping his face expressionless at the gilded opulence and overt unfriendliness of his home. He doesn’t understand his past self at all.

Why does he still live here, where he’s so clearly unwanted?

Why did he even care for the acknowledgement of Jin Guangshan, who from even just Jin Guangyao’s few interactions this week and the gossip he’s picked up, is a selfish, disgusting pervert who wouldn’t spit on Jin Guangyao if he was on fire.

Just because his mother wanted him to?

She was a good woman, he hears again, in Lan Xichen’s sincere voice. But Jin Guangyao doesn’t get it. She had to have been a fool, to believe in Jin Guangshan, or terribly cold and cruel to send him to Jin Guangshan knowing exactly what kind of derision would await him here. He is a war hero, and yet he’s treated like a servant.

Jin Guangyao is in the mood to be charitable, so he picks the former.

He still doesn’t know why he stayed.

[You can now read part 2 here!]

#meng yao #jin guangyao #nie mingjue #lan xichen #3zun #fix-it #JGY revaluating his own life objectively #amnesia #the fictional kind

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

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baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle (chapter one)

Peter Nureyev has a new name, a fake identity, a fake life to step into to complete his very first off planet solo mission. Unfortunately, it involves going undercover as a high school student at Oldtown High. And the people he meets there mean his mission will go anything but smoothly.

This high school AU was the idea of my amazing girlfriend @spiky-lesbian

Please leave a comment over on ao3 or reblog if you like this!

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If he repeated his mission over and over again in his head, he couldn’t fail.

That’s what Peter Nureyev told himself as he sat on the hard plastic chair, gripping it’s edge with knuckles tighter than they needed to be, his jaw set hard like he was trying to chew something that wouldn’t go down. He would fix his face, smooth his posture, shift his face into the look of unshakable confidence he’d spent so long perfecting but he needed to look nervous right now. He needed to look like a cornered animal.

Which was convenient, at least. Less work for him.

Repeat the instructions. Remember the rules. Follow the plan. Don’t fuck up. It sounded so simple and, if Peter believed hard enough, it would be. First rule of thieving, belief in your own skills is half the battle.

There was a secretary at a desk across from him, taking up most of what little room there was in the anteroom to the office. She was mostly focused on her computer screen, typing or tiredly slapping the flat of her hand against it when it glitched out, but every so often she’d give him a sympathetic glance. The kind of glance you’d naturally give a clearly underfed, scrawny teenager, starting a brand new school in the dead centre of the roughest part of Oldtown, with his too big, second hand clothes, scuffing his worn trainers against the carpet. The kind of glance that said oh you poor thing, you have no idea what you’re in for.

If only she knew, Peter thought with a dry amusement. If only she knew just how far he’d travelled, how out of his element he was right now, how he’d simultaneously faced things so much worse than a high school and was so deeply terrified by it. If she saw everything in his cheap rucksack that weren’t school supplies; the long range signal device, the pen drive stuffed full of the galaxy’s most insidious malware, the plasma knife, all carefully concealed amongst the notebooks and pens and pencils. Peter wondered how her face would change then.

It was as if remembering it was there had reminded him what he was here to do and the nerves welled up fresh, like a wound had been prodded. His heart began to thud in his thin chest, his palms began to prickle with heat, the old tic he’d been trying so hard to suppress made his knee bounce. Peter tried to tell himself it would be fine, talking himself through the plan, repeating the mission again and again as if to prove to himself that he knew it by heart. As if simply remembering the words Mag had left him with would be the same as pulling off his very first solo, off planet job.

First rule of thieving, don’t go into a gig you aren’t ready for. Mag was a pragmatist, he’d always been the one sensibly pouring water on Peter’s fervour, after all, making their risks calculated and manageable. And so much was riding on this, the work Peter did here would open up whole new streams of income for them back on Brahma, so much more fuel for the fight. With everything invested in it, the ticket to Mars, the accomodation for a month, the effort to build Peter a fake life solid enough to get him enrolled in a government funded high school, there was no room to play it fast and loose. If Mag said his apprentice was ready for this, then it had to be true. When had he ever steered him wrong?

Peter allowed himself a sigh, one that the secretary wouldn’t hear or, if she did, she’d chalk it up to the understandable anxiousness of the new kid. He’d come a long way from the first time he’d stolen an apple from a stall under Mag’s careful eye.

To keep himself focused, he played a game. Peter did that a lot, he found himself uncomfortable with any time not consumed by some useful distraction. It was why he always listened to the radio as he fell asleep, no matter how many times Mag threatened to take the power brick out of it. He just couldn’t stand idle silence. So he pushed his glasses up his nose and took a quick study of the secretary’s desk to see what information he could glean about her.

His brain worked fast, plucking the bits of information out greedily. Family picture, wife, three children. Notes on her desk, the numbers of different homes for the elderly in Hyperion. Infirm parents and an upcoming heavy drain on her finances, then. Her nails were long but the polish was chipping, like she drummed them on her desk frequently. A short temper or just stressed? More likely the latter, she’d been kind to him so far. Or at least as kind as someone who worked in a place where she must see a hundred neglected, underweight kids with clear signs of poverty could afford to be without going insane. Her desk had no signs of organisation whatsoever, not so much as a sticky note to pin a flag in that riot of loose papers. So she was distracted, under pressure and clearly prone to losing track of information.

Peter thought he could drain the full contents of her bank account within a month.

Obviously, thinking that didn’t make him feel good and he’d never actually do it. But he could feel how proud Mag would be, if he brought him all of that from just a minute of observation, her whole life mapped out in a blueprint. How he’d smile at him and squeeze his shoulder and remind him of the first rule of thieving, know how to read your marks in a single glance, a glance might be all you get. Peter had mastered that one at age seven.

The secretary’s intercom buzzed suddenly and Peter didn’t need to fake his nervous jolt at the harsh, staticy sound. The voice on the other end was too muddy to make out but the secretary lifted her eyes and said, “You can go on through now. Mr Spoor is ready for you.”

Nureyev nodded, scrambling to his feet, patting himself down in a way that would look like he was trying to neaten himself up when in fact, he was deliberately ruffling his hair, yanking down his t-shirt so the frays on the hem would be visible, missing the smudge under his ear. First rule of thieving, you’re never in such a position of power as when the mark underestimates you.

The principal’s office was pretty meagre but at least had a slight edge on the rest of his run down, underfunded school. The chair Peter sat in was worn through so the stuffing poked out, the desk between them had deep gouges in it that hadn’t been sanded down, the computer to the side of them was an ancient model that Peter could have cracked with his eyes closed. That boded well for the rest of his mission.

“It’s customary to have these orientation meetings with your guardian present,” the principal's voice was cool and had no trace of a warm welcome in it, not even a greeting. It matched the expression on his craggy face, “I was expecting to meet them.”

“Um…” Peter swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably, shrinking himself down, “They, uh...my dad...he...he was sick this morning so he couldn’t come.”

There was a lot that could be read into that, half a hundred hidden explanations that, given the catchment area of Oldtown High, Mr Spoor would have seen again and again. So he didn’t press, just giving Peter an unimpressed glance like it was his fault that his non existent father was absent, turning to the screen.

“Very well then...Peter Ransom, correct?”

“That’s right…” Peter nodded.

“That’s right, sir.”

Peter gave a little start, cheeks reddening to come off as merely intimidated and unsure rather than outwardly defiant. As fun as that would be, it wouldn’t make his task any easier, “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”

Mr Spoor likely would have narrowed his lips if they weren’t already worn down to a permanent grimace of disapproval, turning back to the screen and whatever information was on there. Most of it counterfeit, of course.

“So you were born on the outer rim...passable scores in your previous assessments…”

Peter kept his face impassive, though something roiled inside him. The grades Mag had put together for him were fantastic, he knew that for a certainty, and he could match them with his ability. But he didn’t rise, he didn’t bite. He just looked suitably shy and intimidated, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor, fidgeting with the large, second hand glasses Mag had given him to replace his usual sleek, cat eye ones.

“You’ll be starting with us as a senior, given your age and...supposed ability. I expect you to maintain an acceptable standard of work, given that you’re joining so late in the year. We cannot afford for you to fall behind,” Mr Spoor continued, looking more at the screen than the child in front of him, “What is it exactly that brings someone from a place like Brahma to a Martian high school?”

Peter swallowed, “My dad got a job on Mars, sir. He said things would be better for us here...that I’d be able to go to a good school and make friends…”

The principal didn’t even try to hide his snort of disdain, deepening Peter’s instantly formed dislike of the man. He must have thought this new student of his was blind, that he hadn’t seen the graffiti covering the front of the building, how the chairs didn’t match in the classrooms he’d passed, how the books were dog eared and the floors permanently scuffed. Did he enjoy seeing these children clearly born just after the war, with their tattered families and nightmares of a time they could only half remember, crossing the galaxy for something close to a life worth living, coming through his school and being ground down just like the rest of them? Did he find it amusing, seeing a boy who’d grown up scared of the sky itself daring to hope that things might be better here?

Again, Peter repeated his mission in his head.

“We might as well take you on,” Mr Spoor said, as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in with our other students.” The way he said it made it sound neither reassuring or like a positive.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter feigned a mix of relief, excitement and fear, “I promise I’ll work really hard and do really well.”

The look Mr Spoors gave him made him wonder how he’d like a plasma knife at his throat but, thankfully, it was brief, soon replaced by dismissal, “You’ll begin classes after lunch. Go wait outside again and my secretary will give you your timetable.”

With more breathless, slightly panicked enthusiasm, Peter retreated, looking forward to rewarding himself with a momentary, bitter scowl in between the door closing and approaching the secretary.

But, as it happened, he never got the chance. Because there was now another student was occupying the same chair he’d been sitting on. And Peter’s heart stopped dead for a moment, for a number of reasons.

One, their face was covered in blood. Splatters of it radiated out from a nose that was now swollen and tender, from a lip that was messily split, and Peter knew enough of basic field medicine to know their left eye would be black and purple and swollen nearly shut the next day. The fists angrily clenched in their lap had split knuckles too, just to complete the image.

Two, the face beneath the gore was beautiful.

Peter steadied himself, swallowing hard and taking the seat next to his new schoolmate. Almost immediately, the uninjured eye fixed a glare on him so sharp and vicious that Peter promptly shifted to the next chair along.

He knew the over eager, overcompensating new student he was supposed to be playing would immediately try to make friends, stick his hand out in the gap between them and introduce himself in a too loud, too sunny voice as Peter Ransom. Probably to be met with another glare and possibly a punch to the face, given how much they were twitching with what was clearly post-fight adrenaline. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite manage it so they sat in a frosty silence, punctuated only by the secretary's nails tapping on her computer keys and the steady drip of blood from their nose to the floor.

Still, Peter had a thief’s curiosity. He stole enough glances at the other kid to glean a little bit about them. They were his age, though shorter and stockier by nature, with an anger naturally set into their face that poor newbie Peter Ransom would never feel. Their hair was a mess of black curls, piled on top of their head and shaved underneath, their ear held numerous piercings they were clearly too young to have acquired legally or hygienically. That surely wouldn’t be permitted by the dress code Peter had studied avidly along with the schematics of the school, the faculty list and every other piece of information he’d been able to get about Oldtown High, determined to do a good and thorough job. The code would probably have had something to say about their combat boots that were a size too big, their fishnet tights and short skirt, their sleeveless shirt with, incongruously, a picture of a cartoon man on it and the bright, bubbly text reading ‘Turbo!’. There had probably been bigger misdemeanours to think about at the time than a dress code violation.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Peter jumped at the rough, angry voice, realising the kid was scowling right at him. Their face was clearly made for that expression; Peter had faced down armed guards, lasers from the clouds, jobs that would have landed him in jail for ten times the years he’d been alive but he’d seldom felt so intimidated.

And people didn’t normally notice him looking. After all, first rule of thieving, your eyes are your greatest weapon, don’t be obvious when you use them.

“I...nothing, I’m not…” he searched for a response, glad it was in Ransom’s nature to be easily put off.

“Do I look like the kind of guy you want to mess with right now?” the scowl deepened, sending a fresh line of blood running down their chin from their broken lip.

“Um...no,” Peter decided it was better to give simple answers.

“Yeah,” they gave a dry snort with no humour in it, “So keep your eyes to yourself or lose them, pal.”

Blood, angry tones and threats didn’t scare Peter Nureyev but they weren’t the reason he looked away hastily and was glad of it. It had more to do with dark eyes, holding depths he knew he’d never open up with just a glance, a faded white scar across a flat nose that he thought he’d like to trace with the very tip of his finger, full lips that looked soft somehow even as they were curled in anger.

Peter gave himself a mental slap, repeating his mission again, louder and firmer. He could practically hear Mag laughing at him all the way from Brahma.

First rule of thieving, stop mooning after every pretty boy who so much as glances at you, Pete! How many times do I have to tell you?

He had to admit, he’d been hoping for a smoother start on his first off planet solo mission.

Fortunately, the secretary spoke up not long after, “Peter? Peter Ransom?”

He jumped to his feet, receiving a few papers from her. A class schedule, a map and an outline of expected behaviour. Peter had seen all of this and far, far more in his research but he made sure Ransom looked at it with apprehension, as if it was written in another language.

“And for you, Mr Steel, another detention slip,” her voice took on a kind of fond, bemused exhaustion, “Add it to the collection.”

The other student jumped up and swiped the pink piece of paper from her hands, stuffing it carelessly in the pocket of his skirt, “Thanks, Brenda.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Peter, “It’s lunchtime at the moment, I’m sure Mr Steel here would be happy to show you to the cafeteria.”

Instantly, Mr Steel stiffened and shot her an exasperated look which she soundly ignored, turning back to her computer screen in a manner that suggested he could stand and look at her like that all day, for all she cared. Eventually, he gave a growl and stomped out of the office, down the corridor. Peter followed, pausing in the doorway to give him a chance to storm off and leave him behind.

There was no hiding his surprise when, after a few seconds, he snapped, “Are you coming or what?”

Peter did.

Nureyev knew every inch of the hallways but of course Ransom didn’t, so he fixed an expression of wary awe on his face. There were some things that didn’t take a lot of effort, like the swear word carved into one locker that he’d never even heard of or when the sound of a muffled explosion shook the floor above them where the science rooms were. They passed other students, who shot unsurprised looks at the state of Steel and appraised him like a piece of fresh meat in a butcher’s. Peter would have loved the chance to try his knife or his wits against one of them, he’d long ago learned to make up for the scrawny appearance that made them look at him so hungrily.

Stick to the mission. Follow the instructions. Do your job.

Abruptly, Steel stopped, without turning around, “Cafeteria’s down that way. See you.”

Peter blinked, glancing at the double doors he was indicating with a thumb, which were practically shaking out of their frames with the sound of what had to be a riot behind them, “Aren’t you eating too?”

“What’s it to you, pal?” Juno did turn then, just enough to fix him with an incredulous look.

Before Peter had to come up with an answer, they were interrupted by a loud shout of, “Juno!”

Peter thought his eyes were playing tricks on him for a moment, an exact copy of Steel was bounding down some stairs to their left. Except this one was smiling, a hundred kilowatt grin, and wearing leggings, an oversize sweatshirt and sneakers that flashed when they hit the floor.

“Oh god, Juno, your face is a mess,” he grimaced at the sight of his twin’s face, “Jones did a number on you, huh?”

“‘Bout half the number I did on them, they got carted off to the emergency room,” Steel, now Juno, grunted, still stiff and awkward, throwing glances in Peter’s direction.

“I’m sure they deserved it,” the other Steel shrugged, turning their grin on Peter, “Hey! I’m Benzaiten, you can call me Ben or Benten. You new?”

“Um, yes! I just started today actually, I...I’m from off planet and…”

“That’s cool! You can tell us more over lunch,” Ben’s tidal wave of positivity bowled over him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

Both Juno and Peter froze.

“Over what now?”

“Uh, that’s kind of you but...um, I don’t know if I…”

“He’s new, Juno, of course he’s coming to sit with us!” Ben shrugged, like the matter was obvious.

Juno was staring daggers at his twin, looking ready to throttle him, “The guy says he’s fine, so he’s fine.”

“Come on, Juno, don’t be a bitch,” Ben laughed fondly, like he didn’t see that his twin was gritting his teeth hard enough to shatter, “We’d better get moving, Mick and Sasha will already be waiting…”

He turned on his neon flashing heel and bounced down the hall in the complete opposite direction to the cafeteria, not waiting for them. Juno groaned and pressed his fingertips to his temples like he was trying to ward off a migraine. After what was clearly him counting backwards from ten, he frowned and set off after his brother.

“Come or don’t come,” he growled over his shoulder at Peter, “I couldn’t care less.”

For a moment, neither Nureyev nor Ransom really knew what to do. He repeated his mission again in his head.

Blend in. Sneak in after dark. Find the evidence. Upload the malware. Send it to Mag. Run.

Nowhere in that list did it say follow a beautiful, angry stranger and his bubblegum brother god only knew where. In fact, Peter was pretty sure they fell squarely under the definition of a distraction, something he knew to avoid. He knew what the sensible choice was, the decision someone who could be trusted with missions like this, who would work tirelessly to be the best thief he could be, would make.

But...wouldn’t this count as blending in?

Armed with that flimsy excuse, Peter followed Juno Steel.

#jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #high school au #benzaiten steel #mick mercury #ben/mick #sasha wire #slow burn #enemies to friends to lovers #please reblog!#or comment!#or both!#make my whole damn day!

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mediaeval-muse · 4 years

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Book Review

Lacrimore. By S. J. Costello. Self Published, 2020.

Rating: 4/5 stars

Genre: supernatural, horror, novella

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Sivre Sen is a spiritual medium who's lost her faith. Though it's been years since the epidemic that swept the mainland and changed her life, she has yet to find the answers—or closure—that she's looking for. When she's summoned to conduct the funeral rites for a reclusive scholar, the unusual circumstances give her hope that maybe, finally, she'll find the answers she needs.

Far from the mainland, on a small island in the middle of a lake, stands Lacrimore, centuries old and wreathed in grim legends. But something much darker than legends thrives within its walls, waiting to lay claim to the house's inhabitants. As Sivre rediscovers her place in the world, she'll need all of her newfound strength to dig her fingers into the monstrous foundation of Lacrimore and expose the secrets it is built upon.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: blood; implication of suicide; allusions to illness, murder, and systemic mistreatment of the infirm

Overview: I became immediately aware of the publication of this book because I follow the author on Tumblr. Generally, we share a lot of the same interests: a love of supernatural oddities, a passion for visual storytelling, a strange obsession with 18-19th cent naval history, etc. While I suspected I would enjoy this novella based on those elements alone, I was pleasantly surprised by the skill and craft that went into producing this story. Costello’s prose is truly engrossing, evoking a haunting atmosphere that exceeded my expectations and rivaled some traditionally published media. I likewise very much enjoyed the premise of the novella, as well as the lack of “edgy” plot elements, such as excessive violence and cheap scares that seem to pervade modern horror. While I do wish more was done to structure the overall narrative, I enjoyed my reading experience, and I look forward to any of Costello’s future projects.

Writing: The highlight of Lacrimore is unequivocally the prose. Costello is a master at weaving together melodious language to create striking, melancholic imagery, which in turn evokes a subtly unsettling - yet also hauntingly beautiful - atmosphere. As I read, I could see how much adoration Costello has for things like old houses, settings loaded with complex history, and the mystic whimsy of the spiritual realm - every part of Lacrimore is lovingly embellished with poetic adornment, and I was captivated by every sentence.

Plot: This novella is more of a slow burn than a fast-paced horror or mystery. It follows medium Sivre Sen as she travels to the island of Lacrimore, which itself has a tumultuous history. While I do appreciate the slow burn, I still wish more had been done to enhance the mystery about the island. Sometimes, Costello gets so caught up in describing the architecture and the strange natural phenomena of the setting that the stakes and urgency of the narrative are pushed to the background. I don’t think the solution is to make the story more action-packed or violent - rather, I think creating more of a narrative trail for the reader to follow would have helped. Things like exploring the history of the island more fully (maybe by having Sivre uncover it gradually?) could create more suspense. while also leaning into the theme of coming to terms with one’s past (or even how forgetting the past can be a horrifying thing). I also think more could have been done to show how each scene built on one another; there were times when scenes seemed to happen at random, and I couldn’t quite see how they were related or what significance they had for the narrative. Of course, I don’t think every scene has to be in service to a grand narrative, but I do wish Lacrimore had some more deliberate direction.

Characters: I really enjoyed the archetypes that Costello used for the characters in this book, as well as how they are complicated. Sivre is a medium who has “lost her faith” (according to the back of the book) - she comes to the island at a time in her life when the charade of pretending to speak to the dead has made her weary, and encounters with the supernatural work wonders on her psyche.

Vandorus is a disgraced doctor who has been exiled from the mainland due to the “unnatural” subject of his medical studies. He relentlessly pursues the secrets of immortality, which includes experimenting on subjects who are at the brink of death. Having taken a position as the doctor-in-residence at Lacrimore, he continues his studies in hopes to show society that he was right all along, and despite his testing of the “natural” boundaries of human life, he is reluctant to give credit to Sivre’s profession until spooky stuff starts happening in earnest on the island.

Lalichai, the “host” and “owner” of the house on the island, is a scholar whose health is declining. His main purpose in the book is to bring Sivre, Vandorus, and the secondary characters together, being both monied enough to support a household so far from the mainland and eccentric enough to approve of Vandorus’ work despite the legal consequences.

While I did like this trio of protagonists, I do wish their backgrounds had been explored more in order to give their actions more emotional weight. While we’re told of Vandorus’ past, for example, I didn’t quite feel the stakes of his work, so I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to succeed or if he was more of a villain. While some ambiguity can exist, I think more flashbacks or engagement with character histories could have tied into the theme of the history of the island quite well, and made the ending feel a bit more high stakes.

This book also features three secondary characters: Ciro, Dege, and Fel, who are employed as the “help” in Lalichai’s house. These characters were enjoyable in that they were a nice balance to the more “upper class” protagonists, challenging them on their morality and even their basic common sense. While I do think their stories could have been a bit more complete, I did like the way they enhanced the main arc of the book.

Other: Lacrimore not only takes place on a spooky island, but also in an alternate timeline in which spiritualism becomes the dominant “religious” group following the outbreak of a deadly disease. I found this alternate history to be an interesting set up, motivating character actions in ways that made sense and felt “real” (so to speak). Costello put in just enough world building for this setting to resonate with the reader without bogging them down in details - there aren’t any extended infodumps, and pieces of world building are revealed at relevant moments in time. I do wish more of this history (as it relates to the island) was explored more fully in order to make the ending more suspenseful and meaningful, but as it stands, I think Costello balanced storytelling and world building very well.

Recommendations: I would recommend this book if you’re interested in ghost stories, early American spiritualism/mysticism, melancholic prose, old and decrepit houses, and"unnatural” science.

#book reviews

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thinkofduty · 4 years

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soror diu amissa

The sun is high and bright and warm and fooling absolutely no one.

Twice today has it rained already. The first time was just before dawn, the sound of heavy droplets waking Halgyth and refusing to let her go back to sleep. The stone roof was enough to shelter her from the worst of it, but it was still loud enough to keep her up until she had no choice but to rise. The dust had turned to mud in its wake and the people of Ala Gannha had woken with sour moods. This close to the river, the humidity is bad enough that no one wants it to rain, even in the midst of summer.

The second time had been just over a bell ago. Halgyth had been sat cross-legged with a circle of children sat around her, and the clouds had come on and fled so quickly that the patches of earth they sat on are still light in colour.

Determined not to let something so insignificant as rain ruin her day, she'd tried to continue the lesson, but she'd slipped in the mud and gone painfully to one knee when trying to rise. A simple spell fixed the worst of it, but she aches nonetheless, and her ego is bruised as bad as her flesh.

It might be miserable in fits and starts, but she still sits outside now. Being cooped up when the whole world is there is dreary, even when the wind is moist and the sun oppressively hot, and in the late afternoon of her life now she has zero desire to be indoors more than necessary.

What few children remain in the village are happy to let her teach them from time to time, but none of them show any particular love for the healing arts beyond the basics. Were there any young adults remaining she would try to find amongst them an inclination instead, but asides from the infirm and unsound, they have long since disappeared to serve the Empire or the Resistance. Two different names for the same kind of death, thinks Halgyth, and contents herself with the next generation instead. They still must needs learn.

Sometimes the days grow so long and uniform that even the elders come to sit by and listen, but they are as useless as their grandchildren to her, if not worse. They might as well be carved from the marble they'd once mined for how stuck in their ways they are: having known a few Peaksmen in her time, Halgyth wonders if it is a natural affliction of the land itself. They already know how to dress wounds and care for the ill; what need have they for a wandering shamanka?

Prone to forgetting details if not written down, she no longer recalls how long it's been since the Resistance swept through the state and threw off the heavy shackles of oppression. Not that it matters. Very little has changed for those who live off the land, asides from the colour of flags that now flutter from the village gates. Oh, to be sure, there are less beatings and less rapes, less men uncomfortable in steel wandering where they please with accents unfamiliar to her... but less is not none. Beneath the blanket of other, the Garleans are not all that different from her countrymen, something she is quick to remind those that lust for the good old days. At least Garlemald does not hunt shadows and string up the innocent in the name of justice, unlike other recent history she could name.

But that bears thinking about not at all: both of those pasts are firmly behind them now, and she must live in the present, as she always has done. And as for right now, the clouds are beginning to edge once more into view as though seeing how long they can get before being discovered, like children playing at Sly Fox or Sneaky Bear or whatever the newest name for the game is.

"I'm not moving," she tells them firmly, and someone laughs.

"You tell 'em, gramma."

In her sixties, Halgyth considers it a point of pride to have found and covered up every grey hair that sprouts from her scalp. The aging flesh she cannot help, not after a life so well-lived outdoors, but it is unblemished for the most part, and she does not yet stoop unlike the washers and menders that live in every place from here to the palace. Dyes, at least, are easy to come by, and cheap enough to make if she does not want to spend the gil.

"Excuse me?"

She doesn't recognise the man, but his manner marks him as one of Einar's boys. She'll have to have words with him the next time she sees him: it's quite one thing to have her brother's junior sass her from time to time, but this firmly steps across the line and shits in the face of her good humour. Thankfully, he seems to recognise that, and quicker than the last who'd been overeager to share jokes with her like mead with friends. He straightens and gives what might pass as a nervous salute to an untrained eye. to her, it looks like a nervous fumble.

"Er, Bayan Beygarz. Miss. Ma'am. S'cuse me. That is you, ain't it?"

Unspeaking, Halgyth watches him for a long moment. A natural teacher, she has perfected the art of waiting silently until the guilty party squirms and admits to their role in whatever mischief they've done.

"Uh... I'm here on behalf o' the Spray. He said I'd find a woman here, wi' pink in her hair. That... you... I thought..."

It takes all her willpower not to roll her eyes. Einar's ridiculous nicknames are no longer as necessary as he seems to think they are - though he at least has assured her that they'd once been more elaborate than the ones he currently wears like fancy coats in the middle of summer. Needless.

The man before her fidgets some more, eyes trained on the patch of pink she'd thought stylish only a few weeks before. "Is or ain't it you?" he asks. "The description was thorough..."

"I'm sure it was," she says. "Come inside."

"Where're we headed, anyroad?"

Thankfully, the rain hasn't made it too difficult to travel. Chocobos would have complained the whole way and any cart they could have hired would have gotten stuck in the mud. All six of them have no problems picking their way across quick-flowing streams until they get to the red earth that was once Ala Mera. Orella spares it barely a glance: the landslide that had taken her home village off the map had been so long before, and everyone had gotten out, besides. It had been rain much like the one they'd walked through that had done it: years and years of water built up and swelling the cliffs until the earth could take it no more.

Honestly, a village on the edge of a cliff was a stupid place to build in the first place.

The Peaks have changed a little, but not so much she doesn't recognise the distant mountains. "We're still going east," she says confidently, and Wilhelm nods agreement.

"Ala Gannha," he says. Gisfrid harrumphs. "Better than any other place round here to ask questions, unless you want to put one o' them chapuli to the question instead."

Berend snorts. "For all we know, they'll squeal sweeter than any Mhigan will. Folles isn't stupid, he'll be hidden away nice and safe if he has any sense at all."

"Tell you what," says Orella, "Fifty gil says he's burrowed down in one of them antlion nests. You know, the ones we-"

"Could you not," Ingvald grumbles, and she laughs. He still has a scar somewhere by his ankle - faint, but white and rigid all the same - from the day after his induction to the Kingsguard had been formalised. "Be serious."

Orella shrugs. Likely he wants to forget that time of his life, and the anger he'd once borne his brother; she can't fault him for that, not when they seem to be getting along so well. "Suit yourself," she tells him. "There's no reason we're going there, then? Other than looking for any scrap of information?" When Wilhelm nods, she scowls. "You don't have anything to go on? Nothing at all? No dossiers, no eyes on him, not even an idea of where to start?"

Both Bloodhound brothers open their mouths at the same time, but it's Berend who beats them to the punch. "What, you think he's the only one the Resistance ever kept eyes on? We aren't perfect, Steelhand, and undermanned anyway - well, we were when it mattered most. You can't fault us for one man slipping through the cracks."

"Oh, it's we now, huh?" she shoots back, unwilling to let the truth silence her.

Beside her, Ingvald sighs. "Orella."

"Weren't you with the Garleans long enough yourself?" Berend snaps, and she clenches her hand into a fist. "What's your excuse?"

A pregnant pause settles across the shoulders of everyone present. Ahead of the rest of the group, Gisfrid and Milleuda have stopped to watch.

"I'm sorry?" Orella asks, so sweetly.

If Berend can hear the obvious warning, he heeds it not. "I said," and his own hands mirror hers, "Weren't you one of them for long enough?"

The brothers move in tandem before any blood can be spilled. Ingvald grabs Orella's wrists and wrestles his arms around her chest to stop her from leaping across the mountain pass and tearing him limb from limb. Wilhelm takes Berend by the shoulder, and then the face, and says something low and serious to him. Gisfrid's laugh is a backing track to the whole affair, infuriating Orella further. "Cram it, bastard, I'll do for you too-"

"My, my."

Perhaps it is the unfamiliarity of the voice, however soft, that silences them all. Still tense, Orella struggles to push Ingvald aside to see the newcomer; he holds her tighter.

"Aren't you all grown? You ought to be ashamed."

The woman is dressed in the local style, suited for forays along the mountain paths, with actual boots rather than the rags poor men sometimes wear. A Roegadyn, a few inches taller than Orella, with bright eyes that study them as though they are simply misbehaving students. A shock of pink in her hair stands out against her dark skin, though otherwise she's as plain as can be.

She sighs. "Oh, dear. Are you going to say I'm not welcome?" Her gaze flits between each of them in turn; she doesn't seem bothered by their suspicious gazes. "Tell me the road is free to all and you can act as you please? Tsk. Which one of you breaks arms?"

No one moves, and she tuts again. "Come now, 'tis not a difficult question."

"That... would be me," says Berend, taking a hesitant step forward. He hasn't bothered to make to unsling the spear across his back, but he could have it out and pointed at her in seconds if he chose. The woman is either very brave or very stupid. "Who-?"

"The Spray bid me pass this on to you," she says, and reaches into a deep pocket to pull out a folded paper and hold it out to him. "I trust you know who that is? No," she adds with exasperation. "By your face you don't. Take the damn paper, boy, I'm done playing the messenger."

He reaches for it warily and takes it quick enough that her eyebrows raise at his bad manners, but skimming it does nothing for his frown.

"I don't get it," he says, and passes it to Wilhelm, who has to shake the hair out of his eyes to read it. "Who are you? Who's the Spray?"

Orella, now relaxed enough that Ingvald lets her go, raises one eyebrow and then the other. "Wait. The... The Eastern Spray? About yay tall?"

She gestures, and the woman nods, and then her expression smooths over. "Ah," she says, matter of factly. "You must be Orella. Which would make this gentleman Ingvald," she says with a glance at him, and then moves between them, mouthing their names in turn - all of them but Milleuda. "You don't look quite like I imagined you to. His tales never did you justice."

"What the fuck has Einar been saying about me?"

There's mutterings from the others at the mention of their once-comrade; the stranger tuts. "Language, if you please. Not Ser Einar, though I'm glad you know our mutual friend. No - my brother."

"Your brother?"

When Halgyth Beygarz smiles, she looks weary, the lines at her eyes creasing the same way her brother's had once down.

"Why, Zartosht, of course."

#p07

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nickgerlich · 4 years

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Golden Years

I’ll never forget my mother admonishing me for those little age-related snide remarks we have all made. I had made fun of the retirement village in which they lived. “You’ll understand one day...if you live long enough!”

Well, now that both of my parents are gone, and I have lived long enough, I am beginning to get a better understanding of what their lives were like. I’ll be 61 here pretty soon. While my parents were both blessed with long lives, it may still be quite a while before I have to consider a retirement home. Hell, I don’t even want to think about retirement yet, much less where I would live afterward.

It’s just that retirement living has become very expensive. My parents were among the fortunate to be able to “buy in” to a center. For $135,000 a decade ago, they were able to get a two-bedroom apartment for as long as they were able to live in it, at which point they would either move across the center to assisted living, or, sadly, no longer be alive.

But wait. There’s more.

They also had to pay about $3500 a month for their presence, which covered two meals a day and maid service every other week. Sure, that cost also helped pay for the massive overhead you might expect at a gated community with gobs of security, not to mention the services they provided to enhance quality of life. I’m thinking BINGO tournaments, craft shows, and bus rides to the mall.

The problem is that there was never any equity in that arrangement, and all that money was spent essentially to put a roof over their head, feed them, and otherwise keep them out of trouble. Once they were both gone, my brother and I had two weeks to vacate their apartment, so they could “sell” it to the next occupants.

What has me thinking more about this, though, is a story that has been circulating around the interwebs for about a year now. A 64-year-old man in Spring Texas has decided he would rather just live at the nearby Holiday Inn, and save tons of money in the process.

And you know what? It makes sense.

With his senior discount, he was able to book a long-term stay for less than $60 a day, which provides him with free breakfast, room service, toiletries, workout room, pool, shuttle service, cable TV, and wifi. Compared to the $188 a day it would cost him in a retirement center, it’s a bargain.

Sure, there are drawbacks, like reduced living space. You could book a suite, I suppose, but it would cost a little more more. You never get to know anyone other than maybe the maids and front desk staff.

But it’s cheap, allowing the savings to be set aside for heirs, or used for travel if one is able. You can even pack up and move down the road to another hotel if you get bored and want a change of scenery.

Of course, we will all grow old--really old--and increasingly infirm, which means that many of us will require far more assistance than what a Holiday Inn can provide. When that time comes for this gentleman, he may have to move on, or move in with kids.

The Marketing opportunities for something like this are huge. Imagine mid-range hotels like this offering long-term residencies at a discounted rate. This will boost occupancy rates, which lenders and local convention and visitor bureau people love. Plus, older people are low-maintenance, meaning they aren’t going to be partying until all hours of the night, nor will there be little kids jumping up and down on the beds. That’s another way of saying that seniors would make good residents.

Compare this, if it were to become a trend, to decaying older motels that become residential, but with an entirely different clientele. My quest to photograph old neon signs and other roadside relics takes me to many motels that are not exactly the safest place to be. If I pull in and see hibachis and bicycles in front of the rooms, I know what I am getting into. They’re not always bad, but sometimes they are, and I have been yelled at more times than I care to remember (and I never photograph the people).

This gentleman in Spring Texas, though, is on to something good, and I will consider it once maintaining a house and ten acres are no longer feasible. I just wonder if you can pass along to your kids all those loyalty points. They might enjoy the status.

If they live long enough.

Dr “Just Keep The Clean Towels Coming“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

#marketing #retirement #holiday inn #motels #hotels

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howdidthisevenhappenanyway · 6 years

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so last year I got maaajorly triggered while reading a fan fiction and it sent me into a spiral of suicidal thoughts the like that had never happened to me before -as in firectly resulting from media I had consumed

I'm an adult and a responsible reader, and am quite diligent about what I do or don't allow into my head and when. I'm a survivor of abuse and neglect and I am disabled queer woman and so I have a few tags that I tend to avoid or tread carefully around. However this trauma came completely out of left field and I only just sort of realised the seed of the issue a whole year later and so I decided to write this out

the person who wrote the story is quite popular in darcyland but has never once spoken to me, but I want to be clear that though I have realised that my previous belief that she wasn't responsible for this particular trauma is incorrect (because she couldn't have tagged for it), I'm not going to disclose who they were because the issue was something that is so pervasive in society and esp in scifi and paranormal stories that she certainly isn't entirely responsible and almost definitely didn't cause harm on purpose.

so what was the trigger?

a tiny, very smuttyvampire au wherein popular and very sexy hero type was described as being an honourable vampire because they never took blood from ablebodied people; instead picking off chronically ill and infirm people instead

like he was a vegan or something. what a great fucking guy. He didn't truly feel bad about it until he feasts on Darcy while fucking her which...

at the time I thought the story was hot and even wrote an off hand comment about how as a chronically ill person the joke would be on him because I don't have enough blood lmao

but then that night my head started to extrapolate. Maybe I deserve to be eaten by a vampire. After all I can't contribute to society. I am the weak link in any pack. What am I even doing here trying to get better? I'll never be well enough that it would matter...I'll always be pretty useless

It only got worse from there

It took me an entire month to get back to an even keel. I can't take meds for my depression so everything is slow going and I don't have a counsellor at the time; but I eventually was able to remember that I do contribute to the community around me and am worthy of life and the blood in my veins

I never blamed the writer. it was just a fucking drabble you know? But eventually I had to unfollow her on here and avoid posts with her in it because it would remind me of the traumaand I'd start thinking about it again

but like...that's fucking eugenics

I can't remember if I was even aware of that word at the time but

writing a heroic character who actively judges people's worth on their use to society is eugenics

writing disabled people who are sacrificed to the zombies or whatever? That's eugenics

she's disabled so it was better that she died because she's slowing the group down? that's eugenics

that's deciding that I and my disabled fellows don't deserve to live, don't deserve to survive

who cares if I fucking contribute to society? who cares if other disabled people can't? what fucking right does vampire steve fucking rogers have to my blood over another?

and on that point? It was steve fucking rogers -the sick boy who was guess what? fucking chronically ill and disabled. it's central to his character. It is a major thing that everyone knows about captain america

and to think that I turned the responsibility for that trigger onto myself thinking that I was a fragile fucking snowflake and weak because a story where steve rogers would happily take my blood but felt guilty taking another's is like ... omg

anyway I don't know what the take away point is other than to think about disability a little more when you're writing because society has taught you to be pretty fucking shitty about how little we matter and how cheap our lives are nobody notices when we die right?

I don't think I've expressed this particularly elloquently, I'm sure someone like @thebibliosphere has already talked about this and far better, and I know my stories can be problematic and frankly a bit shit-like I'm still trying to be a better writer when it comes to race and gender especially but like...just be careful when you're thinking about the casualties in your stories please? it's so easy to make mistakes, we internalise more than we sometimes know and it's not just sexual violence and homophobia in stories that can trigger people in a really bad way. We're all trying our best and a lot of the source material is already problematic in so many ways but like, this is a thing. Pleeease be wary

#abelism #eugenics #internalised abelism cw #tw: suicidal ideation #writing is hard #fandom is problematic

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beckytailweaver · 6 years

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[FIC] Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In (Part 8)

Beware of extra long exposition chapter where a lot of nothing happens. There are no hugs. This is a travesty.

Seriously. Boring stuff.

(Warning: Mentions of porta-potties. If you’ve ever had the traumatic experience of needing to use one of these stinky, humid little boxes in a hot, dusty parking lot outside of a cheap event populated by careless drunk people. -_- )

Part 8 - (Interlude) Lost Boy

Imelda was exhausted.

Technically, it shouldn’t be possible for a Well-Remembered skeleton in the Land of the Dead to be tired. She had her entire living family proudly Remembering her all year long, she had no need for food or sleep or even air, she had no real joints to ache or muscles to strain; indeed, under most circumstances she could power on for days at a time, keeping watch over her family as she always had.

She’d started the week thinking that everything was going to be ordinary, as it had been for decades. And then that pendejo músico who had been her husband showed up out of the blue (she’d been enjoying years of peace in his absence, without him constantly popping in to pester her with his simpering and whining and caterwauling) and dropped an absolute perfect storm of a nightmare in her lap.

She wasn’t really angry with her little Miguelito. If anything, the child was the most innocent person involved in this entire debacle, despite their difficulties. She wasn’t entirely sure who or what was to blame for this, other than the dubious ghost that may have been in the Santa Cecilia river, but she suspected that part of it was because of that ridiculous, obnoxious alebrije which refused to be parted from her great-great-grandson (though she knew better than to try to separate them; Pepita would tear down walls if she thought her chosen soul was being taken from her, and Imelda didn’t want to find out what mess a stupid dog might make of her house by attempting to climb in the windows or dig under the door).

She was also fairly certain that something about Miguel’s presence in the Land of the Dead was Héctor’s fault. She just wasn’t sure how.

It had been simple enough to take in her grandson and get him some food; they still had a few things left over from last year’s Día de Muertos, since everyone tried to make it last until the next, and her brothers always kept a stash of cookies in reserve. And of course, everyone was delighted to have Miguel in their home, to be able to talk to him and embrace him after years of merely watching him grow through annual visits. Rosita was practically beside herself to have a child in the house to dote on again.

Despite the quiet, wary boy, breakfast had gone smoothly. So had getting Miguel cleaned up from the filth Héctor had brought him in with, though the child refused to let her throw away the tattered rag of a poncho he’d worn (and Rosita had coddled him by promising to wash it). They’d also managed to get some questions answered and made some more introductions, though Miguel remained sullen most of the time.

The real nightmare began after all that, when she and Julio (Miguel’s closest deceased relative) had marched the boy down to the Department of Family Reunions to find out just how to send a living child back where he belonged. After that, she no longer had time to dwell on her irritation with Héctor.

The Department had no record of his entry into the Land of the Dead, therefore it was certain that Miguelito was not in any way deceased (gracias a Dios). They also had no idea how a living person could have arrived in the Land of the Dead without dying, or without crossing over the Marigold Bridges during Día de Muertos due to some supernatural influence (something which hadn’t happened in a couple of centuries, by the Department’s best reckoning). The awe-inspiring cempasúchil spans used to pass into the living world on the Day of the Dead did not even exist outside of that hallowed eve, rising mysteriously from the fog and wind near the Veil at sunset and vanishing into golden dust on the breeze the moment the sun rose the following morning, closing the gates between realms for another year.

The only creatures capable of passing through the Veil year-round were alebrijes, and they could take nothing with them from either world when passing from spirit to mortal form and back again. The clerks and researchers in the Department were doing a great deal of head-scratching about how Miguel had ended up on this side at all, much less how to send him back. Living souls fell naturally into the afterlife when their bodies stopped functioning; leaving it took a great deal of magic.

They’d spent the remainder of the day at the Santa Cecilia Department office, with personnel running to and fro carrying books, folders, and clipboards, searching through archives and looking for records of any Remembered soul old enough to recall the ancient days when the worlds of the living and the dead brushed shoulders more often. They’d had both Imelda and Julio attempt various curse-breaking rituals for hours, from the modern to the arcane, including everything from precious family objects to dried and fresh marigold petals, just to see if there was any way to send their grandson home, but in the end they had to admit defeat; Miguel was not cursed and there was no spell to break.

All the while, that stupid alebrije-puppy sat at Miguel’s side, panting and grinning a doggy grin as if nothing was wrong at all.

When it grew terribly late Imelda called a halt to the frantic testing (Miguel was already sullen and upset and wanted to go home to his parents, and with the constant poking and long hours of waiting he was rapidly moving toward cranky) and took her grandson home to rest. The child was tired and hungry and Imelda was done with ineffective bureaucracy fluttering around like pigeons.

Then, when they fed Miguel dinner, Imelda had a terrible realization: Their boy would need to eat a sufficient amount of food two or three times a day for as long as it took to find him a way home, and two meager (and rather unhealthy) meals of cookies and sweetbread had already half decimated the Riveras’ modest stores of snacks.

She wasn’t going to have enough food for her grandson to last a few days, much less a week.

It was a chilling, hollow awareness that brought to mind the time before she’d started making shoes, when she wasn’t sure she’d be able to put food on the table for Coco from one day to the next, waiting for another envelope containing meager pesos to arrive. Only this time it wasn’t a matter of money, it was a matter of wondering if sufficient food even existed in the Land of the Dead.

Imelda asked her granddaughter, who knew what seemed like almost everything, how much time they might have, and Victoria gave her the Survival Rule of Threes: Miguelito might live three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food.

And three weeks was the outermost limit before he went into a coma and died; infirmity and severe illness would set in long before that.

By the next day, the twins and Rosita were canvassing their neighbors for donations of food and supplies for their lostling living child. Imelda and Julio took Miguel back to the Department office to harry them for answers again, or at least some solutions to their problems. And suddenly there were a lot of problems.

They’d all long forgotten how much work it was to stay alive and healthy, when in the Land of the Dead they needed so little. Miguel had to eat sufficient food and use the bathroom regularly (one of the archivists had found an old chamber pot in the basement like Imelda hadn’t seen used since her girlhood, and placed it in an empty office) and would need to bathe and brush his teeth. Obviously skeletons didn’t need to eat, and especially didn’t need to eliminate after they did; bathing was something done rather rarely and only when there was need (there was no skin to sweat with, no oils or odors to worry about).

Imelda had been horrified to learn that the water piped into their houses for washing wasn’t clean (why would the dead need it to be more than barely filtered?) and this was what she had been giving her grandson to drink. The Department heads immediately began to fall over themselves to work out water sanitation (they had the tools and materials but no one had ever bothered). There probably weren’t any bacteria in the Land of the Dead, as there was no way in and nothing really for them to live on, but Miguel was a source of them himself and if he was weakened by dirty water or rancid food he might still take ill.

They would need changes of clothes and bedding for him, and ways to wash those things. He would need combs, toothbrushes, toilet paper and towels. He would need a near constant supply of clean water, sufficient calories and nutrients each day, a place to eliminate waste and keep it sanitary, at least eight hours of sleep per night, and ways to keep his mind busy. The frantic air in the Department of Family Reunions gradually shifted from “How can we send the child home?” to “How do we keep the child alive and healthy until we can figure it out?”

Some members of the Department, faced with seemingly insurmountable troubles for just one kid, wanted to give up; by their logic, it wasn’t the end of the world if one child among millions died and he’d be much easier to care for then. Imelda wouldn’t hear of it (chasing one vocal individual out of the room with her boot), and took her sniffling grandson home again, leaving the clerks and workers with a stern admonition to keep trying.

At least her fierce defense of the boy’s right to continue living seemed to make him glower at her a little less.

By the day after that, the entire neighborhood around the Rivera home was in a quiet uproar, having heard the news of the living boy and responded with disbelief, amazement, and concern. People were dropping in at all hours of the day to bring food, spare clothes, extra toiletries, anything they had. They gave freely, asking after Miguel and expressing their hopes for his safe, swift return home. Imelda had never felt prouder of her community, nor more grateful for the good friends her family had made in the years here.

The Department pulled itself together as well, not entirely due to Imelda’s shoe threats; there were decent folk there as well. Technicians arrived to set up a filtration system under the Rivera house so that Miguel would have assuredly clean water to drink and bathe in. There were a great many things that skeletons didn’t use which were thrown into piles at the bottom of the towers of the Land of the Dead, and some enterprising interns had found and cleaned up an abandoned set of those portable plastic outhouses (suddenly these were much less silly and disgusting things when they were so desperately needed). One was placed in a corner of the Rivera courtyard near the gate (Rosita immediately set about putting up colorful curtains and screens to make that corner more pleasant and private for their boy), and the Department promised trucks would come by regularly to switch it out for a fresh one.

They had water aplenty, and sundry supplies in forgotten dumps, warehouses, and basements from decades of not being needed by the dead, but they were desperately short on food—the rarest, most vanishing resource. And Miguel could not live on conchas and chocolate alone.

To Imelda’s surprise, however, more than just her family, friends, and neighbors wanted to share what they had with the mysterious living child. As the rumors spread day by day, more and more skeletons showed up on the Riveras’ doorstep with bags, boxes, baskets, and armloads of everything they had left over from the last Día de Muertos. Some had to see Miguel for themselves before they were entirely willing to part with their gifts, but all of them brought something edible. Most of it was baked goods and sweets that could keep long-term (Imelda and Victoria despaired of turning the poor boy diabetic before they managed to get him home), but sometimes there was hard cheese or jerky—precious protein.

Seeing how willing even perfect strangers were, the Department clerks finally got the idea through their collective idiocy to put out an official announcement about the living boy in their midst and his desperate need for nourishment until he could be returned to his home. In the time that followed this broadcast through television, radio, and newspapers (complete with a picture of Miguel looking suitably sad and frightened), the entire Land of the Dead pulled together in a stunning display of both shock and care. There were millions dwelling in the afterlife and most of them had access to one ofrenda or more; everyone was dropping extra food off at Department offices, community centers and churches. Celebrities made great shows of bringing large loads of gifts. Even deceased youngsters started taking up food drives in their neighborhoods with little wagons and baskets.

In a matter of days Miguel Rivera was the talk of the afterlife, like a news story about a baby in a well or whales trapped in the Arctic. Everyone had heard about him and wanted to help.

Enough food arrived that Imelda felt somewhat better about Miguel’s chances, even if it opened up an entirely new can of logistical difficulties. It was impossible for food to actually mold in the Land of the Dead (mold spores, it seemed, didn’t grow there any more than anything else did), but it could very well go stale or rancid if left out too long. The Department helped her family set up as many refrigerators and freezers as could fit in the pantry, to hold as much of the offerings as they could for Miguel’s daily use; the rest was kept in the care of the Santa Cecilia Department office. The family’s kitchen was also provided with a larger stove, a toaster oven, and even one of those noisy, new-fangled microwave things (and a stern warning never to put anything metal inside it).

Oscar and Felipe were already tinkering with things to help with food storage and making toys for Miguel. Rosita was thrilled with cooking for real on a regular basis, even as limited as their menu was, and took up overseeing baths and bedtimes since Miguel didn’t trust Imelda. Julio worked twice as hard, keeping his duties in the shoe shop and looking after setting up Miguel’s living quarters and sorting out his clothing. Victoria read up on child care, nutrition, and first aid, eager to help in her own quiet way. Imelda shook her fist and her shoe at the Department of Family Reunions and demanded day after day that they find a way to send her grandson home.

After long, tiring days of trying and trying every little thing that anyone could find or even think up, from ancient dances to a memorably chilly boat ride, one by one the heads of the Department began to give up. There was no spell or curse or astral projection; Miguel was physically present in the Land of the Dead and they could find no way to send him back. In the end, they were sure of only one path back to Santa Cecilia: Día de Muertos. When the Bridges returned and the gates to the Land of the Dead opened, they would have at least one sure way to take Miguel back to the living world.

The problem was that the Day of the Dead was over two months away.

Imelda wasn’t happy with how long that would take. Her grandson would have to survive with their makeshift preparations and inadequate food supply for better than nine weeks, and on the other side his living family had to be worried positively sick for him. She knew how distraught her daughter would be with their precious littlest grandson missing, and in such tragic circumstances; it knotted her nonexistent stomach to picture Coco weeping for the lost child, thinking him dead in the river.

But Imelda would get Miguelito home to Coco, she swore it on her family’s love and honor. All they needed was to hold on until Día de Muertos. Just that long, and then they could walk Miguel across the Bridge to Santa Cecilia and take him home. Oh, what a joy and relief that would be at last!

Miguel himself was...a challenge, to say the least. He was already upset in general over Héctor leaving him with his family (really, the boy shouldn’t have been surprised; leaving was what her husband did), people he only knew from pictures and stories. He was sullen when Imelda was in the room and shy with most of the others, and had a decidedly irritating habit of asking when he could see Héctor again. The others would uncomfortably deflect the question when it came up, but Imelda would tell him the truth, and that only seemed to make the child more and more mulish every time.

Imelda had to admit that she didn’t know her great-great-grandson as well as she thought she did. She remembered a sweet but bored child during the quiet Día de Muertos feasts at the living Rivera home, Elena feeding him and shushing him, and his young mother keeping him in arms to prevent him running about the cemetery during candlelight visits. Nothing in those encounters had done anything to prepare Imelda for the energetic, messy, loud little boy who could go from sunny grins to surly scowls in a heartbeat and tended to leave a trail of dust, clutter, and sheer noise wherever he went.

If there was a mess, the boy was sure to be right in the middle of it. If there was something that could be knocked over, Miguel would discover a way to bump it. If there was any object that could make sound, the child would rap, puff, strum, or tap almost without thinking. With his silly alebrije at his heels, he could do all of this nonstop, from the moment he woke until the moment he collapsed into bed. Poor Julio couldn’t keep up with him in the least, and they could hardly go an hour without Rosita’s high pitched shrieks and squawks as yet another thing went awry or another mess was found. Imelda’s brothers were entirely too distractable to be good babysitters, but they were the only ones who could match Miguel’s pace when Imelda was busy.

And Miguel could be as moody and stubborn as he was kind and shyly cheerful. He tended to be quiet around Imelda herself, frowning and only grudgingly responding to her, but he was obedient, even agreeable to the others. He knew the routine of a shoe shop, and he tried to do what his Papá Julio asked him to when he helped, even if the results were clumsy. He even tentatively tried to assist Rosita in the kitchen, though that often just made the messes worse. He missed his living family terribly, and he wouldn’t accept Imelda’s comfort; she would often find him later, curled up next to wherever Victoria was reading a book, sniffling quietly while his great-aunt absently petted his hair.

However, there were a few points the sweet, likable child would set his feet and refuse to budge on, becoming a surly little stone wall, and one of those issues was Héctor, something that never failed to make Imelda lose her patience. Every negative response from her just seemed to make Miguel scowl more, even if he didn’t directly challenge her. He clung to the tattered (but clean) wool poncho he’d arrived in like a security blanket and stayed as far from Imelda as he could get.

Coco had been a stubborn girl in her own quiet, sweet way, but she had been far more cooperative and respectful than Miguel. Imelda’s granddaughters had also been much more agreeable children; Victoria had plenty of her own ideas, but she was obedient and thoughtful. Elena had of course been quite loud and willful, but in the end she seldom actually disagreed with her family and always did as her mother and grandmother bid her. Even Elena’s oldest boy, Berto, had been a cranky but compliant baby when Imelda had known him briefly in life.

Miguel was in a class by himself, and half the time Imelda was at her wits’ end. Equal parts precious and infuriating, the little boy had her by turns melting and tearing her hair out multiple times a day, and the shoe shop soldiered on under Julio while she ran after the child. Miguel did not seem to like his great-great-grandmother at all, which didn’t help matters when she had to scold him for one thing or another (depressingly frequent). She’d never had to bark “No music!” to anyone in the family so often as this child, but on the other hand she’d quickly learned that when he got quiet there was usually a disaster waiting to happen. He knew how to use puppy-dog eyes to great advantage (Rosita had no resistance whatsoever) and would often go right ahead doing something he was told not to do as long as he thought no one was looking; “No” didn’t mean “No” to him; it meant “Go around.” He was kind-hearted and well-meaning but obstinate and artful and terribly clever for his age.

It was all so wrenchingly familiar. There were moments Miguel was so much like Héctor had been in their youth that it made Imelda want to scream in fury or just sit down and sob. Victoria would say something sternly to the boy and Miguel would grin apologetically and clutch at one arm and his entire posture would make Imelda’s ethereal gut clench. Rosita would call him to the kitchen for a meal and Miguel would dance and skip along to a rhythm only he could hear and Imelda’s hands would ball into fists at the phantom sound of her husband’s whistling. Julio would ask Miguel to help clean up in the shop and the little boy’s thin limbs would flail as he tried to catch something he dropped, and Imelda had to grit her teeth against the memory of Héctor’s well-intentioned clumsiness.

With plenty of his very own looks and personality, Miguel wasn’t a tiny Héctor (thank all that was holy), but that just made the myriad parts of him that were all Héctor leap out at her like a jaguar pouncing from a tree—unexpected, all-consuming, and painful. It shouldn’t have been possible, this many generations away, for any of her great-great-grandchildren to take after that pendejo músico so clearly (they all had their little traces, but Imelda could ignore sporadic flickers like so many short-lived fireflies). It wasn’t Miguel’s fault, blood was blood and no one could change that, but it was so strong in him that there were overwrought moments when it was all she could do not to snarl at the innocent child as she would have her accursed husband.

As it was, she could snap at him sharply enough to send him running angrily to hide in his room under that dratted poncho, the damned alebrije-dog giving her reproachful looks as it slunk after him. She always regretted her tone when she’d calmed down, but Miguel’s sullen defiance made apologies impossible. Very unlike Héctor, her grandson didn’t abandon his disobedience when she reprimanded him; he only retreated to nurse his childish grudges in private, regardless of her authority or the logic of her arguments.

To add insult to injury, he continued to ask about Héctor—when he would see him again, when Papá Héctor would come back. It only made Imelda more furious with her walkaway husband; that man had always possessed an uncanny talent in utterly charming young children, like a guitar-strumming pied piper. Of course he would find it far too easy to lure in a small boy who was so like him, capturing a trusting little heart like a dove in a net. Miguel was stubborn enough to hold on to that faithless man, just like Coco had been as a girl, and it left Imelda’s chest aching. Despite the decades she’d spent trying to keep him away in life and in death, Héctor had selfishly caused yet another of her family to fall in love with him and then left her to pick up the pieces.

She wasn’t truly angry with her Miguelito, despite how infuriating the boy could be. It was Héctor’s fault, inspiring both Miguel’s stubborn faith in him, and the inevitable crash and burn that would come when their grandson finally realized that man was never coming back for him. It would hurt him, just like it had hurt Coco, and it was one more log on the fire of Imelda’s anger on top of all the rest of the stress.

Ten days after Miguel arrived on her doorstep (and they still had two months to go, por Dios), Imelda was exhausted, emotionally drained, and ready to wring Héctor’s neck with a fury she hadn’t experienced since the first year after he’d left home. Back when she’d had little money from week to week, fingers worked to the bone on leather and stitching, and only cruel answers for her daughter’s tearful demands to know when Papá was coming home.

She had only cruel answers for Miguel, too. Héctor wasn’t coming back because leaving was what he did. Héctor wasn’t coming back because Imelda would not allow him to return only to break their family again.

She was not prepared to acknowledge the care she had seen Héctor take with the boy in her courtyard, the gentleness she knew all too well from his time with their daughter. Anyone could be kind to children, and he just happened to be especially good at it.

She was not prepared to contemplate the rare courage he’d shown, standing firm in the face of an alebrije he’d always seemed terrified of, or the way he’d pushed back for the first time when she swung her boot at him. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever raised his voice to her, and the memory of the bite in his tone that day still gave her an uncomfortable pinch in her chest.

She was not prepared to think about the way he’d turned his back on her, the wooden expression on his face, the way he’d spoken as if they were strangers. She should have been happy it seemed like he’d at last given up. She wasn’t prepared to think about it, but no matter how she tried she could not forget the shattered look in his eyes.

Even walking away from her and Coco had not left him looking that broken. She couldn’t understand it. At this point, she hadn’t the energy to try to understand it.

Ten days in. Two months to go. And she’d just come from yet another unpleasant altercation with her grandson, once again over the music the child couldn’t seem to stop producing. She’d scolded, he’d scowled, and the very next thing she knew she was snapping at him and he was accusing her of making Papá Héctor go away because she hated music.

No one had ever called her mean. Not her family. Not to her face.

Miguel had fled from her and was hiding in his room with that damnable poncho again, possibly under the bed this time. Imelda was sitting in the sala with a cool damp cloth on her forehead, ignoring the passing of time, wondering where all her child-rearing skills had gone and how she was going to survive eight more weeks of this stubborn, surly, uncooperative little boy she loved so much—

“Oye! Imelda!”

That was Oscar or Felipe. It didn’t matter which had yelled; where one went, the other was right behind him. Imelda plucked the cloth from her head and sat up to glare at her brothers as they tumbled into the room.

Felipe waved his arms frantically. “Miguel’s gone!”

“What?” she snapped.

“Rosita went in to check on him after a while—”

Oscar took up the explanation. “—because a treat can sweeten him up a little—”

“—you know like she always does? And—”

“—the bed’s empty, that raggedy security blanket is gone—”

“—and the crazy dog is gone too, and Dante—”

“—never goes anywhere without Miguel...!”

Instead of leaping into action, Imelda paused a moment to lean back, drop the damp cloth over her face, and resist the urge to let out a string of dire, blue-air curses that would have shocked even her brothers who knew her younger days well.

“Ave María Purísima...does it never end?” she muttered instead.

Then she stood up, faced her brothers, and took charge once again. “Close the shop. Gather everyone and get ready to search. Send Julio to the Department office to notify the authorities of a missing child. I will get Pepita. Vámonos!”

(tbc)

I still really don’t like this whole part, but at this point I have to throw up my hands and post it or it just won’t happen. Can’t seem to tweak it any better.

I had to cram a lot of information (10 days’ worth) into it that would have been much too dry for non-interlude chapters and wrong from any other POV than Imelda’s. She’s in charge of the family after all, and she’s appointed herself head of the shoe business, as well as head of Getting Miguel Home Safely and head of Looking After The Living Child Day To Day.

Think she’s bitten off more than she can chew this time?

I do think she tries to do too much, and doesn’t stop to think about the consequences other than the practical, determined to protect her family for their own good. (Imperfect narrator.)

Miguel’s bad first impression of her is not making anything easy. He misses his parents a lot and he’s an angry, scared little boy who has a very hard time trusting his primary caregiver who in his mind is hostile to music and hates/drove off the best friend he’s made here.

Still, I’m sorry for the state of this chapter.

#how does Luisa do it?#unstoppable force meets immovable object and they both get headaches #poor Imelda just isn't used to strong-willed sweet slippery clever stubborn children #poor Miguel just got off on the wrong foot (in the wrong COUNTY) with her and he can be a grudgy little thing who gets what he wants #coco fanfic #coco AU #coco spoilers #xolo dragged in AU

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11 - Bible Study and the Mind (EGW)

Foundation of All Study—The Word of God is to be the foundation of all study, and the words of revelation, carefully studied, appeal to and strengthen the intellect as well as the heart.

The culture of the intellect is required, that we may understand the revelation of the will of God to us. It cannot be neglected by those who are obedient to His commandment.

God has not given us the faculties of the mind to be devoted to cheap and frivolous pursuits.—Manuscript 16, 1896.

A Strength of Principle—The truths of the Bible, received, will uplift mind and soul. If the Word of God were appreciated as it should be, both young and old would possess an inward rectitude, a strength of principle, that would enable them to resist temptation.—The Ministry of Healing, 459 (1905).

The Only True Guide—A familiar acquaintance with the Scriptures sharpens the discerning powers and fortifies the soul against the attacks of Satan.

The Bible is the sword of the Spirit, which will never fail to vanquish the adversary. It is the only true guide in all matters of faith and practice.

The reason why Satan has so great control over the minds and hearts of men is that they have not made the Word of God the man of their counsel, and all their ways have not been tried by the true test.

The Bible will show us what course we must pursue to become heirs of glory.—The Review and Herald, January 4, 1881. (Our High Calling, 31.)

Higher Education Defined—There is no education to be gained higher than that given to the early disciples, and which is revealed to us through the Word of God.

To gain the higher education means to follow this Word implicitly; it means to walk in the footsteps of Christ, to practice His virtues. It means to give up selfishness and to devote the life to the service of God.

Higher education calls for something greater, something more divine, than the knowledge to be obtained merely from books.

It means a personal, experimental knowledge of Christ; it means emancipation from ideas, from habits and practices, that have been gained in the school of the prince of darkness and which are opposed to loyalty to God.

It means to overcome stubbornness, pride, selfishness, worldly ambition, and unbelief. It is the message of deliverance from sin.—Counsels to Parents, Teachers, and Students, 11, 12 (1913).

Inspires the Mind—In the Word of God the mind finds subjects for the deepest thought, the loftiest aspirations. Here we may hold communion with patriarchs and prophets and listen to the voice of the Eternal as He speaks with men.

Here we behold the Majesty of heaven as He humbled Himself to become our substitute and surety, to cope single-handed with the powers of darkness, and to gain the victory in our behalf.

A reverent contemplation of such themes as these cannot fail to soften, purify, and ennoble the heart, and at the same time to inspire the mind with new strength and vigor.—Counsels to Parents, Teachers, and Students, 52, 53 (1913).

It Reveals the Purpose of Life—But that which above all other considerations should lead us to prize the Bible is that in it is revealed to men the will of God.

Here we learn the object of our creation and the means by which that object may be attained. We learn how to improve wisely the present life and how to secure the future life.

No other book can satisfy the questionings of the mind or the cravings of the heart. By obtaining a knowledge of God's Word and giving heed thereto, men may rise from the lowest depths of degradation to become the sons of God, the associates of sinless angels.—Counsels to Parents, Teachers, and Students, 53, 54 (1913).

Parables to Impress and Awaken Minds—God designs that our minds shall be impressed, awakened, and instructed by His sacred parables.

He would have nature counteract the attempts made to divorce science from Bible Christianity. He desires that the things of nature that greet our senses shall hold the attention and imprint heavenly truths upon the mind.—The Youth's Instructor, May 6, 1897.

The Bible Without a Rival—As an educating power the Bible is without a rival. Nothing will so impart vigor to all the faculties as requiring students to grasp the stupendous truths of revelation.

The mind gradually adapts itself to the subjects upon which it is allowed to dwell. If occupied with commonplace matters only, to the exclusion of grand and lofty themes, it will become dwarfed and enfeebled.

If never required to grapple with difficult problems or put to the stretch to comprehend important truths, it will after a time almost lose the power of growth.—Testimonies for the Church 5:24 (1882).

Accept It With Simple Faith—God desires man to exercise his reasoning powers, and the study of the Bible will strengthen and elevate the mind as no other study can do.

It is the best mental as well as spiritual exercise for the human mind. Yet we are to beware of deifying reason, which is subject to the weakness and infirmity of humanity.

If we would not have the Scriptures clouded to our understanding so that the plainest truths shall not be comprehended, we must have the simplicity and faith of a little child, ready to learn and beseeching the aid of the Holy Spirit.

A sense of the power and wisdom of God and of our inability to comprehend His greatness, should inspire us with humility, and we should open His Word, as we would enter His presence, with holy awe.

When we come to the Bible, reason must acknowledge an authority superior to itself, and heart and intellect must bow to the great I AM.—Testimonies for the Church 5:703, 704 (1889).

Nothing to Be Studied That Clouds God's Word—Jesus Christ is our spiritual touchstone. He reveals the Father. Nothing should be given as food to the brain that will bring before the mind any mist or cloud in regard to the Word of God.

No careless inattention should be shown in regard to the cultivation of the soil of the heart. The mind must be prepared to appreciate the work and words of Christ, for He came from heaven to waken a desire and to give the bread of life to all who hunger for spiritual knowledge.—Manuscript 15, 1898.

Scriptures Recognize Man's Moral Choice—When we search the Word of God, angels are by our side, reflecting bright beams of light upon its sacred pages.

The Scriptures appeal to man as having power to choose between right and wrong; they speak to him in warning, in reproof, in entreaty, in encouragement.

The mind must be exercised on the solemn truths of God's Word, or it will grow weak.... We must examine for ourselves and learn the reasons of our faith by comparing scripture with scripture. Take the Bible, and on your knees plead with God to enlighten your mind.—The Review and Herald, March 4, 1884.

Minds Find Noblest Development—If the Bible were studied as it should be, men would become strong in intellect.

The subjects treated upon in the Word of God, the dignified simplicity of its utterance, the noble themes which it presents to the mind, develop faculties in man which cannot otherwise be developed. In the Bible a boundless field is opened for the imagination.

The student will come from a contemplation of its grand themes, from association with its lofty imagery, more pure and elevated in thought and feeling than if he had spent the time in reading any work of mere human origin, to say nothing of those of a trifling character.

Youthful minds fail to reach their noblest development when they neglect the highest source of wisdom—the Word of God.

The reason why we have so few men of good mind, of stability and solid worth, is that God is not feared, God is not loved, the principles of religion are not carried out in the life as they should be.—Christian Temperance and Bible Hygiene, 126, 1890. (Fundamentals of Christian Education, 165.)

Search for Its Hidden Treasure—The Bible, just as it reads, is to be our guide. Nothing is so calculated to enlarge the mind and strengthen the intellect as the study of the Bible.

No other study will so elevate the soul and give vigor to the faculties as the study of the living oracles. The minds of thousands of ministers of the gospel are dwarfed because they are permitted to dwell upon commonplace things, and are not exercised in searching for the hidden treasure of the Word of God.

As the mind is brought to the study of God's Word, the understanding will enlarge and the higher powers will develop for the comprehension of high and ennobling truth.

It is according to the character of the matter with which the mind becomes familiar that it is dwarfed or enlarged. If the mind is not raised up to make vigorous and persistent effort in seeking to comprehend truth by comparing scripture with scripture, it will surely become contracted and lose its tone.

We should set our minds to the task of searching for truths that do not lie directly upon the surface.—The Review and Herald, September 28, 1897.

Bible Directs the Life Aright—The whole Bible is a revelation of the glory of God in Christ. Received, believed, obeyed, it is the great instrumentality in the transformation of character.

It is the grand stimulus, the constraining force, that quickens the physical, mental, and spiritual powers and directs the life into right channels.

The reason why the youth, and even those of mature years, are so easily led into temptation and sin is that they do not study the Word of God and meditate upon it as they should.

The lack of firm, decided willpower, which is manifest in life and character, results from neglect of the sacred instruction of God's Word.

They do not by earnest effort direct the mind to that which would inspire pure, holy thought and divert it from that which is impure and untrue.—The Ministry of Healing, 458 (1905).

It Reveals the Rules for Holy Living—The Lord, in His great mercy, has revealed to us in the Scriptures His rules of holy living, His commandments, and His laws.

He tells us therein the sins to shun; He explains to us the plan of salvation and points out the way to heaven. If they obey His injunction to “search the Scriptures,” none need be ignorant of these things.

The actual progress of the soul in virtue and divine knowledge is by the plan of addition—adding constantly the graces which Christ made an infinite sacrifice to bring within the reach of all. We are finite, but we are to have a sense of the infinite.

The mind must be taxed, contemplating God and His wonderful plan for our salvation. The soul will thus be lifted above commonplace things and fastened upon things that are eternal.

The thought that we are in God's world and in the presence of the great Creator of the universe, who made man in His own image, after His own likeness, will lift the mind into broader, higher fields for meditation than any fictitious story.

The thought that God's eye is watching us, that He loves us and cared so much for fallen man as to give His dearly beloved Son to redeem us that we might not miserably perish, is a great one, and whoever opens his heart to the acceptance and contemplation of these great themes will never be satisfied with trivial, sensational subjects.—The Review and Herald, November 9, 1886.

A New Heart Means a New Mind—The words “A new heart will I give you” mean, “A new mind will I give you.” This change of heart is always attended by a clear conception of Christian duty, an understanding of truth.

The clearness of our views of truth will be proportionate to our understanding of the Word of God. He who gives the Scriptures close, prayerful attention will gain clear comprehension and sound judgment, as if in turning to God he had reached a higher grade of intelligence.—The Review and Herald, November 10, 1904.

Not to Be Casually Read—It is not safe for us to turn from the Holy Scriptures with only a casual reading of their sacred pages....

Rein the mind up to the high task that has been set before it, and study with determined interest, that you may understand divine truth. Those who do this will be surprised to find to what the mind can attain.—The Youth's Instructor, June 29, 1893. (Our High Calling, 35.)

Memory Training Aids the Mind—The mind must be restrained and not allowed to wander. It should be trained to dwell upon the Scriptures and upon noble, elevating themes.

Portions of Scripture, even whole chapters, may be committed to memory to be repeated when Satan comes in with his temptations.

The fifty-eighth chapter of Isaiah is a profitable one for this purpose. Wall the soul in with the restrictions and instructions given by inspiration of the Spirit of God.

When Satan would lead the mind to dwell upon earthly and sensual things, he is most effectually resisted with “It is written.” ...

When he suggests doubts as to whether we are really the people whom God is leading, whom by tests and provings He is preparing to stand in the great day, be ready to meet his insinuations by presenting the clear evidence from the Word of God that this is the remnant people who are keeping the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.—The Review and Herald, April 8, 1884.

Bible Study Produces Well-balanced Minds—Those who are under the training of the Holy Spirit will be able to teach the Word intelligently.

And when it is made the study book, with earnest supplication for the Spirit's guidance and a full surrender of the heart to be sanctified through the truth, it will accomplish all that Christ has promised.

The result of such Bible study will be well-balanced minds; for the physical, mental, and moral powers will be harmoniously developed. There will be no paralysis in spiritual knowledge.

The understanding will be quickened, the sensibilities will be aroused, the conscience will become sensitive, the sympathies and sentiments will be purified, a better moral atmosphere will be created, and a new power to resist temptation will be imparted.—Special Testimonies On Education, 26, 27, June 12, 1896. (Fundamentals of Christian Education, 433, 434.)

An Antidote for Poisonous Insinuations—When the mind is stored with Bible truth, its principles take deep root in the soul, and the preference and tastes become wedded to truth, and there is no desire for debasing, exciting literature that enfeebles the moral powers and wrecks the faculties God has bestowed for usefulness.

Bible knowledge will prove an antidote for the poisonous insinuations received through unguarded reading.—The Review and Herald, November 9, 1886. (Our High Calling, 202.)

Protects From Superstition—If the teachings of this Word were made the controlling influence in our lives, if mind and heart were brought under its restraining power, the evils that now exist in churches and families would find no place ....

The teachings of the Word of God are to control mind and heart, that the home life may demonstrate the power of the grace of God....

Without the Bible we should be bewildered by false theories. The mind would be subjected to the tyranny of superstition and falsehood.

But having in our possession an authentic history of the beginning of the world, we need not hamper ourselves with human conjectures and unreliable theories.—The Review and Herald, November 10, 1904.

It Improves the Reasoning Faculties—If the mind is set to the task of studying the Bible for information, the reasoning faculties will be improved.

Under study of the Scriptures the mind expands and becomes more evenly balanced than if occupied in obtaining general information from the books that are used which have no connection with the Bible.

No knowledge is so firm, so consistent and far-reaching, as that obtained from a study of the Word of God. It is the foundation of all true knowledge.

The Bible is like a fountain. The more you look into it, the deeper it appears. The grand truths of sacred history possess amazing strength and beauty and are as far-reaching as eternity. No science is equal to the science that reveals the character of God.

Moses was educated in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, yet he said, “Behold, I have taught you statutes and judgments, even as the Lord my God commanded me, that ye should do so in the land whither ye go to possess it.

Keep therefore and do them; for this is your wisdom and your understanding in the sight of the nations, which shall hear all these statutes, and say, Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people.”—The Review and Herald, February 25, 1896. (Fundamentals of Christian Education, 393.)

Endows the Faculties With Vigor—Why should not this book—this precious treasure—be exalted and esteemed as a valued friend?

This is our chart across the stormy sea of life. It is our guidebook showing us the way to the eternal mansions and the character we must have to inhabit them.

There is no book the perusal of which will so elevate and strengthen the mind as the study of the Bible. Here the intellect will find themes of the most elevated character to call out its powers.

There is nothing that will so endow with vigor all our faculties as bringing them in contact with the stupendous truths of revelation.

The effort to grasp and measure these great thoughts expands the mind. We may dig down deep into the mine of truth and gather precious treasures with which to enrich the soul. Here we may learn the true way to live, the safe way to die.—The Review and Herald, January 4, 1881. (Our High Calling, 31.)

Bible Study Will Enlarge the Mind—The Bible is our guide in the safe paths that lead to eternal life. God has inspired men to write that which will present the truth to us, which will attract, and which, if practiced, will enable the receiver to obtain moral power to rank among the most highly educated minds. The minds of all who make the Word of God their study will enlarge.

Far more than any other study its influence is calculated to increase the powers of comprehension and endow every faculty with a new power. It brings the mind in contact with broad, ennobling principles of truth.

It brings all heaven into close connection with human minds, imparting wisdom and knowledge and understanding.—The Youth's Instructor, October 13, 1898, (Sons and Daughters of God, 70.)

Bible a Revelation of Jehovah—Through all time this Book is to stand as a revelation of Jehovah. To human beings the divine oracles have been committed to be the power of God. The truths of the Word of God are not mere sentiment, but the utterances of the Most High.

He who makes these truths a part of his life becomes in every sense a new creature. He is not given new mental powers, but the darkness that through ignorance and sin have clouded the understanding is removed.—The Review and Herald, November 10, 1904.

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lornahansonforbes · 3 years

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Normally I’m not that guy who has the ability to actually has it in me to “express my feelings” and gets “in touch with those feelings.” Look it’s not in my DNA. When pushed into a corner I’ll come at you like at a Gatling gun with “my feelings.” Ugh. I’m not that person.

Today I left the house and meandered around my neighborhood. I’m not exactly sure what happened but I stopped into a local coffee shop and got a Venti Latte. I’d had preferred a green juice with some pomegranate and Açaí but not today. I was in a funk since I had dinner with my friend. Was she my girlfriend, I don’t think so much. Friend with benefits? Fuck buddy? Mistress? Conquest? Whatever. It was good and it lasted but it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before but it came to pass.

In retrospect what really happened was that this happened. Was I falling into that column where the word “serial” be associated with me? I can confirm emphatically it was not and it didn’t reflect that Louis Prima ditty remade years later by David Lee Roth.

That video was filmed in and around Venice Beach. In the video, just like today, a clean crisp beautiful unbelievable day here on Dockweller Beach. Okay I got a large chunk of my steps in this morning minus the contraption attached to me. Yeah it’s not like you’ve seen in movies and on TV as someone with a certain amount of clout looked down on you from their multimillion dollar shack like is often mentioned in enclaves of Malibu Beach. Just wanted to let you know that in Boston, there’s a place that shares the same name but that one has a view of the highway and gas tanks. Props to Corita Kent but luckily I wasn’t looking at that this morning. I plunked my ass down on a concrete Jersey barrier with my latte. A deep cleansing breath intermingled with an exasperated sigh.

Seriously, what the fuck, yo? Processing, analyzing, tabulating, parsing. In my mind, I think I saw the data, but what did it say? I’ve done this before and now I was looking at the galleys for the unabridged Cyrillic version of Tolstoy’s tome. Notes in the margins. The daily Jumble? A foreign language? Some form of dyslexia? Sigh. Could I really going to clean up a broken thermometer’s Mercury with a used piece of snotty paper? I’m solving Pi. Yeah, yeah, yeah; that’s the ticket!!

Fuck reverberated worse than some cheap sound effect of a silver ball in a pinball machine. The normal cacophony was jangling in my ears.

I clenched my hand around my paper cup and almost spilled my coffee. I was pissed. That’s right, I said it before, “Ungrateful Bitch!!” I said it with such venom and you had only sixty seconds to live.

What difference a day makes. Bull-fucking-shit. I’ve been stewing and wallowing for about a month now, but today seemed that something felt dissimilar yet did I have a different skewed view of the situation? At that exact moment I heard one of those thumper cars approaching blaring something I didn’t understand but I did hear a sound bite of “Baile, baile con General…” and the car and song are gone. Was Joy Division only for headphones? This is Los Angeles not Colby College.

Did I actually do something? I reverted my eyes back to the water in front of me. I heard the word compartmentalize on some cable news show and here I was in jeans and a tee shirt and my ratty sneakers not just contemplating why lint gets in my navel but keeping my thoughts and unkempt mop of hair under my very old Red Sox cap. I couldn’t dodge raindrops. Had I tabled my ego? Were expectations quickly quieted? Like that car a few minutes ago, did I blare or amplify some sort of acceptance? The hounds had been released at the same time as my control? Please can we do this. Wow! Does this shit actually fucking work? Ugh.

My chart didn’t reveal that as someone who knew what horoscopes and a far fetched idea of my earth sign had skirted the retrograde of Saturn yet had Scorpio descending as Capricorn was rising. I can be that Type-A personality and driven and getting in touch with my feelings was in an abyss but I’ve got them. Depends on how I get there is when I could possibly provide you my feelings and just to let you know I don’t know how I feel since I’m not understanding the question. I feel dampness. I’m on the Maid of The Mist or was I standing under Niagara Falls?

God Dammit! I was crying. I don’t do that. My jaw was clenched I’d have developed TMJ. Mickey & Minnie and Stanley & Blanche they passed away and I cried for them but that was I don’t know how long ago. Am I getting ahold of the anger in me? Maybe a word, a smile, an hour of happiness? NEXT??!! I tapped my contact list. I scrolled through the names. In a parallel universe I called you a thousand times when I know I didn’t. I just blocked you instead and I’d never know if I hadn’t seen your name in what’s referred to as “The Irish Sports page,” in the L.A. Times they’re called obituaries. I compared and related to the fact that I was standing by the gate with passport in hand but I was just standing by, yeah, that’s right; all dressed up with no place to go.

A boisterous and vociferous colony of seagulls appeared just a few yards away from where I sat and I chuckled to myself because Hitchcock would have lived for this shot. My coffee cup is empty. I knew I had to dispose of the cup, but I’m thinking recycle, reuse, repurpose or allow it to end up in a landfill? This one has the unmitigated gall to say, don’t forget that something else had been unceremoniously and recklessly tossed away.

Okay I’m writing this in my diary which will be cremated with me when that final disappointment shows up and I breathed my last breath.

Eight months, two weeks and a day. Fuck. That’s all it was, right? I’ll crack up at my own expense but this nice Yeshiva boy discovered he had eaten bacon once and that’s all you need to know. Just that one time. Don’t you dare judge me.

What I will do is judge those two from my high school days. One freely admits that they’d do anything for me if I only asked and I doubt that will happen. I’ve got family here and they’ll gladly grapple with my infirmity when and if. The other one now lives in Boston with a partner and an adopted son. I’m not in the worst shape of my life, but both women and men do have the courtesy to leave something on me so I don’t catch cold when their eyes go into overdrive.

She really hurt me. Okay I’m not that person who’d scrawl “No sale!!” if I found a check and a note that said, “Last night was dope.”

My phone beeped. Shit. I’m going to stop this and focus on my career and help them and me but I’ve got to go to Pacoima now.

Express the new challenges ahead and embrace them into existence. Fuck yeah!!!!

#i-wrotethisforme #vomitingwords #thewritershandbook #wnq writers #love

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actingdeep · 3 years

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Jean & Cat

Give me your hand. Only give 'yes' or 'no' answers for now. We will go back later at the end. Close your eyes. I'm going to start by saying the Lord's Prayer. "Okay." That was all Lorraine could say these days. She would eat oatmeal when we set a bowl for her and she would smile. We put a red cigarette in her fingers and told her to inhale. She would cough twice in an elderly way, with sunken eyes staring straight forward, and she would smile. We shifted our intimate yet quaint and twisted car songs and dialogues to the back porch around 6 a.m., after tiptoeing past conked couple Jean and Ryan crashing on their living room floorbed, making coffee, using the restroom and watering the silly-looking dog. There is a very alien type of relaxation that comes with being the last ones alive from a late night civil war on your own good health, with everyone else defenseless and asleep like regrettable casualties. The horizon stretched and yawned. Past our feet, in the dew-covered grass, layed the sheepdoglike Lily, with her green bone flinging around her teeth. Cat had abilities within her revealing dormant truths and hidden pasts in others. I had amphetamines within me releasing all boring skepticism and reason. By the end of the night, she had given me a personal palm reading. The accuracy was daunting at first (and still is). It was a superstitious and almost laughable act, yes; but it was pinnacle altruism--and at that moment, after all these years, it was finally clear to me that she was my friend. I was feeling a little effete as a hidden star burnished the scale of an overripe and infirm world. Cat and I had inadvertently stayed up all night. We were either still drunk, or low-key tweaking, or probably both. Our eager spirits were about to be given another boost out of their usual pockets of time and space. We lounged with sleepless energy in squat gray outdoor chairs on the small back porch, with blowing trees and birds singing in the early summer morning. Jean had already long fallen asleep on her living room floorbed, and now that I finally had Cat out of the car, I could let my blood cool between easy nature and cheap science. The dome of the pipe we were smoking Annie from caught some outside debris from the wind that was blowing and made a slight brownish blemish on the inside, which made the taste of the rolling smoke a little less clean than the previous hits. Many a time when Jean and I were gulping down cherry-flavored vodka around this time six or seven years ago, in the bedroom right behind Cat's, when they still had their old house, I had never fathomed a table could turn so drastically: the table being my relationship with these two women--mother and daughter--over time frames scattered and separated by intermittent spaces of buildup and decay. The days when talking to Cat filled me with dread seemed like false memories when I looked at her now. I almost liked her more than Jean these days--a funny thought, indeed. "Are you still hungry?" "Okay." At 4 a.m. we were back from the bar, and pulled in the driveway of Jean's grandparent's house. She struggled to shut her car door and sauntered inside. I followed, but before I made it in the house, I heard my name called back from behind me from the driveway. I turned to see Cat gesturing for me under the dim car light. She was looking around in the car for something I don't remember what. I got back in to help her search for something likely of the highest unimportance. As we began to talk more, we ended up being in the car for at least an hour. When Cat begins to chatter with you, an angel should come down from Headache Heaven to give you a Valium and a bucket of popcorn. We hadn't talked very much all night, only because once she dropped off Jean and I at the bar, she didn't come in to join us finally until around the last half hour we were there, where I would eventually start a scene that would close the entire bar for the night. We laughed about that, and caught up with one another in general about the changes and differences in our respective current lives. Her overall pleasantness caught me off-guard, somewhat. As conversations in parked vehicles usually go, especially with our current bodily chemical states, we eventually graduated from serious discussion, to banter, to no words--just full duet performances to bands like The Violent Femmes and Fleetwood Mac, stridulate and true. This is nothing like using Tarot cards. Those things are complete bull shit. I am going to try to knock something loose here. They're screaming again: this time, passively-aggressively around the edges of the room, little hash symbols and asterisks and ampersands tunneling in the air and in and out of Lorraine's smiling ears. At first, the day was calm: quiet snores, with the T.V. playing The Price is Right, as some were still laid out on the floor asleep, some in chairs with coffee and paper, awake. The small house seemed much more open than it should have been. I watched the game show and sat on the couch next to Brenda, Cat's girlfriend, as she was scrolling her finger on a phone screen and grimacing a little. Jean's disheveled head was zzzing right next to my left foot. I put back large gulps of the coffee Brenda made me to put off my ineludible crash, and had cigarettes on the bright, thin clean carpet. Brenda started it; it was around 11:30 a.m. Grunting, she staggered over to Cat's floorbed to lean down, and WHUP!, smack her on her overturned body, making her yelp in a terrible way, like a little, running dog that pivoted wrong and twisted it's paw. Some moments you don't want to ever remember--that is--until you really can't. She had only been asleep for about twenty minutes, and immediately: "Fuck! What is...what is wrong with you?" cried Cat, still stridulate. "Who's all these motherfuckers in yer phone messagin' ya? Always fuckin' around on me, ain't ya? Don't give a rat's ass about me." "I don't talk to anyone, Brenda. I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" "Ah, bull shit," waved Brenda, turning away like a troll. "Fuck you!" "Fuck you right back, bitch." "I haven't gotten any sleep all night, Brenda. I was up talking to Derek all night, and I just fucking fell asleep." "Well, good morning bitch!" And so on. This match lasted hours; piercing echoes branching off into littler sub-arguments (but just as loud) over other things they thought would be good also brought up, neither showing mercy, except to make a jeer and cackle at the other's expense. Dan had already taken Ryan to his morning college class and hadn't gotten back yet, so between sleeping Jean, contented Lorraine, and highly tired I, no one was attempting to dampen the vicious quarrel in any way. I was sitting quietly, looking down at my feet and Jean's stirring hair ball, not from lack of sleep, but from the plain child greenness of these two women. I knew Cat as a married woman to a husband, once. But no surprise came to me when I met her current girlfriend (womanfriend). I knew this was more of an emotionally-hinged relationship and sexually less so; only the emotions in use were nothing but petulant combativeness, desperation, and cold resentment; they were fools together. After a while, crash impending, I would simply walk outside, away from it all, until the screams muffled themselves in the distance. "Okay." Dan was the man of the house, and also Cat's dad. He was a few years shy of sixty years. Although I had never met him before, having stayed the night at his house, he was quite jolly and approachable. He smoked cigarettes with the front door open. His wife Lorraine sat by him in a low-back rocking chair, onlooking. The rooms of the house were typical in the grandparently sense: white-gold ceiling fan, porcelain figurines behind glass cases, mini fish tank, placemats on multiple kitchen tables, a smiling woman sitting in a smiling rocking chair, big television. The only thing out of place was the smoking; it was a subtle invasion of a seemingly innocent atmosphere, akin to squeezing your girlfriend's ass at church service. I couldn't believe I was smoking a square on a davenport. Did you know the dead see the future? Back in school, when Jean and I dated as teenagers, her mother Cat was in a seriously disobliging state--dependent on drugs like Xanax and methadone. She would stay in her room twenty-four seven and roar at us to turn the music down. She only left the house when absolutely necessary, and had a round, evil scorn forever in her floating eyes. She was ponderous, choleric and painstakingly contrary, instigating daily screaming matches with her husband, or daughter, or both. She was always in carping pain, and loved to spite her old pasts to herself in drugged, futile insanity. When she would bring her mom her dinner trays, Jean usually took accusation and insult as gratuity. On the occasions she was in good spirits (which usually implied she was unusually zapped), she would talk to you for what seemed like long hours about things like ghosts or glory days if you weren't careful to sneak past her bedroom door, which was permanently ajar, with a low, rambling sound leaking out of it always. I loved being in Jean's room more than anywhere in those days. I remember a pink sheet covering an overhead window making every movement and shadow a cotton candy daydream, sitting on a stack of two single mattresses, with us both leaning against a wall with blanketed legs and her kitten, soft and white between us, with secret, window eyes. And there would be Jean: beautiful and youthful in blonde and black and pink and brown eyes. She was in the school's color guard and I would watch her practice double and triple rifle spins in her backyard for hours, smoking dirt weed to her music playlists. We were underage drinkers; but she always had a guy to buy alcohol for us (to them, just her), and once he would drop it off, she would cutely thank him and send him away, bringing it into her room where I waited, and we would drink from the bottle, giggling; or, we would just stay in her room for hours to avoid Cat by playing music, taking pictures, or just making each other laugh hysterically in various ways. I hope I never forget that laugh. "Okay, honey." We carried our drinks over to a rounded booth in the corner and talked for a while, saying hello to the barkeep Stephen as we walked in, and to all the other puffy, smiling faces we recognized, but didn't know. It was just Jean and I right now, talking like we always could, no matter where or when we ever were. Apparently, Cat was sticking around the parking lot for a while to connect to the internet on her phone for something rather (or was she?), and selling soupcons of various pills here and there to her bar regular buddies, amiably, with wrinkled eye corners. Something is coming through. A man with a flattop military haircut. I also see an older man sitting in an easy chair. How well do you remember your childhood? Does the name Tom mean anything to you? Jean and I sat near the DJ booth, which wasn't really a booth inasmuch as it was a large man sitting in a folding chair with a laptop. We laughed, but were loving what he was playing. Her and I have always been able to listen to music together comfortably for long periods of time, often with naps and cool silences. In the moment, I felt that we were actually a good couple when we were seventeen, even though it only lasted a couple weeks, tops; but being friends was barely different, and easy to do. She had many boyfriends, one at a time, in constant replicating sequences--one, and another, and another. I never minded that--it is a task for most people to be alone. Ryan was her current boyfriend, but she didn't bring him to the bar--and not just because he was underage. She used men like a body pillow or an aspirin; leave them at the house and use them for comfort as needed (and they were always young). She was dull now. I had to entertain her because she was dull, and I loved her; but of course, in loving her, I was dull, also. After some rounds, we would smile more easily. I asked when her mom was going to join us, because, to this point, I really had no clue as to what Cat was even doing, us having sat there drinking, unjoined for an hour or two now. "She's in the car, smoking speed. That's her drug of choice now." After I gave off a questioning look, she continued: "I really don't mind it. I mean, at least she can function." Hmmm. I rounded my eyes, and curled my wet lips. I excused myself, and bolted outside towards the car. I knew Cat would share; greed a moral hit-man. The dim car light was on across the street. After twenty minutes or so, I sat back down in the booth and readjusted my eyes, feeling fresh. Jean was standing by the DJ booth. "Do you take requests?" "I take donations." An older woman with a strained gait and a proud, pauper air waddled up to our booth and gave a friendly hello-how-are-you to Jean, but not to me. Jean had a subtle knack for being pleasurable and forebearing to humdrum dishwater persons, the subjective soul inside me under a spell of well whiskey, and also Cat's treat, slowly making my thoughts increasingly insubordinate here. "Aye! A Jeanie in a bottle!" "Hi, it's good to see you." (No it isn't. She's foul!) "Been missin' ya round this place. Where ya been, girly?" "Just working, and taking care of grandma." "Oh, bless your heart! How is she? (She's okay.) "Y'know--good days and bad days." (Too bad this Jeanie can't grant wishes; she'd make it no days.) At one point, I reached over and took a sip out of Jean's beer bottle. The woman slowly straightened her mouth and furrowed her brow, glaring at me. "You're disrespectful." "I bought this. I've bought all her drinks." A cheap maneuver. She turned to Jean: "You should find better friends." I saw Jean's mouth twitch a little, then turn up again. "This is my oldest friend," she defended me cooly, with an undertone of hate only I could detect. I smiled at the woman as if to say, "How about that?" She had a countenance that was one part protectiveness for Jean, another part antipathy for me, and a third part, something I couldn't place, but that was definitely for herself. "It's okay, honey, he's really okay," said Jean sedatively. Jean looked more allayed than I was once the woman had eventually returned to her table. The front door was slowly staving off tottering bodies as the night bloomed into day. As she passed by them, coming back in from a cigarette, Jean looked up and noticed an old school friend of hers, who was talking to a man that happened to be sitting right next to me, at the far end of the bar. This made her face light right up, I noticed, which contented me quite well, as Jean in general wasn't particularly boisterous. She skipped up to the old friend and gave a kind and delighted hello. But this girl was obviously completely disinterested in her, and gave her a lowbred, patronizing sneer. "Okay." Freshly cold-shouldered, Jean rubbed her arms, and became specially downcast, then: this was not okay. Seeing her so depreciated so abruptly sparked a most tender agony within me that would prod my heart, even under the many obtunding whiskeys I had imbibed over the night. I called the insipid girl's attention, and seconds later, she looked up at me, and when she looked up at me, I vengefully, and without restriction, said: "What kind of rude, phony, fucking bitch are you?" Her body didn't move, but her fingers and face started to contort as she glared at me. She dropped her jaw a little, and then clenched it, and widened her thick, black eyes as a fire rose in them. Jean stood back a little, and the girl began to defend herself in belligerent fury, while I held my own ground in the meantime. Every sentence she spoke bumbled over the next; she was clearly plastered, and in rage. I continued to fuel that rage as I rebounded spurring insults like "Fuck you!" and "What do you know?" with gibes like "I can't! I'm outta cash!" and "Fish swim, birds fly, and you're a cunt!" This soon started a mini-uproar on that end of the bar, and very quickly had all the remaining bar-goers perking up from their glasses. Some people began to hover nearby us gingerly, in case of the possibility that things could get physical, as her and I continued to altercate, teams now forming behind us. After about three more minutes of her drunkenly calling me names and I relentlessly making fun of her for being fake and angry, the bartender Stephen kicked her out. He was good friends with Jean (a regular there), and had saw us together all night, and must have been partial. He told the friends of the girl I accosted, now a tornado of nails and hair and fury, body still unmoved, to take her outside, and so they did. He locked the doors, then turned to give me a face of exhausted vitriol. I still sat there at the long bar next to my friend Cat, the medium, and her deservedly defended daughter, one of my most nascent and esteemed loves from years and years ago. Because of our mutual friend Jean, he would only give me a little hell for causing such a row, and I gave him a most disingenuous apology. We reset and regrouped, and were soon out the door. What a perfect pleasure it is to mislay all complacency and trepidation, and to actuate defiance in the face of all of our false, permeable cordialities, and to see just how easily it can all fall away. To feel what I did to be an imperative as to glorify a strayed memory of a forgotten devotion only moreover authenticates my conviction that the ways we go, and the happenings in our lives, occur for no reason at all but for our own attempts at nullifying an unavoidable and steadfast state of lifelong suffering. Jean thanked me for standing up for her, and gifted me an old look and smile that, so many years ago, I would have never believed I had forgotten. "Okay."

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