#i do not in fact know. i physically cannot make myself do your damn assignment. i dont know why im zoning out. it isnt because of the phone

[birthday-of-music]

ughhhhjajsjajahshdhdhdb

[aggressive-positivity-network]

do any of the mercs play board games?

Mercopoly (Board Game

Headcanons)

Scout:

You think he has enough of an attention span to play something that doesn’t involve sweating out his energy drinks?

Hell no!

He gets very bored very quickly, especially with something complex like chess.

He’ll play cards sometimes, but only Crazy Eights and Go Fish - that’s all he knows how to play.

However, there is one true board game he plays occasionally: Candy Land.

It’s one of the few board games that you don’t really have to read the rules for, and there isn’t any writing on the cards.

However, he only asks to play it when he’s not feeling very well.

Medic even has a page in his medical journal for the mercs that says, and I quote:

“The Scout has an extremely short attention span, and if an activity isn’t active or immersive, he will not stay long. If at any point he chooses a sedentary activity, a check-up is in order.”

As sad as it is, a request to play Candyland is a good way to know if Scout needs a little extra reassurance or support.

By the end of the game, Scout usually feels more himself, whether he wins or not.

Engie is especially good with Scout when he’s this way, being the one of the most emotionally sensitive of the group. But he also knows Scout would never admit straight-away how he was feeling, so he usually has a more fun way of getting answers.

“You feelin’ more like a King Candy or a Lord Licorice?”

“...Fudge Monster.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah...”

Spy:

If you ask him, he will most likely go off on a tangent about chess, and how it’s a game of strategy, deception, and crushing your enemy with your wit.

He scoffs at any other game, and constantly makes fun of several of his more intelligent peers for finding interest in them.

“You are mercenaries. Blood-thirsty killers of men. And you are playing ‘Hungry, Hungry Hippos’ like a hoarde of kindergartners?”

But one thing he cannot resist is Sorry.

He considers it above normal board games because it has strategy - or at least that what he says.

He actually just likes it because it’s a game of revenge, which is like a drug to him.

He’s gotten so good at it that if he asks you to play Sorry with him, it’s almost guaranteed that he’s mad at you and just wants to let off some steam by giving you a horrendous loss. However, occasionally, he’s the one who loses.

Spy isn’t a poor sport, exactly - he’s too cultured for that - but sometimes his pride outweighs his manners and he convinces himself that the other player cheated through made up signs of deception.

He simply “allows” them to win because he “doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

But god help the unfortunate soul who decides to rub their win in his face.

Sniper had won five games in a row, and it was clear Spy was getting hot under the collar.

Sniper ended their games with a mischievous, “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.” and a small pat on his shoulder.

Spy immediately saw red, grabbed Sniper’s hand, and before the aussie knew it, he was against a concrete wall with a butterfly knife to his throat.

“I could kill you right now. Your final cry for Medic will be drowned in blood, and I would leave you here to die a painful, dramatic death. You’ll be replaced with a rusted trash can of a bot until they could grow another clone of you. Every memory will be gone. The team will be shrouded in grief, not because of losing you, but losing what the clone can never have. And I shall bide my time, ask the clone to play the same game, and kill them when they win. Another clone, another kill. And again. And again. And again. You think the Manns give a damn as long as their work is getting done? You will never be able to form a single thought before I spill your blood - caught in an eternal prisoner’s dilemma where you always lose.”

After gathering his bearings, Sniper finally spoke.

“Is this about your takeout?”

Spy scoffed.

“Do you really think - !”

“Tonight, my treat if you don’t kill me.”

Spy squinted.

“Egg rolls?”

“And an extra order of crab rangoon.”

“Your treat?”

“Yep.”

“How do I know you won’t poison me?”

“Chemical test before and after the food arrives.”

“How do I know Medic isn’t in on it?”

“Miss Pauling as a witness and Scout as an overseer. Pauling’s main objective is to keep us alive, and Scout can’t do bloody anything subtle, even if he wanted to. You can also play back the cameras in the lab, if the mood really struck ya.”

Spy held Sniper against the wall for a minute or two while he thought it all over, then let Sniper fall to the ground.

“I don’t need your sympathy, bushman. But you had better keep your end of the deal. I am the only backstabber around here.”

Demo:

Can’t even stay awake long enough to play most board games.

On the rare chance that he’s sober, he, Engie, and Medic like to play Monopoly.

Here’s the thing: you should never ask a drunkard, an engineer, and a sadist genius to play Monopoly together. It will not end well.

They have been playing the same game for years, with new rules in place and physical extensions to the board in order to try and end the game. Every other Friday, they take the weekend to try and finish it.

However, it all ends up fruitless.

Demo is usually the one keeping the peace, since he is the least competitive out of the three. That isn’t to say he isn’t clawing for the win as much as the other two, but he is definitely the least invested. He’s mostly staying out of principle.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, ‘s ta ne’er give up, e’en when the goin’s gettin’ tough. Roll the dice, doc.”

Despite his confidence, he’s not even sure what he would do if he or anyone else won. It would seem more like a relief than a celebration.

Medic:

He’s the one who started the Eternal Monopoly game, which has led to some theories that the game itself came straight from hell, and is one of the many punishments used on sinners. The box does smell a bit of brimstone…

He seems to enjoy the chaos that each round brings and the challenge of coming up with new rules to the game. To any outsider, his commentary and directions are complete nonsense.

“According to zhe ‘Calvinball Rule,’ as stated by Engineer, and the ‘Double Kill,’ as stated by myself, since the current time ends vis a three and ve all received at least two kills zhis veek, ve need to double every other roll and whomever loses zhe resulting game of ‘Bim Bum’ vill have to go to zhe Purple Jail.”

The rules and mechanics are like an unholy amalgamation of Monpoly, Sorry, chess, D&D, Bluff, and poker.

However, when Medic isn’t stapling pages of rules together, he likes to play a nice, relaxing game of checkers with Heavy.

Both of them are excellent checker players, but neither of them care who wins.

In fact, they usually talk over the game, taking the other player’s pieces as one of them shares a story from that day’s battle.

They’ve even played while Heavy was in surgery - leading to many unfortunate times when Medic had to fish a piece out of Heavy’s intestines.

One would think that a genius doctor would also have a passion for chess, but he expresses his disdain for it almost every time the checker board is brought out.

“Ach, people think chess is such an intelligent sport. Let me tell you, liebling, it is terribly overrated. If zhe devil can play chess, anyvun can. He might as vell just give souls avay, vis those shaky claws of his.”

Engineer:

Being the engineer, he is usually the one to add to the Eternal Monopoly.

Pieces, board extensions, cards, trivia - it gives him a nice break from all the weaponry.

He’s usually the one who remembers all the mechanics and rules, and serves as the judge if rules contradict each other.

“Alright, now let’s see here…we’ve got the Infinity Loop over here, but now you’ve got the Time Travel card…how many years? Infinite? Ho boy…looks like I’m gonna have to add a Hilbert’s Hotel square somewhere. Hold on…”

Despite his affinity for Eternal Monopoly, Engineer will play almost any board game. He learns new rules and figures quickly, and enjoys the challenges that brings.

However, if he’s particularly burnt out, he likes to take a break by playing Jenga. He and Spy have a friendly rivalry, since Engie can tell which blocks are supporting and Spy has quick fingers.

Spy, oddly, is a lot more amiable losing in Jenga - he knows Engie won’t think less of him - but Engineer hates when the bricks fall over. Not because it means he lost, but because, to him, it’s a failure on his part…even if it was someone else that knocked it over.

He’s made several blueprints for the perfect Jenga game, but has concluded that no human hand could put it into practice.

During one particularly bad day, Engie bumped the table, causing the whole column to come crashing down. Spy had already recovered from the noise, but Engie was still standing there, stone-faced.

His eyes were covered by his goggles, but it was clear he was crying.

Several of his machines had broken on the job, and to him, this was just another egregious mistake.

Spy carefully put the blocks back in the container, and Engie came to his senses.

“I’m real sorry, Spy. Maybe another time…?”

Spy only nodded. He was thinking.

The next time they played, Spy brought out a different container.

Instead of wood, the bricks seemed to be made of a sturdy foam.

“They fall a bit more…quietly,” Spy explained. He dropped one, and it only made a small bouncing sound. “Pyro uses these, but they allowed me to borrow it.”

Engie was a bit skeptical at first, since it was a new material, but he got the hang of it rather quickly. He was almost ecstatic the first time it fell - the blocks barely made any sound at all!

After a few games, Spy had to leave for an assignment. Engie put a hand on their arm.

“Thank ya, Spy. Maybe you ain’t the cold-blooded backstabber I thought you were.”

Spy chuckled, but said little else. He didn’t want to admit that noise sensitivity plagued him as well.

Pyro:

Pyro loves board games, and has quite the collection in their room.

Each plastic piece is at least a little melted, and all the boxes have two or three scorch marks.

Hungry Hungry Hippos, Candyland, and Uno are among her favorites.

He is an absolute beast at Uno, though.

They take each game very seriously, especially when they can convince the whole team to play.

As you can imagine, it’s pure chaos - it even led to a rule in the Merc Guidebook: “When playing Uno with three or more players with the inclusion of a Pyro, at least one Mann Co. representative and/or a mediating Medic must be present.”

Pyro has been known the hide cards, bribe players, or even try to set flame to competition. Playing Uno is almost like a mission, with weapon preparation and Spy posing as other players.

The mercs even have a betting stand that Sniper runs. All parties have lost a lot of money that way.

It’s pretty much the only time outside of battle that the team remembers how cruel and malicious Pyro can be.

Sniper:

Conventional board games aren’t exactly his forté, but he does enjoy a bit of cards every once in a while - Solitaire being his favorite.

He even has a pack of cards in his Sniper Square for that exact purpose. It allows him the pass the time without having to look away from his targets too often.

On occasion, he could be pressed to play poker, but only if the stakes weren’t monetary (i.e candy pieces, crackers, duties, etc.).

His favorite part of every match is shuffling the cards. Pretty much every merc could shuffle cards, but Sniper could make them almost float with how quick his fingers and wrists moved. He always began the game with a new trick he learned, which delighted his fellow players (usually Spy, Engineer, Medic, and Demo).

You could always tell if he had a busy day because he would avoid tricks with too much movement, which would be murder on his sore fingers and hands.

Pyro is currently learning card tricks from Sniper, and show off what they learn at the beginning of every Uno game.

Heavy:

He isn’t a huge fan of the bright, plastic-y board games that Pyro has, although he will play them if asked.

It’s mostly because of how complicated the rules are and the fact there are almost never a Russian translation for the directions.

He always prefers checkers, cards, or mancala, which he almost exclusively plays with Medic because he’s the only one who speaks fluent Russian.

Heavy can play a mean game of mancala, though, and it’s the only game he can beat Medic at.

Soldier:

The only games he will play are Battleship and Uno - but only after Miss Pauling convinced him it was “American enough” because the game had red, white, and blue cards.

He prefers the electronic Battleship because of the sound effects and voices. However, if it’s out of batteries, he’ll make his own sound effects.

Miss Pauling is the best at pretending to be a commander, so she’s usually the one playing with him - but, sometimes, Demo gets in on the action, too.

[soyeahitsmiddleearth]

Killer Good Looks pt. 2

The Company/Reader

Goblin tunnels, scapegoats, and life-threatening adventures... Oh, and you're still supposed to kill these guys, hm.

Angst, Humor, Action

----

The fall from your little cozy cave down into the deep dark depths of the Goblin Tunnels was not a pleasant one, and you're almost certain that a concussion is in the makings with how many times you and your companions have smashed your heads against walls, each other, and rocks alike. 

You got lucky for the most part, and they've got pretty thick skulls so they'll be fine too. 

Once the twisting tunnels and dead-drops are done, you all lay at the bottom of some sort of cage, groaning and recovering from the shock of it all (you're fairly certain there's a period there where you're all unconscious). 

Damn it, you should've known better. 

You've known for ages about the goblins that reside in the Misty Mountains, but you, for some reason, thought you'd be safe enough with the horrible weather to make it in and out of the mountain range before they even knew you were there. 

The goblin king won't see you, will he? He won't recognize you, right? 

Yeah, so, there was a time there where you worked freelance, having no assignments from The Brotherhood or anything to do, and you caught wind that the goblins of the Misty Mountains came across something desirable. 

Something... shiny... and... possibly magical.

Your kleptomania went positively wild at the mere thought of finding something so pretty and sparkly in such a dreary and dismal place, so you set out for the Mountains, staked out around the entrances for a few days, and then snuck in and stole that 'thing'. 

The 'thing' ended up being a radiant, beautiful ring stolen from some poor traveler more than likely. Whether they wiped out the kingdom or stole it in silence is unknown to you, but you didn't really care.

You snuck in at night while countless goblins went out to hunt and enjoy the evening, and then you swiped the ring from the goblin kings finger while he slept when day came about, hid in the tunnels until night once more while he flipped out in search of it, and made your escape the following night. 

Only after you stole it did you find out that it was magical. 

It morphed to fit your finger as soon as you fit it on, and granted you some enhanced senses. 

The enhancements weren't vast or grand, but it was a very slight adjustment that helped to polish your already honed skills. 

You could hear a little better, see a bit further, and increased your 6th sense for detecting others. 

They probably went through numerous hardships to acquire such a useful item, and, now, it was all yours for free. 

That day you spent hiding away in the tunnels, waiting for night so you could escape after stealing it in the day, was boring, but also a little frightening. The way the goblin king screamed and screeched about a thief and needing to find his prize made you briefly fear for your safety, but it didn't take long for you to realize they're too dumb to spot you. 

You may not be the strongest in terms of physical strength and brute force, but your willpower and cunning got you through it almost effortlessly. And, if you did get into a physical altercation, your agility and reflexes would help you go down while taking them out with you. 

Anyways, your point it that, he may not recognize your face since he never saw you, but if he sees the ring then it's over for you. 

So, once you regain your rational thought after your daze, you slip it off your finger and shove it into one of the hidden pockets in your shirt. Who knows if he'll recognize the ring or not. 

In no time you are being hauled up to your feet and dragged away with the rest of your companions, though you are a fair bit taller than all of them so it's harder for these nasty bastards to keep you under control. 

No matter how vast or grand your skills are, you'd never be able to take on all of these guys; you're a stealth master for a reason after all. 

The lot of you are taken down a series of paths to an audience with the horrendous Goblin King, and along the way you manage to kick quite a few of those grabby little monsters down into the dark depths below. 

A minute or so passes that ends with all of you, ultimately, in front of the Goblin Kind and helpless. 

"Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?" His voice booms in front of all of you, echoing throughout the caves, "Spies? Thieves? Assassins?” 

Something like that. 

You are, technically, all three, but none of you are there for him.

One of the small, ugly creatures steps forward and informs him of who you all are,  "Dwarfs and a human, your Malevolence." 

His face morphs into one of disgust and he practically spits out, "Dwarfs?" 

"We found them on the front porch." The lacky confirms. 

“Well, don’t just stand there; search them! Every crack, every crevice.” He cries, slamming his fist down which makes the wood tremble beneath all of you. 

A bunch of words are traded and the Great Goblin exposes his knowledge about Thorin and the fact that his greatest enemy, Azog the Defiler, is still alive and kicking. 

“Send word to the Pale Orc; tell him I have found his prize.” A twisted smile takes over his huge face and causes that skin beard to shift, a disgustingly entrancing movement, and he looks down at the searching goblins expectantly. 

You've had a 3 of your knives tossed aside and your short sword has been stolen, but you're happy to report that some of your hidden weapons and the stolen goods are still hidden. 

Suddenly, one of the goblins loses it's head and throws something in front of the group, screeching and screaming with horror. 

The Great Goblin recoils and he hisses out fearfully, "I know that sword! It is the Goblin-Cleaver, the Biter, the blade that sliced a thousand necks." 

Whips and nails, teeth and palms, the dwarfs are abused with every limb, weapon, and thing possible, and before you can even think on it, your voice demands the attention of them all. 

"Wait!" 

Silence, stillness, attention. 

God, you hate it. 

You slip the ring from your pocket and onto your finger and take a step forward unobstructed from the enraged goblins, slightly nervous but blank in expression. 

"I cannot hide it anymore. Every second that passes weighs on my soul, for the desire to be recognized for my deeds is too strong." 

"Speak your piece, human, what do you want?" 

You raise your ringed hand and brandish the smooth metal off to him, "Do you recognize this? The ring I so cleverly stole from you all those months ago?" 

"M-My ring!" He bellows, taking a step forward, "How- You thief! You were the one who stole from me? You?!" 

You say nothing at first and betray no emotion in your face, lowering your hand back to your side. When you do speak, you push arrogance into your voice, "I took it while you indulged yourself in sleep, and then I hid right under your nose for an entire day, holding my prize and listening to your whining and petulant screams." The insults are all well aimed and meant to enrage him, for you're hoping to take his attention off of the dwarfs before he can have them all killed. "If I had known you were so pathetic and slow-witted, I would have taken it during the night and saved myself the time." 

Someone calls your name, Thorin, and he hisses with confusion, "What are you doing?" 

You ignore him. 

If he weren't so pale and colorless he would've been red with anger at your taunting words. The Great Goblin is seething and spitting, his huge, clawed hands clenched into fists as he tries to form a coherent thought. 

"You dare speak down to me? You will be punished!" He cries, pointing a long nailed finger at you, "Cut the ring from those thieving hands, and then take those hands as well!" 

Your expression shifts when you're shoved forward and onto the ground on your hands and knees, taking on a more defiant look despite the hint of fear in your eyes. 

It's not like you want them to cut off your hands, you kind of need those, but you're fairly confident that this groups luck will strike once again and save you from a life of picking things up with your feet and wrists (if they don't kill you, that is).

"No!" Someone yells from the group of dwarfs and goblins, followed by shouts and calls from others as well. 

Unfortunately, the roaring in your ears is too loud for you to make out individual voices, but it's nice that they aren't apathetic towards your fate. 

Before you know it you're being shoved face-first into the ground and your arms are being wrenched out from beneath you, stretched out and poised for being cut off. Your finger with the ring on it is pulled from your fist, and when you glance up, you see a sword poised above the head of a goblin, ready to relieve you of your hand. 

There's lots of screaming and yelling, and at some point you squeeze your eyes shut since you're no longer confident in your assessment that you'll be saved in the nick of time.

Finally, right when your fate is about to finally be sealed, a bright light blinds you all and renders the goblins immobilized momentarily. 

Gandalf the Gray stands there with his powerful staff in hand and an aura of white surrounding him, meanwhile you all just stare in awe. 

“Take up arms. Fight. Fight!” He demands, slamming his staff on the ground which shakes your very souls. 

You, and everyone else, require no more prompting. 

In one swift movement you roll back onto your feet and steal the discarded sword aimed to take your hands, and then you jump right into the action. 

You and the entirety of the group make a swift and action packed escape where you spend the majority of your time protecting the Durin's, sticking close to them and keeping the goblins away. 

Everything passes by in a blur of limbs, blood, and violence, and it isn't until you've killed the Great Goblin and escaped back out into the light of the soon setting sun that you have a moment to breathe and think about all the things that just took place. 

It's at this time that everyone finishes running and takes a moment to catch their breath that you all realize Bilbo is missing, and you immediately curse yourself for not keeping a closer eye on him. 

A couple of the dwarfs begin to blame each other and there's some mumbling amongst themselves, but Thorin has another idea entirely about what really happened. 

"I’ll tell you what happened. Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door! We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone." 

You purse your lips but say nothing despite your disagreement with his words; arguing with the people 'paying you' isn't the brightest idea, so it's better to just keep your mouth shut. 

And then, quite the peculiar thing, said hobbit steps out from behind a tree and states matter-of-factly, "No, he isn't." 

There is varying amounts of surprise and shock that wash throughout all of your expressions. Hell, your eyes even widen slightly when he appears so suddenly. How did you not notice him even with your ring on?

"Bilbo Baggins! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!” The gray wizard exclaims with a grand smile on his wrinkling face. 

Kili speaks next, informing the little hobbit that there was little hope surrounding him. "Bilbo, we'd given you up!" 

"How on earth did you get past the goblins?!" Fili wonders.

"How indeed..." Dwalin sounds suspicious almost when he repeats Fili's question, but you're entirely worried about something else. 

"Are you alright, Bilbo?" You chime in before he can explain himself, stepping closer to give him a quick once over. 

You were hired to protect the Durin's, but you need all of them to get access to that mountain with ease.

Or, at least, that's what you tell yourself. 

The hobbit looks up at you and offers a slightly nervous smile, "I am fine. Just a few bumps and bruises." 

"I want to know...," Thorin's voice breaks through your conversation as he asks, "Why did you come back?"

A quick moment of silence passes as you look down at your feet and listen carefully, actually a bit curious yourself.

It isn't like you couldn't do his part of the job for him, though your assignment is something else entirely, and he expressed his desire to leave right before you were all kidnapped by the goblins... so why would he come back?

"Look, I know you doubt me, I know you always have," Bilbo begins with a slightly grim face, "And you’re right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden..." He trails off as a faraway look momentarily blurs his vision, probably imagining what he could be doing at home right now, and you all watch and listen carefully. "See, that’s where I belong. That’s home. And that’s why I came back, cause you don’t have one - a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

Your eyebrows furrow together when he finishes speaking his piece, because his words are... greatly troubling. 

He was ready to leave it all behind before, mere seconds away from leaving back towards The Shire and Bag End, but here he is now. He came back because he genuinely wants to help; he wants them to reclaim their home and find their wandering origins. 

Everyone is silent as they think over the words Bilbo speaks, and while it awes most of them, you only feel more bothered. 

Such a kind hobbit who you may likely need to kill. 

"That's foolish." You find yourself saying that before you can even think about it, something that's been happening too often for your liking. 

You get several shocked looks, hell, you're shocked yourself, but you don't take back your statement. 

Where did this disdain come from all of a sudden? This disdain not towards the kind hearted hobbit, but towards yourself?

"You are not the person to be calling the actions of our Master Burglar, foolish." Gandalf scolds, eyeing you with a pointed look. "I know your taunting and teasing towards the Goblin King was no accident or arrogance driven necessity. And I also know that you could have easily broken yourself free before harm befell upon you. I brought you along to do a job, and do this job you have - much too well. I thank you for the distraction, but your methods may have proved to be a mistake had I not arrived on time." 

You look back at the gray wizard with an unwavering stare, eyes slightly narrowed as you attempt to glare him into submission; only, he doesn't relent and stares right back at you. 

"You came in time." A weak defense.

"And if I hadn't?" He asks, voice raising slightly. Gandalf doesn't much like backtalk. "How far would you have taken it? Were you going to allow them to take your hands? To cut that trinket from your finger?" 

This time you hesitate in replying, something akin to a pout tugging at your lips. "Of course not. I had faith that you would come, and you did...," you trail off, then add begrudgingly, "And if you hadn't, then I could have escaped quite easily." 

Another silence filled by the two big egos facing off against each other. 

Gandalf's ego wins, unfortunately. 

You relent and look away, catching the troubled gazes of Fili and Kili. 

Did your actions really bother them that much?

"Well what do you suppose I should do? Let them harm you all?" You wouldn't let that happen. 

That thought that lingers behind your words makes your eyebrows knit together in confusion once again, and your gaze wanders away once more.

Now that you think about it, why did you do it? I mean, why did you really do it? 

You knew they weren't actually going to die just like that, he's too scared of the pale orc to do that, but you did it anyways. The possibility of harm befalling upon these dwarfs actually... affected you.

Gandalf pauses and observes you carefully, then realization sparkles in those infuriatingly wise eyes of his. 

"Well, no matter. I did not mean to scold you, for you are a very capable person, so I thank you for doing your job well and diligently." He lets those words hang in the air for a time, then he moves on, "Now, we must discuss where we are and where we must go." 

"I say-" Thorin begins, only to be cut off by howls and the sound of a gravely voice speaking in another language. "Out of the frying pan..." He sighs with a weary face. 

"And into the fire! Run! Run!!" The gray wizard snaps.

You all begin your hasty retreat down the mountain, and at some point the sun begins to set. 

The sky turns all sorts of vibrant shades of orange, blue, and red, and the light delicately kisses the peaks of each tree, mountain top, and surface. The air smells fresh, as it usually does following a hard rain, and the grass and leaves glisten healthy because of the drink offered to them by the sky. It's a magnificent sight to behold, but none of you are able to appreciate it, for the beauty of nature is being darkened and tainted by the evil intent and fear. 

Those nasty wargs chase you all down like prey, maybe that's exactly what you are, meanwhile your feet take you as far away and as quickly as they can. 

You jog behind the two youngest Durin's, being as Thorin takes the lead as per usual, and keep a slow enough pace to avoid taking over them (they're not the fastest group of dwarfs, after all). You can't have them becoming warg food when you still need them to get you into that mountain...

"Pick up your feet more when you run!" You command, glancing behind you briefly to gauge just how close those bastards are. 

They heed your advice and end up running just a bit faster, something that relieves you somewhat.  

The land begins to thin out and the ground you run on narrows, thus forcing all of you onto a cliff filled with trees and a precipice topped with a leaning tree. 

“Up into the trees, all of you! Come on, climb! Bilbo, climb!” Gandalf demands, jumping up to grab one of the low hanging branches and pulling himself up. 

You stay planted firmly in place and wait for everyone to find a spot in a tree and climb to safety, and while everyone else, even Bombur, finds somewhere to avoid the bloodthirsty wargs, Bilbo is still running for the tree line. 

A frustrated curse passes through your gritted teeth, but you waste no time in rushing forward and yanking Bilbo away from the jaws of an awaiting warg. You foot shoots up and crashes into the side of its face, successfully knocking it off course since you nailed it in the eye which gives you two enough time to sort things out. 

"Quickly!" You hiss, leaning crouching down with your hands clasped in front of you, "I can boost you up, but you mustn't waste anymore time!" 

The little hobbit nods his head and steps his big right foot into your awaiting hands, and, once he's secured, you launch him up and into the awaiting low hanging branches. 

"Y/N!" Fili screams from above you, panic lining his voice. 

Your gaze snaps forward just in time to see sharp teeth and brown fur, but right before those razor teeth can sink into the soft flesh of your neck, a rock comes sailing through the sky and nails the nasty beast right in the nose. 

It whimpers and jerks its head off to the side, but you don't waste anymore time in watching it freak out and instead roll around to the other side of the tree and jump up to grab a branch and pull yourself further up so they can't get your feet. 

You reach up to grasp another branch, but someone catches your hand instead and easily hauls you into another layer of the tree. 

"I've got you." It's Dwalin, and he doesn't let go of your hand right away until you're secure. 

"Thank you." You dip your head after voicing your thanks then do a quick once-over to make sure everyone is safe in the trees, only, you don't get the chance to finish that before those wild dogs begin to rip at the roots holding the strong pines into place. 

One by one do each of the trees begin to lean and fall, creating a domino affect that forces all of you to hang vicariously over the edge of the cliffside. 

A quick glance down shows you the imminent death that awaits you below, and, for the first time since this chase began, you fear for your and everyone else's lives. 

"Catch!" Kili yells to you, tossing a flaming pinecone your way. 

Where did they get flaming pinecones? 

Gandalf of course, you should've known even before you looked up. 

You turn your attention ahead once more and pull your arm back, poised to throw the pinecone with all your might, only to stop mid-swing when something, or rather, someone, gets in your way. 

Thorin Oakenshield stands on the trunk of the sinking tree with his weight distributed to maintain balance, and just ahead is Azog the Defiler, staring him down with an arrogant, sick smile. 

Oh Jesus... this dwarf sure doesn't make your job easy. 

You throw the pinecone since the flames began to lick at your gloved fingers and move to stand up, but the branch you sit upon cracks and creaks, groaning under the sudden movement. 

Shit.

If he dies the dwarfs may give up on the entire journey altogether and decide to leave the mountain alone, and then where will that leave you?

You don't even want to think about it. 

Another attempt is made to pull yourself up onto the thick trunk, but this time the entire branch cracks and breaks, falling out from beneath you as it hangs by the sparsely attached strings of ripped apart wood. 

You just barely manage to throw yourself into the trunk and hang off the side, feet dangling in open air with nothing to leverage yourself with.

Panic blooms in your chest as you completely loose control over the situation, unable to even swing your legs up because of the way your arms can't completely wrap around the trunk. 

"No!" Dwalin screams just above you, catching your attention briefly despite your panic. 

You look over to the side and see that Thorin has lost his fight against the pale orc. He lays on the ground, unmoving and defeated as another one of Azog's companions raise its' weapon above its' head to kill the dwarf king. 

"Damn it!" You hiss helplessly, pawing uselessly around the rough bark in search of any sort of leg up. "Thorin!" 

This is it. They're going to kill him and all of you are going to fall to your deaths, soaring through the sky for a brief time before you become nothing more than bloody splatters on the ground below. 

The sound of metal hitting metal and the clashing of weapons draws your ear as you begin to slip further down the circumference of the trunk, but you can't even turn to look because there's nothing left for you to do. 

The rest of your body drags your arms from around the tree and, in a last ditch effort to avoid the drop, you grasp the broken, hanging branch. 

It snaps of as soon as your weight yanks it down, and then... you're free falling. 

Someone screams your name (is that Bofur?) but you don't do anything. 

You don't writhe or scream; you don't flail your arms or cry; you just stare up at the horror stricken faces and your partners in falling (Dori and Ori) as numbness overtakes your whole body. 

Yes, your stomach drops as the feeling of falling sickens you, but in your heart, in your soul, you feel nothing. 

It's not like you've led a particularly good life or anything, but still, you don't want to die. Even if there is nothing for you, no one that cares, you still don't want to go; because once you're dead, the only thing anyone will remember you as is a ruthless monster, a puppet of The Brotherhood. 

You don't want to die. 

Maybe you should've rejected the job in the first place; maybe you should've made better designs in general; maybe you should've allowed yourself to let those foolish dwarfs and sweet hobbit close if to just feel a moment of belonging. 

Little do you know, all of these thoughts will prove to complicate your mission further, because this is, in fact, not the end. 

One moment you're falling to your death while having an existential crisis, and the next you're being snatched out of the sky by one of the Great Eagles.

[subukunojess]

On The Edge of Living (Ch 1)

Archive of Our Own / DeviantArt / FanFiction

Fandom: Beetlejuice the Musical

Word Count: 5,511

Content Warnings/Awareness: Death, Blood, Possible Gore, Mentions of Abuse, Smoking, Suicidal Themes, Giant, Tiny, G/T, People, objects, and animals are getting eaten, Vore (don’t know whether to tag it as such), Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Found Family, Friendship, just everything is wild.

Pairings: Charles/Delia, Past Charles/Emily, hints of Beetlelands, hints of Lydia/OC

Summary: AU. Lydia Deetz knew her life would turn upside down when she moved to a supposed haunted house with her father and life coach. What she didn’t expect were two actual ghosts living in her attic or being cursed to be bound to a demon sealed in some ancient spell book.With a growing emotional demon by her side and the afterlife betting on their future, Lydia will travel from Hell and back to break the curse and find out where she belongs… if her new town doesn’t end up being rampaged first.

Here’s my entry for the Beetlejuice Big Bang!

This was a surprise project I decided to take on when I saw it on my dash and I wanted to challenge myself writing with word count in mind. I knew I wanted to write a Beetlejuice AU with a tiny Lydia and a giant Beetlejuice, so I worked from there. I also wanted to challenge myself by planning and organizing my story ahead rather than take it chapter by chapter. Although it’s been difficult, I managed to pass the required 10 K mark and plan out the gist of my story. As of now, I have the chapters figure out and I have at least 20 K, but at the moment I have three completed chapters. I hope to work on the fic during my free time. 

Thank you, @beetlejuicebigbang for giving me the opportunity to do this! Without further delay, here’s the first chapter of my fic:

Chapter 1: The Curse Begins

In life, people say that only death is certain. For the afterlife? Eternity, any suffering of some kind, and the places the dead end up. Depending on the soul and the circumstances of someone's death, a person could be sent to a variety of realms. There were different versions of Heaven, Hell, Limbo, and in some cases, a holiday world. This tale in particular resides in the living realm, Hell, and the Netherworld.

There were two major details that the living didn't know about the afterlife. The first one was that the Netherworld was like a creepy airport for the recently deceased, only that it was really a dark abyss that led to who knows where with no way of telling where anyone would end up.

The second thing? Demons are really huge compared to humans, dead or alive. In the living realm, they blended with humans physically to make situations easier. But in Hell? A demon's true height could range between seven feet to hundreds of feet tall. And Hell wasn't just a cavern of fire and brimstone either. It was the dark, grimy underworld of a city where slum lords lurked in the alleys and the air was polluted with a fiery, red haze. It was nine circles of everlasting torture ruled by cardinal sins and vices. And for a certain demon who spent most of her afterlife in the Netherworld, it was an empty and bleak waiting room in a large office building with the walls decaying and the air smelling of burnt socks.

Juno Shoggoth scowled as her heels clacked against the tiles of the hallway, walking to the waiting room while trying not to hunch over as usual. Once she had signed in with the receptionist, she took her seat and briefly pulled the cigarette out from her lips, letting the smoke ooze out from the slit on her neck.

"Why did he have to call a meeting now of all times?" Juno hissed, crossing her legs. "Doesn't he know my work schedule in general?"

As director of Netherworld Customs and Processing, it was her job to make sure that the transition from life to the afterlife went smoothly for the dead. Sure, the work was tedious and the woman would rather smoke for eternity than deal with tiny annoyances, but she was assigned to the position not by choice. She literally and figuratively grew from a civil servant spirit to a powerful demon overnight; one of her proudest achievements she had to admit.

Her biggest mistake was Lawrence.

Lawrence Betelgeuse Shoggoth. Just thinking about his name made her blow another smoke ring and want a shot of alcohol. Like most other demons who were born dead rather than turned into one, Betelgeuse appeared after Juno had affairs with a demon and the demon left. She didn't like children to begin with, let alone raising something that acted like one. Regardless, she didn't have a choice either when a dead-born was involved. Dead-borns were powerful shifters with abilities no one dared imagine and capable of changing their size more smoothly than regular demons, hence the curses placed on them and the mandatory supervision. If every realm in existence turned upside down and the blame traced back to Juno, she would never hear the end of it.

"Lucifer is ready for you now, Miss Juno!" The receptionist's shrill, but deep shriek interrupted her train of thought.

"It's about damn time." Juno muttered under her breath as she threw her cigarette away and stood up. A red line of energy was drawn in front of the demon out of nowhere before splitting in two and opening as a doorway to Lucifer's office. She walked through the portal, the line disappearing as soon as she entered the room. Although she got used to the afterlife, Juno would admit that she didn't know whether it was a relief or unnerving that the room was a typical office one would expect a boss to reside in with a chair and desk, save for the hazy landscape of hell on the other side of the window in front of her. At this point, she didn't even bother wondering.

"Have a seat, Juno." A deep, gruff voice commanded from a leather swivel chair in a calm tone, causing a slight echo in the room. Juno sat on the wooden chair without fanfare, glaring at the window.

The ruler of Hell was arguably the most massive demon ever known, probably rivaled by Leviathan if they got into a mood. Big horns? Monstrous? Usually dwelled at the very bottom of Hell? Most of the rumors were true along with the fact that everybody knew not to mess with him unless they had a wish worse than death. Despite such knowledge, Lucifer appeared from the swivel chair on the other side of the desk, much smaller than normal and dressed for business. A simple black suit and dark red tie with golden cuff links. Dark grey medium length hair with large twisted horns of ivory adorned on top of it. Yellow eyes with pupils akin to a goat's narrowed as he fixed his collar and cleared his throat.

"I have a feeling you know the reason why I called you here." Lucifer stated, raising an eyebrow. Juno returned the action.

"You usually don't call me unless A) you’re redesigning the Netherworld in some way or B) Beetlejuice is involved. Something tells me it's the latter."

"Come on, Juno. Don't sound like I keep calling you because of that! You're a good worker. No nonsense. Telling it like it is while sorting out the souls. You're one of the few demons I could tolerate." When Juno didn't respond, the ruler of Hell continued.

"I just wanted to discuss what our plans are for Lawrence in the future, that's all." Lucifer shrugged. "Just to prevent repeated offenses from happening. Despite his... flaws, your son still has potential. Deceit. Torture. Power that some dead-borns don't have. I wanted him to become an official exorcist demon, but you insisted on having him as a Netherworld guide instead, even though he hasn't done it properly in centuries!" He brought a fist down onto the desk, the whole room seeming to tremble at the action.

"With all due respect, sir, we cannot give any more power and ego than the fool believes he has." Juno hissed as she pinched the bridge of her nose briefly. "If we do, both the Netherworld and Hell would be in shambles. And I believe you just want him to annoy one of your own headaches."

At that, both demons glared at each other and crossed their arms as they leaned forward. They stared at each other down for a while until Lucifer pulled back up with a sigh.

"... You're smarter than I thought." Ignoring the woman's tiny smirk of victory, Lucifer turned his back to her as he stared at the hazy city before him.

"You're not wrong. You got Lawrence and the Recently Deceased, I got the souls of the damned and the other cardinal leaders bothering me. Beelzebub especially. Always gloating that he's more powerful and mainstream than the rest. I figured that if he's with someone just as annoying as him, he'll settle down and we both get them out of our businesses for at least a decade or two. Maybe a century if we're lucky."

Juno scoffed. "That's going to be a problem since I banished mine to the world of the living."

"And how's that going for you?" Lucifer glanced back at the director, almost knowingly. "Knowing him, he'll find a way back to the dead. He always does."

“I can assure you that Lawrence is stuck at the surface with the living and suffering for it.”

Meanwhile in one of the several downtown areas of Hell, something was going down on one of the top floors of a ten-floor apartment.

In front of the building was a black Mercedes Benz with a fly painted on the hood, idle as the driver waited for someone. Inside the car, black sharp nails drummed against the wheel at a scattered and quick pace while the owner of said nails exhaled a buzzing breath.

“Why is he taking so long? There won't be much time left!” The driver growled in a high baritone voice that sounded as if it were melting like butter. His unruly, spiky orange hair seemed to hover over his pointed ears as his bright orange eyes narrowed at nothing specific on the street. He was tall, had dark tan skin, and a bit chubby around the edges with a pot belly held back by a sleeveless maroon shirt and ripped black jeans. The large fly wings on his back hummed against the seat, almost impatient. It was supposed to be a quick stop of supplies and nothing else. What was going on in there?

Just then, there were some muffled shouts until someone burst out through the front door lugging an overfilled burlap sack over their shoulder. The demon was a bit more than five and a half feet tall with golden eyes, pale skin, and wild green hair along with some yellow strands popping out. They wore a dusty dark grey coat over their black and white striped suit and green tie.

They then exclaimed in a masculine, gravelly voice as they scrambled into the front passenger seat, "Step on it, Bee!"

"It's about time!" The orange-haired demon groaned in relief as he slammed the accelerator and the car sped off, causing the other to almost fly out to the backseat, but he held on.

“What took you so long, Beetlejuice?! I’ve been waiting here for decades! Did ya get everything?” Bee inquired with a smile.

Beetlejuice chuckled and nudged an elbow to Bee, “It hasn’t been that long and you know it, Beelzebub. I should know; I’ve been waiting for centuries. And it isn’t my fault this time! A couple o' demons were late, some of the items were wrong, and I kinda-sorta pissed some of the demons off with a femur. Don't ask."

“Damn… my bad. We wouldn’t have taken this detour if dear old Satan and the rest of my ‘family’ didn’t seal some of my powers away! You take over a few séances and possess a large group of people for three weeks and suddenly, you’re the bad guy!” Bee snarled and shook his head before making a sharp left turn at an alley once he saw some shadows at his rear-view mirror.

“I know, right?” Beetlejuice scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Sounds just like my mom. ‘Beebleboose, stop bothering the recently deceased and get a job!’”

Beelzebub laughed as he elbowed the dead-born demon, the yellow colors fading back to green. “See? We get each other, BJ! The only other demon who gets me would be my twin, but he’s more about locking his stash away and never using it. Not us. We gluttons know how to have a good time! Why don’t you move down here for the rest of eternity? We could be neighbors, roommates even!”

"As much as eternal suffering sounds awesome, it kinda loses its touch after a while, ya know?" Beetlejuice leaned back in his seat. "Doesn't it get boring torturing and killing souls over and over and they always come back? It's gettin' to a point where everyone expects it. I just wanna get out and have my kind of fun for a change! I wanna be with the living! I don’t want anyone or anything tying me down ever again."

"I hear ya, Ant-Wine. There's just something about the living that's so damn addicting. And I ain't just talking about tastes either! Why do you think I keep risking my existence for the biggest gluttons out there? And what's your job on the surface again? It sounds hilarious!"

"A bio-exorcist. Y'know how the living try to take out demons? I, a demon, take out the living for the dead." Beetlejuice jerked a thumb to his own chest with pride, then shrugged after thinking about it. “Granted, I can’t affect the living and I’m getting ghosts to make the living say my name, but it’s a good gig.”

“Well, ya don’t need to worry about that anymore once we get to the spot!” Bee assured him as he checked to see if anything else were following them, then sighing when they were in the clear. “I got some of my followers on the surface getting themselves into position. When we get there, I possess the leader, say your name three times, and we both get summoned into the land of the living. We scare and eat as much as we want, grow as we please, and we split the world and possibly the universe fifty-fifty!”

“Eighty-twenty.” Beetlejuice challenged.

“Seventy-thirty.”

“Sixty-forty, plus I get a Broadway musical and say-so on the merch!” The green-haired demon pointed finger guns at the other while winking.  

“Deal!” Both demons shook on it.

“Ay dios mio, is that what you were planning all this time?!” A tiny, muffled voice squeaked all of a sudden that almost made the two demons jump. Hearing the source near him, Beetlejuice blinked and glanced down at one of his shirt pockets. He reached to open it when a small head poked out of the pocket. A blueish-green head with long red hair that Beetlejuice recognized from anywhere.

"Teresa?! What are you doing here?" He exclaimed as he almost fell backwards in his seat. The woman in question stood up from her spot in the pocket and lifted her arm to point up at him.

"I could ask you the same thing, mi canalla! Here I am, riding and sliding in your pocket instead of taking my well-earned, once-in-a-death time break! Do you know how much paperwork I needed to file to get it approved?!" Teresa scolded while almost ripping strands of her own hair out, then sighed as she pinched her forehead and muttered in Spanish briefly. "I saw you leaving the Netherworld and I got worried, so I followed you and hid in here while you shifted."

At that, the dead-born demon scowled and crossed his arms. "There's nothin' ta worry about. I'm fine on my own!"

Beelzebub glanced from the wheel to see the tiny spirit and gave a slight smirk, reaching to poke her with his pointer finger. "Huh... So your guardian ghost is Miss Argentina?" At that, Teresa snapped her fingers and pushed the large appendage away.

"That's Miss Teresa Maria Argentina to you, buster! No touching!"  She craned her head up to the giant that carried her. “Who does this guy think he is, anyway?”

“This guy is the demon prince of Gluttony.”

Teresa scoffed, then did a double take and stared at Bee again. "Huh. Not what I expected for the king of all pigs."

"La adulación la llevará a todas partes, Señorita. And there's more to gluttony than just eating." The demon crooned, focusing back onto the street. “We’re in the age of excess, honey, and you’re a part of it whether you like it or not.”

“Oh no, I’m not going to be in your little scheme of yours! Which, by the way, will backfire!” Miss Argentina pointed out before crossing her arms in disapproval.

“You can come to the land of the living with us?” Beetlejuice offered with a grin. Before Teresa could reply, both she and the dead-born jolted forward when Beelzebub suddenly on the brakes. The three looked out the window to see an entire row of demons barricading the street. Some demons had motorcycles and their own cars while others stood with their hulking bodies alone. All of them came in different shapes and sizes. A particular demon who looked more like a chubby dragon in form stepped forward from the crow of angry demons.

“Beetlejuice, we got ya surrounded! Come outta the glutton's car. We just need ta talk!” The dragon demon bellowed with a brash voice.

Beetlejuice let out a laugh, his hair turning a bit yellow at the tips as he opened his window and waved. "Heeeeeey, Rosco! How's the femur?" A growl and glare was his only reply.

"Go on ahead! I'll see if I could blow these guys off and contact Mintaka to back us up! I'll catch up with you two when I can." Beelzebub ordered. Without waiting for an answer, he revved up his engine and made a sharp 180 turn. Magma spewed from between the wheels and created a large wave of molten rock, causing the line of demons to scramble away from it.

“Now!” Beelzebub shouted as Beetlejuice's door opened by itself. The ghost didn't need to be told twice. He flew out of the car and landed on his feet before he ran into a nearby alleyway. A few demons and imps who had avoided the magma followed him.

Teresa clung to the edge of the shirt pocket for dear afterlife as her giant mode of transportation moved quickly. Yes, she was dead, but that didn't mean she was immune to pain. It was also a force of habit.

Beetlejuice cursed at himself. It would've been much easier if he were at the surface and he could just teleport himself away. He didn't have that luxury in Hell. Seeing a wired fence up ahead, he had a plan. He pulled at his hair three times as if grabbing something, then he seemed to throw something invisible to his pursuers. All of a sudden, three clones of himself appeared in front of the demons, blocking them from their path as he leapt onto the fence and clambered up to the other side.

"Damn that rat!" One imp exclaimed in frustration. Beetlejuice smirked and continued moving. After a while, he came across an open clearing and an entrance to a burning park covered in glowing stalagmites. They were close to the summoning spot. The ghost with the most cheered, jumping into the air and pumping his fist. Nothing could ruin his moment! He took a few steps forward...

... only to get tackled by a large dust cloud consisting of Rosco and Beelzebub clawing and gnawing at each other. Beetlejuice snarled as his nails and fangs sharpened, trying to push both demons off of him while biting and scratching anyone who came too close. Teresa ducked down to the safety of the shirt pocket, questioning her afterlife choices. The ball of fighting seemed to stop when both Beetlejuice and Beelzebub grabbed Rosco by the shoulders and slammed him to the side of a building.

"Ha!" The two demons exclaimed in victory. The impact was so great, it caused the building to break in half and topple over, hitting the building next door. And the one after that. And the one after that. Soon, there was a giant building version of dominoes falling one by one until it stopped at a particular office building where two demons were having a meeting.

"BETELGEUSE/BEELZEBUB!" Two voices roared suddenly, echoing all over Hell and possibly the Netherworld as well. Both demons in question stood up straight, let go of the dragon demon, and winced in unison.

"Oh crap."

Before either of them knew it, the two demons and the spirit found themselves in Lucifer's domain, tensed and unaware of what would transpire. As Bee got dragged away in chains, Beetlejuice stood in the middle of the hallway and averted his eyes from Juno's sight, his hair and outfit turning a gloomy violet as his wrists shifted from the handcuffs behind him. Teresa stood on the director's shoulder, not saying a word.

"Why doesn't this surprise me one bit?" Juno stated calmly, only to shriek when Beetlejuice opened his mouth to speak. "You damn fool! You couldn't give me just one year of peace without screwing it up!"

"But mom-!"

"BUT NOTHING! I'll deal with you later." Juno raised the palm of her hand, causing Beeltejuice to stumble backwards and freeze. Without delay, she then took out a piece of chalk from her hair and drew a tiny door on the nearby wall. She knocked on the door three times with her pinky and the door opened up to reveal green mist. She then aligned herself so the ghost on her shoulder was in front of the entrance.

"I take it you enjoyed your relaxing break?” Juno asked in a saccharine tone. Not waiting for an answer, she exclaimed. “Now get back to work! We just got a bus load of casino gamblers who are probably going to fight with the football players and do who knows what. And no word of what you saw here to the others, understand?”

"Yes, ma'am." Teresa nodded as she held herself while trying to look as professional as possible. She strutted to the door, but stopped just as she was about to enter. She turned her head to look back at Beetlejuice who tried not to make eye contact with her. With a sympathetic frown, she gave a slight wave and made her exit, the door shutting behind her. Beetlejuice looked to the door and sighed, only to yelp when his handcuffs tugged him forward.

“Come on, Lawrence. Satan’s waiting for you.” Juno ordered, walking ahead past her son. She beckoned her finger and the handcuffs tugged again, forcing Beetlejuice to follow her. They went down the hallway and entered the last room which was filled to the brim with demons and imps like a courtroom. Most of them were either involved with recent events or were nearby. There were conversations between their groups until the Shoggoths entered the room, causing the room to become silent.

Juno took Beetlejuice to the front of the stand where the Cardinal Council sat in tall podiums waiting for him. The Cardinal Council consisted of powerful demons who embodied the seven main cardinal sins known to humans. Belphegor of Sloth was dozing off in his seat. Leviathan of Envy was writing a few notes to themselves. Asmodeus of Lust brushed his pink long locks with a comb and some help with a breeze he summoned. Mammon of Greed fidgeted with his coins like always. Beelzebub of Gluttony managed a subtle wave to the dead-born. Last but not least, Lucifer stood at the tallest podium. Despite popular belief, he had the honor of having both Pride and Wrath in his repertoire. Nothing changed about him except that he had more fur and goat features at the moment. Beetlejuice took his place in front of the council, but felt the force from his mother staying with him. Once everyone was accounted for, Lucifer cleared his throat and drummed his claws on the podium.

“Out of all the dead-borns we have in Hell and all over, you have got to be the most stubborn pain in the ass I ever met.” He started, glaring down at the dead-born.

"Lucy, hey! How ya doin'? Your horns look extra-curly today." Beetlejuice casually greeted with a wink.

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Lawrence." The goat demon deadpanned. Beetlejuice felt his handcuffs tugging him back and he glanced to see his mother's disapproving frown. Swallowing the negativity for now, he returned his attention to the one in charge.

"C'mon, Lucifer. Let's talk demon to demon, huh? Sure, I snuck down here to hang out with one of the most powerful demons in Hell and destroyed a few things, but what demon hasn't?" The ghost with the most laughed and shrugged. "Besides, it's not like the first few times I messed up here."

“Oh, where do I begin with that?” Lucifer asked in a sardonic tone before he pulled out a large scroll from behind his back and unraveled it. The paper dropped on the ground and continued to roll onto the ground, stretching out of the room and seeming to continue rolling. Yellow strands of hair started to appear on Beetlejuice’s head.

“Surely, you must be exaggerating!” An imp who stood below the podium exclaimed in disbelief, leaning over to read the long scroll.

“This is Beetlejuice we’re talking about. Am I? Let’s read a few random ones, shall we?” The ruler of Hell took out a pair of eyeglasses and placed them on before skimming to a random spot on the list. “There was the time that he and another dead-born managed to freeze all of Hell for a while because, and I quote, ‘We need to have a snow day’.”

"We really needed one!" Beetlejuice shot back in defense. "I've seen breathers enjoy those all the time and Mint owed me one!"

Lucifer chose not to answer as he continued, "You let all the hellhounds loose and insisted that Cerberus should go on a 'play-date'."

"Hey, what Spot and I have is something special! They and Sandy would get along great eating souls and all."

"They are MY pet!"

"Eh... you say 'pet', I say 'furry and fun three-headed acquaintance'."

"And let's not forget the 'food' incident when you somehow managed to make the Netherworld smell like coconut, Hell smell like guacamole, and nearly consumed a hundred souls assigned to a specific place in Hell!" Nearly every demonic being in the room shuddered at the memory.

At the last offense, Beetlejuice shuddered as he nodded in agreement. "Okay, now that was a mistake I will never do again. The last time I would ever make anything in the Lust district. We'll leave it at that! No offense, Azzy."

"None taken." Asmodeus muttered from his seat, not knowing whether to bleach the memory from his brain or keep it.

"The point is you've been causing trouble both here and the Netherworld for centuries despite your curse and I'm at my limit for the last time!" Lucifer sneered, rolling the scroll of crimes back up and making it disappear.

The demons, imps, and four members of the Cardinal Council talked amongst themselves. No doubt they were talking about Beetlejuice and how annoying he was. Beelzebub raised his hand.

"Hey, Satan. It was my idea in the first place. B-Juice was just going along with it. Can't we just lock him outta Hell for a while and curse me instead?" The demon of Gluttony offered. The demon of Pride and Wrath glared at him.

"Oh look at you, trying to act all noble!" Lucifer's voice went up a pitch as he clasped his hands in mockery before he dropped the act and adjusted his glasses with a frown, earning a glare from Bee. "Don't play cute with me. He'll just somehow come here and you two will cause mayhem again!"

"You took the words right out of my mouth." Juno commented drily. The mutters and clamor resumed until Lucifer smacked the side of the podium with his tail hard, causing the room to be silent.  

"What we need is a more... proper punishment. A curse that'll make sure you get the message through that thick skull of yours." With a wave of his wrist, a hefty folder of papers stamped with Beetlejuice's name on it appeared on the podium. Lucifer then started skimming through the file. This continued for a minute or two until his eyes widened at a particular page. He glanced at the dead-born.

"You're obsessed with humans, right? I believe you call them breathers in the Netherworld. You and Bee have that much in common."

No one said a word. Beelzebub averted his gaze from everyone, sinking into his seat as he wanted to be anywhere but there. Juno blew a smoke ring, keeping her thoughts to herself. Beetlejuice continued to glare at the ruler of Hell from his position. Lucifer placed down the stack of papers and took off his eyeglasses to stare at the other. He was silent for a moment until he gave a slight smirk.

"Since you like breathers so much, I should give you what you want. It is what you deserve, after all." He rubbed his claws against his chest before he pointed one at the dead-born. "Lawrence Betelgeuse Shoggoth, you are still banished to the world of the living and cannot say your true name, but I'm adding a few details so you'll stay put. The first one? I'm sealing you to the one item that'll be your downfall."

Lucifer snapped his fingers and a flame burst up from the ground, forming a specific shape. When Beetlejuice noticed what the shape was, he paled.

"No... Not that. Anything but that!" He exclaimed.

"Oh, yes that. Congratulations, you're going to be... LITERATURE!" The flames died down and a large book with a black cover floated in the air. Upon seeing it, Beetlejuice dropped to his knees and screamed dramatically.

"But I can't spell! You maniac!"

"And that's not all! You will be sealed inside this book for all eternity unless you can bond with a living person. It could be any type of bond as long as it's genuine and strong. I'll add some more rules for you to read at your leisure. Until then, only a breather who can read your book could set you free and we all know the chances of that happening!" Lucifer laughed, causing everyone to join him. He then turned to Juno, raising an eyebrow. "This curse alright with you, Juno?"

"Beetlejuice becoming the very thing he destroys? Now that's something I would like to see." The director of Netherworld Customs almost grinned at that. Her son stared at the ground, the purple on his body and hair getting deeper. Seeing that Juno had no complaints, Lucifer then addressed everyone else.

"All those in favor of turning Betelgeuse into a book and throwing him out, say 'Eye'."

"Eye!" Everyone in the room except Beetlejuice and Beelzebub raised their hands, some of the demons even held up their own eyeballs. Lucifer took a quick scan and grinned.

"It's settled. Majority rules. Time to go. Bye, Bug-Beverage!" With a sadistic glint in his eye, the demon ruler snapped his fingers. The large book floated in the air and opened itself, its pages flipping and glowing until it stopped at the center of the book. Once it stopped, a swirling vortex appeared on both pages, acting as a powerful wind current as chains shot out from the book and connected with the ghost's handcuffs to pull him in. Beetlejuice panicked.

"No, wait! I'll behave, I promise! Not this, anything but this! Satan, the things I do ta get a different beginning from the original source material!" Beetlejuice cursed as he gripped at the ground to hold himself from the wind current and chains pulling at him.. It only increased the suction, causing some demons and imps to brace themselves.

His claws dug deep onto the floor as he was dragged by his chains towards the book. Gritting his fangs, Beetlejuice reached out to Beelzebub and cried out, "Tell my story!" Before the gluttony demon could respond, the ghost with the most was sucked into the book and it slammed itself shut.

Everyone in the room applauded and let out a sigh of relief. With a deadpan expression on his face, Beelzebub got up from his seat.

"Well... that was fun." Bee yawned and rolled his eyes, pointing to the other side of the room. "I'm out!"

"Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast!" Satan crooned and grabbed the orange-haired demon by the shirt collar to stop his escape. "I haven't forgotten about you nor my original plan. Just need to put the finishing touches..."

Without any explanation, Lucifer pulled Beelzebub's arm towards his face and bit at the other's thumb, causing the latter to scream. He then slammed Beelzebub's left hand onto the book. Black blood seeped from the thumb and spread onto the entire book, glowing orange upon contact. When he felt that there was enough, Lucifer took off Bee's hand and waved over the book, causing the glow to fade. With that, the seals were complete.

Having watched everything, Juno stared at the book her son was in, her face expressionless. She then took a drag of her cigarette and glanced away, almost relieved. "Let the living deal with him now."

"Where should we drop 'im, boss?" An imp asked as it hopped next to Lucifer, ready to complete the deed once and for all.

"The one place rarely anyone would find it so easy." The ruler of Hell replied after a bit of thought. "A place no one would ever expect such a powerful book to be!"

Late at night on the surface where the living dwelled, a red portal opened up above the sleepy town of Winter River, Connecticut. The black book fell out from the portal, its blank pages fluttering with the air as the portal immediately closed back up. The book continued to fall until it reached above an old tall house on a hill, going through the roof and landing right inside the attic of the house where it waited for someone, anyone worthy, to open and read it.

[ishouldbewritingblog]

Loathe at First Sight

It was loathe at first sight. When Agent Harris caught his eye across the crowded bar, she felt somehow felt deep within her heart that she was destined to fall into deep, passionate, all-consuming hatred with this man. There was just something about him, the way he talked, the way he moved, the way he acted, the fact he existed in the same physical space as her, breathing perfectly good air into his unworthy lungs, that made her want to punch him right in his stupid handsome face.

When Agent Graves saw his mark, he was filled with an unspeakable desire to run shrieking from the room and fake his own death. There was something in the air between them, a kind of electricity. Sparks were flying, but not the romantic kind, they were more of the I-wish-you-would-die-in-a-fire-which-I-started-while-you-were-sleeping variety.

Oh no she was coming up to him. Wait, this was good. Keep it together Graves, you cannot dislike someone you’ve never met and even if you do, you need to make this girl like you, really like you. It doesn’t matter that the very idea of kissing her fills you with the kind of unspeakable dread usually reserved for serial killers and people who put water in their cereal.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice grated on his ears. It was like nails on a chalkboard, he wanted to claw his own ears off.

“Hey,” he said back, training kicking in just in time to force his face into a charming smile.

“My ex has been following me all night,” she said, “and I’m honestly kind of scared of him. I was wondering,” she sounded a bit embarrassed, “if you would pretend to be my date. I don’t think telling him no myself is really going to get the message across, but if he sees another man,” she shrugged her shoulders.

It took all of Agent Harris’s years of training and discipline to get the words out. She nearly gagged involuntarily at the word date. Even thinking about being involved with him romantically made her want to stab her own thigh with a fork.

“Think of your mission,’ Graves repeated over and over in his mind, “do it for your country”. It was rather lucky she came up to him if he thought about it. It saved him from having to actually make his feet take him over to talk to her. Now all he had to do was act like a normal human who wasn’t nursing a metaphorical pint of irrational hatred for someone he had only just met.

“I would be delighted to help,” he said, astonished by how pleasant he sounded. “Damn, you’re a good agent,” he told himself.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching over to place a hand on his arm.

It took an impressive force of willpower to resist the instinctive urge to karate chop her in the neck. Instead he made his mouth turn into the shape of a smile and reached down to softly rub across her hand with his thumb.

The moment their skin touched, Agent Harris felt an electric shock run through her entire body. It wasn’t an electric shock of love, it felt more like she had touched a cattle prod. Agent Graves for his part felt such a flash of revulsion he almost stumbled backwards into a bar stool.

“Think of the mission,” they both yelled at themselves internally, gathering up deep reserves of courage they didn’t know they possessed.

“Can I buy you a drink,” they both said at the same time, each trying to fill the space between them with something other than burning distain.

She laughed, it was a laugh which coming out of the throat of anyone else would probably have sounded like tinkling bells, but from her sounded like two cans in an electric blender. “Great minds think alike,” she said.

Agent Graves sincerely hoped that his mind was nothing like hers otherwise he might have to seriously reconsider humanity and his belonging thereof.

“Oh,” she said, “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Chantelle.”

Chantelle. And to think he had once liked that name. It was dead to him now, for the very utterance of it would now conjure the purest kind of creeping disgust in his mind.

“What a lovely name,” he said.

“And might I ask the name of my gallant rescuer?”

“I’m Scott,” he said with a smile.

Scott. What an awful name, what was his mother thinking. But then on reflection, she was probably thinking that a man like him deserved a terrible name, it reflected everything about him. Had the name Scott conjured up such anger within her before this day, she couldn’t remember.

“So, Scott,” she said, “since you have indeed rescued me, you have to let me buy you a drink.” She playfully smacked away his hand as he reached for his wallet in protest, “I absolutely insist, it’s my way of saying thank you.”

Scott would rather drink out of a rain gutter than imbibe anything bought with her money, but he was willing to suffer any indignancy if it meant serving his country, even this he would endure.

“Well, it would be rude of me to refuse,” he said, “but I’m buying the next round.”

“THE NEXT ROUND,” Agent Harris thought, “THE NEXT ROUND MIGHT COME FROM MY GUN AS I SHOOT HIM… Pull it together Agent, you can do this. You are strong, you are powerful, you can deal with this man’s company. You’ve taken down terrorist rings and suffered unimaginable torture without breaking, this is fine.”

What passed, was, for both of them, the most excruciating half hour of either of their lives. He flirted madly, she flirted back with equal ferocity. She thought about stabbing him in the eye with the toothpick from her martini olive. He thought about dragging her over the bar and drowning her in the sink. To all outwards appearances and as far as each other knew, ‘Scott’ and ‘Chantelle’ were getting along like a house on fire. The truth was that they each rather wished the other was trapped inside the aforementioned house.

At last, Agent Harris in the guise of Chantelle made a show of looking around the bar. “He’s gone,” she said, relief colouring her voice. “I’m safe.” She turned to him, “I can’t thank you enough. I’m not exaggerating when I say you sir are my hero.”

“It was nothing. I couldn’t leave a lady in distress.”

Forcing her voice to contain just a hint of regret Agent Harris said, “I suppose I should be going…”

“DO IT MAN,” Agent Graves told himself, “JUST DO IT!”

“DO IT HARRIS,” Agent Harris screamed at herself, “JUST DO IT!”

“I don’t suppose I could get your number…” “could I have your phone-number…” they both blurted out at the same time.

They laughed, “there we go again,” said Agent Harris, “maybe we’re soul mates, we seem pretty in-synch already.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Agent Graves.

Agent Harris pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of her handbag and scribbled down a string of digits. She smiled and slipped the paper into his pocket. Leaning in close she whispered in his ear, “call me.”

“If she gets any closer, I will punch her in the throat”, Agent Graves thought, “I just won’t be able to stop myself”.

“If I have to get any closer to him, I will stab myself in the eye”, Agent Harris thought.

As Harris drove back to headquarters, she called her handler, “I have established contact,” she said, “It went well, better than expected, the man is clearly of below-average intelligence and welcomed Chantelle’s advances like a love-sick puppy.”

“She’s a blonde bimbo and it shouldn’t he hard to get information out of her,” said Graves, “she was basically throwing herself at me, she is clearly extremely interested in Scott and I foresee no problems in using this to manipulate her.”

“Good work agent. Proceed to phase two. Maintain contact and try to arrange a second meeting, we have to keep this going, it is vitally important to the safety of the country that we get the information we need.”

Agent Graves gripped the steering wheel with bone-white fingers, “This assignment might just kill me,” he muttered to himself. “I’m going to kill him,” thought Harris, staring bleakly at the road ahead, “this is how my career ends.”

[choices-fam]

Vulnerable

Summary: It was bound to happen eventually. His intern shatters, and Dr. Ethan Ramsey is left to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey & MC (Platonic)

Word Count: 1,786

Disclaimer: I don’t own Choices!

A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your incredible feedback on my first story! I usually take so long to write, but I was able to finish this so quickly and easily because of all of your support! This will also be part of a two-parter, where the next will be a complement to this scenario, and where the tables will be turned! I hope you all stay tuned for that!

As always, all criticism and feedback is loved and appreciated, especially if it’s constructive! Also, please feel free to send asks or messages! They’re like the biggest hugs ! Thank you, and without further ado, enjoy!

Ethan finds her in a supply closet. He doesn’t know what happened - one minute he’s in his office, filling out prescriptions for his latest patients, and the next he’s answering a call from Ines, telling her that no, he hadn’t seen (Name) and what do you mean you can’t find her, when did you last see her? He only remembers bits and pieces after that. He remembers calling other doctors; asking interns; searching rooms; calling her pager. All his efforts are fruitless, and he remembers going as far as to ask for her rounds assignment that day. He’s walking towards the wards when he finally hears it. It’s a cry - soft and muffled by the door from where it seems to originate - and Ethan pauses. He strains his ears as he steps closer, and sure enough, he hears the same cry and finally recognizes the voice. It’s (Name), no doubt. He rehearsed a stern lecture on his way to the wards, but the words die on his lips as soon as the door swings open. There, on the floor of the supply closet, is his rookie - hugging her knees to her chest as she hides her face, frame shaking with sobs. For a moment, all he can do is stare. In the next, he’s carefully lowering himself on the ground, sitting beside her. That fact that she hasn’t noticed him at all makes worry gnaw in his chest. He clears his throat.

“Rookie.” The sound of his voice is enough to make the young doctor jump, and her head snaps up faster than he can blink. When she finally recognizes just who is setting next to her in the middle of her breakdown, (Name) hurriedly scrubs at her eyes and wipes her cheeks furiously. Her movements are frenzied and Ethan wants to tell her to calm down, relax, it’s all right - but his rookie’s mouth is already moving a mile a minute. “I’m so sorry Doctor Ramsey you shouldn’t have to- w-wait my pager! Were you calling? Oh my god I didn’t notice- I didn’t mean to I swear- I promise it will never happen again-” “(Name).” Instantly, her jaw snaps shut at the senior doctor’s call of her name. Finally getting the chance to properly observe the young woman, Ethan notes with some relief that physically, she seems to be perfectly fine. Her eyes, however, tell a different story altogether. The absolute fear and panic he sees in the (Eye Color) orbs makes his heart clench painfully, and his brow furrows in concern.

“Calm down,” he says first - voice level and steady. He wilfully slows down his breathing into a more relaxed rhythm, and is pleased when he sees (Name) copy the gentle cadence. Her breath shudders now and again, but after a few more deep inhales and exhales, her breathing pattern settles enough that Ethan deems her ready to listen. He speaks. “Do you want to tell me why you were crying in a supply closet by yourself?” (Name)’s breath hitches instantly - the reason for her breakdown flashing to the forefront of her mind, no doubt - but she soon reigns in her breathing and wills it to settle. She fixes her gaze to the ground and manages a shaky whisper. "It’s nothing to concern yourself with, Doctor Ramsey. I’m so sorry for bothering you, but really, I’m all right-” “You most certainly are not.” The firm declaration has her head snapping up once more - and when her gaze finally locks onto his, Ethan sees the tears rapidly pooling in her eyes. She swallows past the lump in her throat and tries again. “I don’t want to bother you, Doctor Ramsey. I’m just overreacting to a normal situation and it’s nothing you need to worry about.” “I’ll decide that for myself, thank you very much,” Ethan says, a hint of frustration coloring his voice. Does she really think these things don’t matter to him? That he’s willing to sit on the floor of a supply closet for just anyone? He sees her biting her bottom lip - debating on whether or not she should tell him - and Ethan gives her the time to decide. Silence reigns for a few moments, punctuated only by the occasional hiccups in (Name)’s breath. Then. “I lost a patient.” The words force themselves from her throat with painful, physical effort - and Ethan can’t ignore the way his chest tightens at the sound. The tears choke her voice and roll down her cheeks, but she continues past her sobs. “I-I know I’m overreacting, Doctor Ramsey. It’s not- It’s not like I haven’t seen death before. I have. B-but this one was-” a shaky exhale. “-she was my patient. S-she was younger than I am, and she was happy- she was getting better- she w-was going to make it- then- then s-suddenly she-!” Her cries take on a new intensity now - raw and pained like the keen of a wounded animal - and Ethan has to close his eyes and will his heart to stop breaking. His rookie’s sobs echo in the small room, making her next words near-intelligible. “S-she was crashing and the nurses were asking about IVs and defibrillators and- and- and I tried- I tried counting to three- I tried breathing- I tried everything- b-but no matter what I did she- she- she still- still–she still- I- I had to call the t-time- I-I- I- I can’t- I c-an’t b-breathe-! D-Doctor Ramsey p-please–!"  He doesn’t even think; he springs into action like a coil wound too tight - and the moment he settles an arm around her shoulders, she latches onto him like her entire life depends on it. Her hands clench the lapels of his coat in white-knuckled fists - burying her face into his chest and releasing her anguished cries into his shirt. This is his favorite button-down and she’s crying into it, and it’s definitely ruined now, and dear lord who the hell cares- because what does it matter if he has to change? She called his name while she couldn’t breathe - how can he not do this for her? How can he do anything less? Ethan holds her - lets her cry for all she’s worth without a word of complaint, because surely if anyone deserves this moment of weakness, it’s her. He’s standing in the fallout- in the consequence of someone having a heart as big as hers - and he resolves to be here as long as she needs. He doesn’t know how long they stay that way - huddled on the floor of a supply closet as his rookie sobs into his shirt - but he finds he really doesn’t give a damn. It takes a small eternity for her sobs to quiet down. It takes another for her breathing to settle. He half-wonders if she’s cried herself to sleep already, but before he can move to check, a hoarse, broken whisper breaks the silence. "Does it ever stop hurting?” Her voice splinters despite her painful effort to prevent it, and - looking down at his rookie who’s nearly broken at this point - for the life of him, Ethan wants to say yes. Yes, it does stop hurting every single time. Yes, you do grow used to it after a while. Yes, you never have to go through this pain ever again. But goddammit he can’t. He cannot - he will not lie to her. Not like this; not ever. “You learn to live with it,” he says instead, and it comes out a quiet whisper. He feels (Name) bury her face deeper into his chest with a choked cry, and he lets her - rubbing her shaking shoulders as comfortingly as he can manage. Ethan waits for her tears to slow before he speaks again. “You will learn to live with it,” he repeats. “And you will learn from it, as well.” Something in his voice shifts; it’s firmer, stronger - an unyielding band of steel running in the tone. It’s enough to get (Name) to raise her red-rimmed eyes, and meet his own that shine with steely conviction. She listens to his next words carefully - imprinting them to memory. “You will learn from this, and you will be stronger and wiser for it. You will be a better doctor because of it. You will strive to become the best you can be, and you will give your all for every patient. You will do your best no matter how trivial the case - because when you come across a life you cannot save, knowing that you worked to your utmost can be the only thought that provides any comfort. "You will lose other patients again, and you will hurt again - to the point where some days it will feel unbearable. But as physicians, this is the burden we’ve chosen to carry. You will see all of this through to the very end. And when everything is said and done, you will rest easy in the knowledge that you had saved more lives than you lost, and that you had done all you could each and every time.” His words resonate in the quiet of the room, and (Name) looks up at Ethan with nothing short of awe. She gives voice to the last of her doubts. “A-And if it gets too much that I can’t remember any of that?” His reply is calm and steady. “Then you breathe. One breath at a time. One day at a time. Until you get there.” Ethan’s eyes lock with hers and he nods once, firmly. “You will be all right. I promise.” His vow to her is definite; certain; sure - and by god (Name) believes him. She doesn’t know how - she doesn’t know why - but if Doctor Ethan Ramsey says it, then how can she not believe it to be true? He gifts her with a small, genuine smile. He knows she understands. A moment passes before Ethan exhales and he pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand to his intern. “Are you coming?” There’s a beat of hesitation - but it only lasts a moment before (Name) takes his hand and pulls herself up - a newfound conviction straightening her spine. “Of course,” she replies, wiping the last of her tears as she takes a steadying breath. “I have patients to attend to, after all.” Ethan can’t name the myriad of emotions swirling in his chest, but when he sees his rookie smile at him - her eyes shining determined; resolute; unbroken - he allows the corners of his lips to quirk upwards, and he finally settles on calling it ‘pride’.

Tags: @brightpinkpeppercorn​, @ifyouseekheart​, @pixieferry​, @choices-and-voices​, @itsbrindleybinch​, @ladykateofhousebeaumont​, @usuallyamazinglyaverage, @lilyofchoices

[grandmasterofwangxiancultivation]

I've always seen stories portraying Zhuilingyi with LJY as the one to join SZ/JL, which is good and all, gimme all that LJY angst - but consider: LSZ and LJY are childhood friends and get together probably before canon starts, and JL is the awkward third wheel who starts falling for them and reacts very badly when he figures it out.LJY screams at him for being a prissy princess and not telling them how he feels and then kisses him and LSZ's just. Smiling at both of them and blushing like crazy.

sorry it took me so long to reply, but your ask changed my life and i had to write something about this moment, because you’re absolutely right -we need more flustered!jl in this universe.

just, i thought it’d be shorter, but honestly i couldn’t limit myself into commenting your idea and nothing more. FORGIVE THIS FOOLISH MASTER!

“Formation!”

Lan JingYi nods swiftly, all previous chattiness gone from his demeanour. He follows Lan SiZhui with practiced steps, dancing lethally but gracefully around their prey. He seems as elegant as the other, a quality one would not think JingYi capable of -which is just stupid, he is a Lan, after all, they are born like that.

Jin Ling’s heart thunders in his chest. He grips the handle of his sword, grits his teeth, but he doesn’t close his eyes.

They stay wide open, and take everything in -the resentful energy leaving the corpses under the array created by SiZhui and JingYi’s combined strength, they perfect coordination, pure white robe swaying in the night wind and blades flashing sleek and crystal clear as entities of their own.

The corpses stop moving, falling on the ground, and the two Lan disciples halt, breathes not even heavy, energy quivering excitedly around them and on their faces.

SiZhui’s ponytail winds up on his left shoulder, forehead ribbon fluttering for a moment. The boy’s relief gentles his facial features, but the residual rush from the battle still lingers on his contracted arms, straight back, drawn sword, vigilant and focused eyes.

He throws a side glance at the other side of the formation, nodding in silent acknowledgement at his childhood friend.

JingYi’s mouth opens in a wide grin, the smooth skin at the corners and on his cheekbones wrinkling in a joyful expression, forelock swinging and trying futilely to cover the twinkling in his irises. He seems on the verge of saying something -stops when SiZhui tosses something. JingYi catches it swiftly, laughing at the sight of a juicy looking loquat -Wei WuXian must have rubbed it off on him in the long run. Things like how did you know I was hungry? and As if I still need to ask you hover between them, needless to voice out loud.

Then, SiZhui turns and walks toward him, smiling tenderly at Jin Ling. So they know I’m still here he huffs, eyeing warily the loquat he is being offered.

Lan SiZhui, “You should eat, Young Master Jin. It is important to retain one’s strength until the very end.”

Jin Ling knows, he is not stupid, nor does he need all this curtesy and big words and long sentences every time he is being addressed by either of them.

He hesitates, sheathes away his sword, falters toward SiZhui. Hears JingYi giggles at his clumsiness and blushes angrily at the patient gleam in the boy’s gaze when he reaches out at snatches the loquat, being careful not to touch his hand.

A second passes, then two. SiZhui lowers his arm and presses his lips tight.

“Let’s keep going and be careful, we are almost home” he advices, and goes back to JingYi’s side. The boy, though, keeps his gaze on Jin Ling’s grumpy expression, a tactful glance from SiZhui warning him from saying anything rude or too nosey. He rolls his eyes and looks over at the Lanling Young Master -Jin Ling notices.

“What?” he bursts out, all his muscles tensing and quaking in shame under their bewildered expressions.

“I didn’t even say anything!” JingYi protests before SiZhui can hold him back.

Jin Ling, “Then why were you looking at me like that?”

Lan JingYi, “Like that? Like what?!”

“JingYi…” SiZhui admonishes, putting a hand on his shoulder. JingYi relaxes slightly, but a frown still mars his features.

Jin Ling clenches his fists and diverts his gaze elsewhere, walking forward and moving past the two of them, slowly abandoning their hunting field.

He hears JingYi complain about something, but his whining is cut short -probably thanks to SiZhui. Jin Ling bites his lips until the physical pain he feels is stronger than the black hole in his stomach and the confusion in his mind -until it is louder than the worried whispers behind his back and the shuddering questions burning into his veins.

—

JingYi is staring at him.

He tries to not react, to make it seem as if he has not noticed yet -though how can he, when he is sitting exactly in front of him, back at him, JingYi’s gaze piercing it as if he was attempting to set Jin Ling’s robe aflame.

Lan WangJi has probably noticed as well and decided to not say anything, to just keep going with his lesson. As long as no one interrupts him or distracts the other disciples, there was no true need to assign punishment.

Jin Ling knows he has to endure it.

He also knows he has no explanation to give him.

It’s not like he is not aware that he is behaving strangely -it feels stupid in his eyes, too. The truth is, every little thing the Lan boys do irritates him.

How they don’t need to talk to understand each other, and appear to use common speech only when they want to relate something to him. How perfectly they fit one other while night-hunting -how beautiful they are while doing so, Jin Ling bitterly adds.

He has always noticed these little things but then, then they had to invite him to Cloud Recesses to study with him for a bit and his uncle had to accept their offer, because do you have a good enough reason to refuse the Lan’s kind offer, Jin Ling?

As a matter of fact, he does not -and that’s what makes thing worse. How can he explain to his uncle something he can’t fully grasp himself?

And then he had to see them silently sneak away after dinner the first day, JingYi holding SiZhui’s hand tightly and the other smirking at him while they made their way between the trees, in a more secluded area.

He didn’t know what possessed him to follow them -what made him keep quiet when he saw them whispering with such comfort, smile with such confidence, kiss with such ease it was clearly not the first time for them.

Jin Ling felt quite flustered and confused -but more than that, he had no explanation for how strongly he had reacted to that. The way his chest had tightened slightly, something similar to envy weighing down on him, similar but not identical -he knows it wasn’t simple like that, he was accustomed to envy and could easily recognise it, though not accept it. The way he had been unable to tear his gaze away, shamefully following the path drawn by SiZhui’s fingers on JingYi’s side when he gently coddled him against a tree, the boy softly moaning his name and smiling lovely while his neck got peppered his little kisses.

The way his body had responded to that -and how he fled the scene so quickly, he got reprimanded with a no running in Cloud Recesses by a laughing Wei WuXian, among all.

Accepting to go night-hunting with them weeks later had been more a flustered mistake than a heartfelt agreement. He had bitterly watched them triumph as the perfect team over and over again, too focused on chasing that strange envy away to register how little he had participated -and how that had baffled the Lan boys.

Jin Ling keeps his eyes on Lan WangJi and tries to ignore everything else, but he cannot run from his own thoughts and feelings much longer.

—

“Release me!”

“Not gonna happen”

“JingYi, maybe you should consider-”

“I won’t consider a damn thing! I’ve had enough!”

“What the hell are you talking about?! Release me this instant-”

“There” JingYi says, with a note of finality in his voice, and Jin Ling stumbles backward, back hitting a rock wall. He is breathing hard, not from actual exertion but rage and dread, sweaty hands clamping behind him.

“Are you insane-” he starts, but the other stops him almost immediately.

“Shut up, whiny mistress! You either are like this or ignore us, I’m going insane!”

“JingYi, we won’t resolve a thing like this!” SiZhi tries to interfere, planting himself between the two. Jin Ling can’t see his face, but JingYi puffs his cheeks and lowers his eyelids, diverting his gaze. Turns it back on them a moment later, arms tensing on his sides.

“We have handled this as you wanted and it didn’t work, now we are gonna do it my way” he retorts, eyes burning in determination.

SiZhui sighs, bites his lip, shakes his head and looks down.

“Alright” he complies. His eyes focus on Jin Ling and the boy feels like he should take a step back -he can’t, the rock wall threateningly solid against his back.

He swallows, unable to old their gaze.

Jin Ling, “What’s wrong with you two? Why did you bring me here?!”

“Young Master-”

(Jin Ling starts clenching his fists at the formality in his tone)

Lan JingYi, “You’ve been avoiding us, don’t deny it!”

The Lanling boy lifts his chin, irises jumping between the two Lan disciples.

Jin Ling, “What are you talking about?! Did you eat too much bland congee and it finally went to your head?!” he says, the frenetic rhythm of his heartbeat making him all the more flustered. Why are they looking at me like that?

Lan SiZhui elbows JingYi on his side, receiving a dirty look. The boy ignores him, taking a deep breath.

“Jin Ling” he calls, clear and light and warm, before moving a bit and taking his hand.

Jin Ling’s eyes widen, his heart trembling in his chest and the rest of him going dead still. His lips part, but nothing comes out, and he grips his robe with his free fingers.

“I’m sorry if we scared you. We just… we wanted to know if we did something wrong, because it really feels like you’ve been avoiding us” he murmurs, trying to keep his tone reassuring and diplomatic -not suspecting how that gentleness and his closeness is killing every ability of functioning like a normal human being Jin Ling owns.

He opens his mouth again, wanting nothing more than to deny it again and run away, but JingYi’s eyes are pleadingly and anxiously staring at him, and Sizhui’s fingers are still holding his.

He quivers.

Jin Ling, “Why do you care?”

Not another word.

Lan JingYi, “What does that mean? We are your friends-”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be your friend! I wouldn’t want to intrude between you two or anything!”

Don’t say it, it’ll make you look weird, you’ll be the strange one all over again and they won’t want to have you with them.

Lan SiZhui frowns, pulling him toward him by the hand, but Jin Ling notices the understanding flashing quickly in JingYi’s irises.

You’ll be cast aside again.

Lan SiZhui, “Why would you? We invited you here!”

Jin Ling, “So that I could work as a disguise, cover for you? Do you think I am an idiot?!”

Why can’t you be less strange?

Lan JingYi, “It makes no sense! You made your head think too much, we actually-”

Jin Ling flashes a ireful look at him.

“I don’t care! If you wanna kiss or whatever, do it when I’m not here!”

He clumps his mouth shut. Dread slowly fills his veins, closing his throat with a knot, and he suddenly feels dizzy from talking too much. And he did -he said too much.

He frees his hand from SiZhui’s grasp and moves, feeling ashamed, so ashamed, what he had told himself was envy melting away and revealing itself for what it actually is -longing, fierce and overwhelming, enough to justify the wetness in his eyes.

Jin Ling freezes and JingYi snaps, seizing his arm.

“Are you-”

“Jealous?” the Lanling boy interrupts, abruptly prying his arm away once more and turning to face them. “Of you two spending so much time together alone, thinking I’m not aware of your- your- whatever it is?! Yes, I am! It angers me so much and I don’t know why! I shouldn’t even care, it’s your business! Yet here I am, yelling at you because you keep being all polite to me and treating me like an outsider but- but-”

Jin Ling can’t bring himself to say the rest, a reason swiftly climbs back into his head -making him realise that he did, indeed, said all those things.

They are going to hate him, of course. How could anyone-

JingYi, “You are the most idiotic mistress I’ve ever met”

Jin Ling tries to counteract that -he is ready, the next insult hesitating on the tip of his tongue-

but JingYi cages his cheeks with his palms and brings him closer, not giving him time to think or even oppose him.

Kisses him with vicious intensity and burning determination, lips pulsing on Jin Ling’s, whose hands fly on his shoulder to fight back a fainting spell.

JingYi’s mouth is rough but slow, caring but raging, and he almost -almost lets himself go, shock dominating every fiber of his being-

-he pushes him away, and JingYi lets him be. Jin Ling’s eyes stops on Lan SiZhui, terrified of his reaction, but the older boy -cheeks aflame, lips parted, breathe eluding a natural rhythm- doesn’t show him what he feared. His irises are sparkling, wild with something that scares Jin Ling more than anger itself.

“Y-you- he-”

Jin Ling is confused, but JingYi’s arm wrapping around his waist, his signature grin on his face, and SiZhui moving toward them with shy but relieved steps, gives him the reassurance he didn’t know he needed.

“We both want you” JingYi whispers in his ears, and Jin Ling shivers and blushes desperately, outraged and on fire.

“So, if you want us both…” SiZhui tentatively tries, going for Jin Ling’s hand again.

He doesn’t let go -squeezes it with all the strength he could muster in that moment, which isn’t much, and gathers all the courage he owns to reach out for SiZhui nape and bring him closer, clumsily kissing him before he can think that’s a bad idea.

JingYi tightens his hold and SiZhui hugs him with his unoccupied arm, tilting his head up with his lips and nuzzling Jin Ling’s tenderly, then drawing back.

They all smile and Jin Ling can’t bear it anymore -he looks down, away, face burning and lungs constricting in a kind of pain he already loves, and they are still here, still keeping him close, no more walls made of formality or misunderstandings to divide them and no one to intrude or witness, for this moment is theirs and theirs only.

[sj9112]

Henry Yates: A Rebuttal

Sorry to get a bit wordy here, but I desperately needed to get this off my chest:

https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2019/may/27/how-not-going-out-heroes-went-from-cat-fight-chemistry-to-child-saddled-losers

I’m not a person who usually responds to stuff like this because opinions are just opinions and everyone has one. But I was frankly offended by the way I, as a viewer, was characterized by this piece and I cannot let such glib ignorance go unchallenged. Honestly, this makes me very, very angry. The writer displays such a complete and fundamental misunderstanding of the programme and what makes it watchable that it truly blows my mind. I understand that some things are not to everyone’s taste, but did we even watch the same show? A few points that I specifically would like to address:

1)      The idea that Lee’s hand was “forced” into settling the will-they-or-won’t-they tension, thus destroying the show. He’s getting on in years, FFS. Do you honestly think you’d still enjoy watching the show if you had to watch a 50-year-old man lusting after his landlady? Ew. That tension HAD to be resolved – you cannot sustain it indefinitely. NO SHOW CAN.

2)      Secondly, do not presume to speak on behalf of all viewers of the show, Mr. Henry Yates. I for one DO give a damn about Lee and Lucy’s relationship after they got together, perhaps too much (though I will never apologize for Lee and Lucy being my OTP), and I KNOW that I am not the only one. I am also not a sad, lazy, and bored middle-aged parent resigned to watching the show every week. The episodes are, in fact, the highlight of my week, and I always throw them on to cheer myself up. I’m also an American, so I make time at 4 pm local time to brew myself a cuppa and tune into my satellite to watch these episodes as they’re broadcast – I go out of my way to watch this show live in a way that no other programme can motivate me to do. Perhaps keep your insulting generalizations of an audience you know NOTHING about to yourself, “kind sir.”

3)      I also think that it is highly insulting to Lee Mack to wrongly assume that he is being forced “at gunpoint” to co-write these scripts as if he no longer cares and that attaching his name to the scripts is a badge of shame. You do know that this show is his passion project, yes? And that he devotes 10 months out of every year working hard on this show in between all of his other commitments? That this show is the thing he is most proud of in his career? And he has every right to be – look at recent episodes like Escape Room or Parachute, how smartly constructed those plots were. While some moves and lines can be anticipated, the writing takes clever and delightful turns that never fail to amuse me (and perhaps others, though I don’t presume to speak for all viewers UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE). I personally can see the care that so many people put into every shot of these episodes. Small details in the set design, the colour-coordination in the costuming, the actors’ choreography, and the blocking/framing of each scene all work very closely together to emphasize the characters, their traits, and the episode’s story. The live episode was a bloody marvel and a lot of effort was put forth by cast and crew alike – they didn’t make it easy on themselves and they acquitted themselves more than admirably! It takes a very passionate team to complete a project like that! There is not an ounce of fat on these scripts, either; every line, look, and gesture serves a purpose for the episode’s plot. The writing is tightly constructed in a manner that I can only marvel at and envy. Take Holiday Share, for example; a little throwaway line in act one ends up becoming the crux of the rising action in act three. As an English literary scholar, I find the scripts fascinating to study (and have written more than a few academic term papers about them in my undergraduate career). YOU, Mr. Yates, may not be impressed with them, but surely the fact that I, in my own capacity, find much to admire within them surely counts for something? It’s almost as if different people can assign different values to the same art! Shocking, I know!

4)      It seems you object most to the “groaners” and the frequent trotting-out of Bobby Ball’s shtick. Go back and watch the earlier series, the one-liners and zingers have always been there, especially when Tim Vine was on the show. They’re a staple of the show, always have been. I’m sorry they’ve ceased to work with you, but they haven’t suddenly “appeared” to torment you in the later series. And while Bobby Ball may not appeal to you, perhaps you ought to take a step back and wonder if it’s broad humour in general that you’re opposed to, because this show’s humour is quite broad (and, guess what, it always has been). If you don’t like that, fine, but don’t pretend that the show hasn’t always been like this. Go back to the earlier series and you will not find it to be as nuanced as you seem to think it was – in fact, it was worse. Especially in the first and second series: the scripts were weaker, Lee and Tim nearly turned to the camera/studio audience after every punchline, and the chemistry between the core cast had not even begun to be built (or, in the case of series one, it was lacking completely). Lee himself has said that the show did not start to find its stride until series 3, and you can track the progression of the show over time – Lee’s writing got sharper, the cast formed dynamic working relationships which only improved with familiarity (I thought Memory from this series was a striking example of how well Lee and Sally play off of each other in a way that wouldn’t have been possible in the show’s earlier years), and the characters have truly come into their own. I am being 100% honest when I say that I have found each successive series an improvement upon the last and that makes me truly excited for what the show will produce next.

5)      I always find it infuriating when people laud Lee’s work on WILTY while slagging off NGO and/or his standup with the same breath. You’re not a fan of Lee’s work, then; you’re a fan of WILTY. Lee undoubtedly demonstrates a quick-witted brilliance on Would I Lie to You?, but his talents do not end there. While it is by no means a requirement to like or appreciate absolutely everything an entertainer does, I find it hard to separate the little quips and “groaners” of Lee’s that light up the WILTY stage from the same quips and “groaners” he’s carefully honed and tested for his scripts or his routines. The humour is the same; the environment is different, but it’s still the same. Maybe that doesn’t work for you in a sitcom or on the stage, and that’s fine; but don’t call yourself a fan of Lee’s work when you think his accomplishments begin and end with a show that he literally rolls up to and expends minimal effort into and that he holds no merit outside of it.

6)      This goes back to point number 2 a bit, but I do feel as though I need to explain why this piece offended me so deeply. I do not wish to go into the traumatic circumstances that led me to begin watching Not Going Out in the first place, nor the pervading circumstances that keep me so attached to the show. Let it suffice to say that, while I can appreciate what they’re trying to do, I just can’t engage with comedy dramas or more darker comedy programmes because it’s all a little hashtag #tooreal in my actual life. Not Going Out provides a much-needed bit of escapism from my real life that I can’t really get from other programmes. It’s one of the precious few shows I can turn on and feel like I’m experiencing joy again. Not Going Out is a simple show, a light-hearted show, and a fun show; it doesn’t need to be anything more, but everyone does what they need to do so well. I can appreciate all of the details in each episode as I watch it repeatedly on a loop, sometimes 2-3 times a day, to help myself feel better (and the iPlayer doesn’t even work in my country). Far from the bored, passive viewer you paint me to be, I cling to this show like it’s a lifeline. Which it is, for me. This programme has done so much to help me in times of mental and physical distress, and I love it so, so, much for that.

7)      Now, sir, since you have made so many gross presumptions about myself and how I feel as a viewer of Not Going Out, I will do the same for you: come on, now. The only reason you think Lee’s brilliant on WILTY and that NGO used to be great is because he won a BAFTA for WILTY and NGO won a Rose D’Or in 2007, isn’t it?

I’m sorry, sir, that you have ceased to find amusement watching Not Going Out, but I, for one, have been enthusiastically attached to this latest series and am as far from tired of it as I possibly could be. I’d suggest you leave the viewing to us, switch off your telly, and attempt to remove your head from your own arse – it surely must be beginning to smell in there.

[classicalafros67]

On Why I Refuse to Talk to My Grandmother

This is not meant to be educational. This is not meant to slander my grandmother. This is only meant to be therapeutic – a way to organize my thoughts and release my emotions in a healthy way. I want to note, before I begin, that I am talking to my grandmother, but only out of necessity, for logistical and business reasons, until we come up with a recompense or I have to cut her out of my life altogether. I’m not even sure that I am going to share this, but I still wanted to write it, so maybe for a time, my anger, bitterness and disappointment can be placed elsewhere.

Recently, I wrote this piece, didn’t really share, but I didn’t finish it either on an example of how my grandmother has treated me and continues to treats me.

“I feel like I’m a pretty outspoken person when it comes to talking about gender expression, sexuality, gender, feminism and activism, EXCEPT when it comes to my family. Living all as a queer and gender non-conforming African-American, living with ones (loosely) religious, judgmental and controlling family members is anything but easy. In fact, it’s fucking hard as hell, and I’m pretty sure it’s the base of all of my mental illnesses. I’ve grown up to be silent and speak when spoken to. I believe that my guardian (grandmother) believes that she must rule with an iron fist and control and repair me at any cost, so I can be properly digestible for society. As I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to heavily resent her as these repairs and plays for control are disguised as concern and unconditional love. Recently, it has gotten pretty rough between us. I resent having to go home, so I go out as often as possible either spending the night with my friends or my boyfriend in the city.

One of her plans to repair me (and by repair, I mean “masc me up”) was foiled this week when I spent most of it in the city with my boyfriend in order to get away from her. The car that we are currently sharing got a majorly avoidable flat tire. I agreed to help pay for a new tire, but she wanted me to watch the tire get changed?? I could always google, but, hey, what do I know I guess? So, like always, she got upset that I had not come home, (mind you, I am 22 years old, recently graduated from college, and working multiple jobs to move out of there) and had started calling up a storm and MARKING all of the locations I was at. (She forced me to get this app on my phone where she can track me. Again, I am 22 years old.) I eventually went home because she was holding the car hostage and refusing to get it fixed until I came back, knowing that I needed it to get to work.

She tells me that we need to talk, but every time I attempt to talk to her about anything heavy, my sexuality, how I express myself, gender expression, ect., it turns into her talking at me and justifying, for herself, how she feels and why she acts a certain way. I have always been bad at having these conversations with family, but I am tired of the way my grandmother treats me. I haven’t been talking to her for the past couple of days because I refuse to go to business as normal and move on like nothing is going on, and I’ve been making a list of reasons why I’m upset with her which has become… extensive.

This list is disorganized and mostly just the tip of an iceberg talking point that we need to settle. It overall encompasses her disguising her homophobia, embarrassment and desire to control and socialize me (i.e. other toxic behaviors) as concern and unconditional love. Her forcing me to get an app that allows her to track and mark everywhere I go is her ploy to keep me under control, yet she disguises this as a way for her to let me know that she is home when I could careless, and she ignores that I am old enough to go where I damn please, don’t do drugs, don’t smoke, don’t party, but “there is too much going on in the world right now, I just need to know where you are.” Ask me… This will also lead me to my next point on how I express myself. I like, no, I fucking love makeup. My fashion sense, as I’ve mentioned before extends from dad to literal queen mom. If I want to wear a suit, I’ll wear a suit, if I want to wear a dad outfit, I’ll work that. If I want to wear sweats all day, girl yes. If I want to wear high heels and a floral top, I will WORK that. And if I want to wear makeup with any of those outfits, I WILL! Can you guess which one grandma absolutely hates? She’s horrible at addressing things too, so she gets passive aggressive. She always has a snide comment about what I wear or my makeup and “how bad it is for [my] face.” Even today, she looked at my Facebook and demanded me to take down my cover and profile picture because I’m wearing a full face of makeup and a floral shirt and my cover photo is the pride flag with the male, female, and intersex signs. It got to the point where I blocked her because I can’t mentally handle all the controlling.

I don’t know. I think I just want her to admit that she’s embarrassed of me if nothing else, recognize that I’m only living here circumstantially, that I am still an adult that she can’t/shouldn’t try to control, and that we should really learn to live with each other.”

We did eventually sit down in the kitchen one late night as I returned home and attempted to express how I felt. I wanted the conversation to be an eye opener for her that she couldn’t police how a grown person could express themselves be it online or in real life. Instead, it turned into an interrogation about, “who molested you?” “where did we go wrong?” and fake tolerance. I just ended up having to face my grandmother, someone who I had deeply respected and revered, someone who helped me through college and through life when I moved out of my father’s house, express her homophobia and internalized misogyny towards me in words disguised as concern and worry.

“Why are you wearing makeup?”

“Boys don’t wear makeup”

“I thought you were doing it to get back at your daddy”

“I’m getting a handle on the whole gay thing. I’m getting a handle on the fact that one day you’re gonna bring a man home. But, now, this makeup is too much! And the clothes you’re wearing. And you’re growing out your hair…”

These are some of the words that were shared with me on that night. It has been a couple of weeks and the conversation still rings in my head back and forth. There are so many petty rebuttals I both wish, but am glad that I didn’t, say. I understand that you care so much about the products I buy and put on my face. I understand that the rules to this binary society so strongly holds on to and polices how one performs their assigned sex at birth. I understand that with that in mind that anything outside that expectation is therefore repaired, most commonly through violence. I especially understand the fragility of masculinity and how anything that easily breaks that line is met with violence.

But I also wish that my grandmother knew that she was and is inciting the violence that she’s afraid will be inflicted on me. Violence isn’t just physical. She understands that as my grandmother, she has a power of influence over me, but instead of using this power and seemingly unconditional love as a force for good, a force to uplift the grandchild and encourage them to be themselves unapologetically while advocating for a better and more accepting world to others, she uses this power to police, criticize and repair my expression, my sexuality, my identity.

Imagine the mental, emotional and psychological damage that inflicts on someone. Every article of clothing you wear – judged. The shoes you wear – judged. Growing, styling or curling your hair – judged. How you talk – judged. What you talk about – judged. Every little thing about you – judged and threatened with getting kicked out of the residence you live in.

“Well, as long as you live under my roof, I don’t want you wearing makeup or girl’s clothes.”

All of this violence inflicted, while the attacker continues to pretend that there is nothing wrong with the relationship, and sweeps everything under a giant rug. This violence which affects so many other queer youths. To tell you how bad it is, I have contemplated being homeless, even at VERY low times suicide, just to be away from her. This is horrible considering that despite the violence, I will love my grandmother no matter what, I would like to mend our relationship, and I feel so guilty for feeling that way. But I cannot possibly see that happening until she magically addresses her own problems and stop projecting her societal desires onto me and my siblings.

So, for now, until I am in a financial position to move out and never come back, I refuse to talk to her unless absolutely necessary. I refuse to pretend to be her friend. I refuse to pretend I can tolerate her being around me. I refuse to pretend that I’m not purposefully avoiding her as much as I can. I refuse to let her involve herself into my life for her to gossip and disapprove. I refuse to let that toxicity invade my life again, and I shall seek help and refuge where I can in continuing therapy and being with the family and friends who accept me and love me for exactly as I am.

Postscript—

I think in terms of making this a discussion, because I could use advice on how else I can move forward. Am I missing something in this situation? I’ve talked about this several times in real life with friends and family, and I keep getting the same answers — “She’s just worried about” “She’s stuck in her ways” “She’s your grandmother, she’s supposed to act that way” But I call absolute bullshit. People can change at ANY age from ANY era, and this situation, I feel is WAY more nuanced than her being worried about me. I’d rather her not die a bigot, so I want to open up ways that I can have discourse with her and show her tools to learn more about the LGBTQIA community.

[squirenonny]

Clone Shiro Theory in Season 5

Okay, so this mess was inspired by talking with several people on Tumblr and discord about the Clone Shiro Theory in the wake of Season 5, as well as seeing posts in the fandom tags. And...I’ve noticed some common themes in arguments against this theory.

Please note that this is not meant to be a direct rebuttal to anyone, more... working out for myself why I’m so convinced that Shiro is a clone because I’ve got all these nebulous thoughts running around in my head and I need to organize them somehow. So feel free to read, respond, reblog, ect, but also feel free to ignore this completely if Clone Shiro isn’t your thing.

Season 5 spoilers and a very long post under the cut.

I’m going to break this down into three parts:

I. Why a clone and not something else (mind control, magical spyware, ect)

II. Why I won’t accept anything but clones at this point without crying foul

III. Clone Shiro vs Galra Keith

I. Why a clone?

I think at this point there’s no way to deny that something happened to Shiro in Operation Kuron. We’ve seen Haggar spying through him, the headaches are a recurring theme, and his behavior has changed to the point that he’s going behind his team’s back and lashing out at the team in ways he hasn’t before.

With most of the proof, you can make several arguments. Haggar’s mind-controlling him directly, but he still is Shiro. Haggar’s spyware is giving him headaches that’s making him more testy than usual, but he’s still acting under his own free will. Ect. But I think there is enough evidence to give the clone theory specifically an edge over other explanations.

Shiro’s hair grew roughly a foot during his captivity between seasons 2 and 3. There’s no clear answer on how long this was, but it seems like a fairly short time period. At the start of the season, Keith is still raw over Shiro’s disappearance, and though they’ve done a few missions without Shiro, they haven’t run up against anything that required Voltron. Which... considering how often they form Voltron both before and after this period, suggest to me that we’re talking a time frame of weeks at the longest. Then episodes 1-3 happen in pretty quick succession, with the lion switch and Keith immediately charging off, almost out of spite. We pick up with Shiro a day or two before episode 3 (which is where Shiro finds Voltron and then loses them.) He spends another week chasing them before Keith and Black find him. All told, this is probably in the realm of one month since his disappearance, maybe two. For reference, human hair grows on average half an inch per month. Shiro is shown to have significantly more hair growth in this time frame than anyone else gets in the entire series--even people who have been prisoners for extended amounts of time. Matt and Sam each get maybe a few inches, and Shiro’s hair was kept short during his stint in the Arena. This tells me that Shiro’s hair growth for The Journey is not an artist’s exaggeration to show that he’s had it rough. If it is, then it’s sloppy, and the animators on this show are typically pretty attentive to detail. If this is intentional, I can only conclude that Shiro has been in captivity for far longer than the timeline allows and/or the clone was grown in a short time and the accelerated growth also affected his hair.

Calling attention to the difference between Shiro(s1-2) and Shiro(s3+). These, I’ll admit, are more suspicious than damning, but they’re worth mentioning. The animators made a deliberate decision to give Shiro a new look after his return. We’ve seen people in different outfits, and Allura has a few different hairstyles (up, down, mice poofs), but no one has changed their “default” outfit like Shiro has, only their armor or other special outfits (pajamas, swimsuits, ect), and no one has gotten a new haircut, except Pidge (in backstory, as a plot point) and Sam and Matt (compare to Shiro on the Kerberos mission vs post-escape in s1.) They want you to be able to tell the difference between Shiro 1 and Shiro 2. At the same time, they call attention to this change by having Shiro comment about his “weird headache.” The writers also made a point of having the Galra refer to Shiro differently in the context of Operation Kuron (Subject Y0XT39 vs Prisoner 117-9875.) From a writing standpoint, this is a strange choice--not necessarily significant, but likely so because both designations are mentioned in passing and without context, so tossing both out there without reason is more confusing than world-building. And in-universe, it tells us that the people in charge of Operation Kuron couldn’t or didn’t want to refer to prisoners by their already-assigned number. Possibly this is for internal organization--i.e. if not all subjects were prisoners or if they had completely random prisoner numbers. But if it is clones, they would need new ways to identify them, since they’d all have the same prisoner ID. Again, not proof, but suspicious.

Shiro appeared in the Voltron bond. And it seems as though the Shiro with the team didn’t. Not just his head is fuzzy about it. He wasn’t there. Did you notice how Shiro-in-the-bond was translucent, only seen from a distance, and almost completely lacking in detail in the head area? Maybe to obscure the fact that he has his old haircut (both from us and from Lance)? Did you notice that he didn’t appear with everyone else, and how desperate he was to communicate with his team? There are two Shiros. The only question is whether the distinction is physical (clones) or mental (mind control with the real Shiro’s mind completely suppressed by Haggar’s persona)

Following up on this point, Shiro himself is questioning things. If this was a case of mind control, of Haggar taking over Shiro’s body, there is no way she would allow her puppet to question his own identity. If she has direct control, she certainly wouldn’t mention it to Lance, and if the real Shiro is still in there waiting to take his body back, she absolutely would put safeguards in to make sure her controlled personality stays in place.

And of course, the single biggest argument in favor of Clone Shiro: Operation Kuron = literally, “Operation Clone.” This can’t be a coincidence. It can’t. With everyone working on the show (how many of whom are anime fans and have at least a rudimentary familiarity with Japanese pronunciation?), and with Lauren Montgomery having talked about how Laith is a much better ship name for Keith and Lance, because Laith means Lion, I do not believe that they accidentally chose a name for this major plot point that means “clone” in Japanese (which is either Shiro’s native language or at least connected to his heritage.) I also don’t believe that it was chosen as a red herring to make us think this is all about clones when it really isn’t, because the target audience (which is, what 8-12 year olds?) will not pick up on that hint. It fails as a distraction for the core demographic, which makes me think it’s far more likely that it was meant as an easter egg and the writers didn’t necessarily intend for people to pick up on it. It’s like... This post about English name symbolism in FMA. It’s a clever nod to character traits for people who are in the know, but then you give that same name to an English speaker and it’s almost laughably on the nose. For people who don’t speak Japanese (most of Voltron’s audience) and don’t have social media to point it out (unfortunately, comparatively little of the fanbase), “Operation Kuron” is a subtle nod. In a novel, where people likely won’t engage with the fandom until they’re finished, it would work. Hell, for people not actively engaged in fandom, it works. The problem is that we’ve had months upon months and the power of the internet, so now everyone knows that JK Rowling named her werewolf Wolfy McWolfenstein the Galra named their secret clone project Project Clone. That isn’t bad writing. It’s perfectly fine writing tossed to the wolves of a global fandom that loves to theorize.

(Also, I was curious, so I checked, and “Operation Kuron” is called the same thing in the Japanese dub, so lol if it’s not clones, Dreamworks is going to have some explaining to do.)

II. Why having the answer be “Not Clones” at this point would be bad writing

Okay, see, this is way more subjective than part I, which was already pretty subjective. But here’s the thing. Dreamworks has set up Clone Shiro, almost blatantly so. I can forgive the fact that this twist is obvious to the Tumblr fandom, at least, because (a) the show is for kids, so the foreshadowing has to be a little bit more obvious, and (b) you cannot judge subtlety based on thousands of people working together to figure things out. Most of the fandom figured out Galra Keith before season 2 dropped. Some people hated it, but then, some people were incredibly resistant to the Clone Shiro Theory--still are. It feels like everyone and their grandmother figured these twists out way in advance, but if you took away the part where we all screamed about it and laid out our arguments? If you somehow reached out to the viewers who aren’t involved in fandom? I’ll bet you good money that a lot fewer of them have picked up on the hints. (And if they have, they aren’t nearly as certain about it.)

But if we get to season 6 and suddenly find out Shiro has been Shiro all along, just with magic in his head letting Haggar watch him? I’m going to be disappointed, because that resolution is almost guaranteed to leave plot holes. How did Shiro get recaptured/how did he disappear from the Black Lion in the first place? Why did his hair grow so fast? What’s with the change in behavior (I’m not talking about the snappishness and arguing with Keith and Lance, I’m talking about directly undermining the very teamwork he’s been the single biggest proponent of from the start by going behind the team’s back again and again)? Why didn’t Black accept him at first? Why did he have to prove himself to her again, after they’d been more closely bonded than anyone? Why was the project named Operation Kuron? Why did Shiro see another, hollow-looking, him on the exam table in that flashback? Why hasn’t he used the bayard yet?

The show might explicitly answer some of these, but I think we all know by now that it won’t slow the pace long enough to explain all of them. The clone theory explains or implies answers to almost all of these (especially if you couple it with “the original Shiro is stuck in the astral plane” or some such.)

So, no. Clone Shiro isn’t a twist at this point. Maybe it’s just me, because I’m usually pretty good at picking up on foreshadowing and figure out most twists ahead of time, especially if I’m given time to ruminate. But I’m fine with not having big, shocking reveals. Something doesn’t have to be a surprise to be interesting. I don’t have to feel like I was clever for figuring it out. I can’t wait for season 6 because I’m desperate to know that both my sons (Shiro and Ryou) are going to be okay--because I think, at least, that the Shiro with the team right now is not being set up as a villain. He may become a martyr, but he’s meant to be sympathetic, regardless of where he came from.

In the end, I don’t mind that the Clone Shiro Theory seems obvious, because the foreshadowing is aimed at kids and the adult fandom is bound to pick up on those hints faster. And clones explain everything so well that I honestly don’t think any other answer would make for a satisfying conclusion to the Kuron arc.

III. Clone Shiro vs Galra Keith

Okay, now this is interesting, because these are the two main theories that the fandom swarmed. One turned out to be true, and I honestly think the other will be proven right in June.

Also interesting is that, in terms of episode count, they both are paced about the same. It’s just that the Galra Keith plot happened over the course of 1.5 full seasons, while the Operation Kuron plot is going on 3.5 half seasons. Same number of episodes, but more spread out and with more breaks in between. Galra Keith was dropped into a single seven-month gap with a growing fandom and then confirmed immediately with the next batch of episodes. Operation Kuron was introduced in August, fans jumped on it, season 4 dropped, the fandom was split on it (because, admittedly, s4 didn’t add anything to the argument that couldn’t be explained by trauma and/or mounting pressure on Shiro), fans wrote a shitton of Ryou hcs/fic and drew a lot of Ryou art, season 5 dropped, with major new developments but no confirmation, and now we’ve got another break. At the earliest, it will be confirmed or debunked in June, a full ten months after it was first hinted, and with three season breaks for people to theorize, create fanworks, and otherwise dig into Camp Clone.

Can you imagine if the first two seasons had been done like that? (Note: I know I’m fudging the midpoint of season 1 a little bit, but bear with me here. I want to do a thought experiment.)

Season 1: We get hints of Keith’s knife and the major red flag of Keith opening doors that have been implied to be species-locked, so Hunk has to use a Galra arm to get past one door in the same episode Keith uses Galra tech with no problems. There’s also the word of god that says Keith is an orphan, so speculation runs wild. The fandom is split, with a small but vocal group on Team Galra, a vocal opposition, and a whole bunch of people on Team “Can’t we just wait and see what the writers have in mind, guys? We don’t have to fight!”

Season “2″: Little movement on Galra Keith Theory specifically, and both sides have arguments for what little we do get. Are those purple patches the effect of Galra heritage or is that supposed to tell us Quintessence does freaky things? Does Zarkon’s, “You fight like a Galra soldier,” mean anything (and is there a comma there/does that change the meaning? I can only imagine the comma drama if that had been one of the only new points for debate after three months.) The only major development is explicit confirmation of the species lock on Galra tech. All this is exacerbated by growing concerns in the autistic fanbase who worry that Team Galra Keith is starting to twist the legitimate autistic traits to support their own theory. (Believe me, I was there, and I was scared of Galra Keith for a good long while because of this.) The debate starts to turn bitter.

Season “3″: Ulaz shows up, we see Keith’s knife, we have Keith worrying that Zarkon “imprinted” on him, and though nothing comes of that, it still says something that the writers are even willing to acknowledge the theory. The season ends with no clear answer, but by now most of the fandom is on Team Galra. There’s been fic. There’s been art. There are headcanons and metas galore. The evidence is all laid out, and there’s really no denying it at this point. Some people are angry about it, and lots of people are hoping for Altean Keith or something, just because it would still be a surprise.

Season “4″: The Galra Keith reveal happens in episode one or two, and literally no one is shocked. Some people are angry, everyone is pissed that there wasn’t more fallout after four seasons of buildup. But we all knew it was coming.

Think, in contrast, how the Clone Shiro Theory might have gone if we hadn’t switched to half seasons. (In a hypothetical world where the theory is true, and it’s getting revealed next season.)

Season 3 now covers everything through Naxzela. Operation Kuron is huge in fandom discussion, but it’s partially overshadowed by everything else that happened--Keith joining the Blade, Lotor’s offer of talks, Keith’s near sacrifice, Matt’s return... Fewer people are as adamant about the clone theory because we’ve already seen Shiro back in the Black Lion and fighting alongside the team. There are lingering doubts, and people still lay out all their arguments, but it’s less splitting hairs and more the broad range we saw with Galra Keith, from adamant arguments on either side to a broad, casual fanbase in the middle who doesn’t know if it’s gonna happen and honestly couldn’t care less but sure as hell likes to play around with the idea. Like with Galra Keith, there is some evidence that’s either straight-up confirmation or lazy writing (Keith opening doors vs kuron meaning clone) but for the most part people are still uncertain.

Season “4″ drops and hits us all hard with new evidence. People are getting behind the Clone Shiro Theory in earnest now, but somewhere near the end of the season it’s confirmed, forestalling another round of theorizing. Lots of people are caught off-guard, lots of people are edge-of-their-seats “Holy crap, is that actually true??” The major, irrefutable pieces of evidence (Ulaz, Keith’s knife, his nightmares vs Shiro lying to the team, Haggar’s spying, Shiro calling out to Lance in the bond) are immediately followed up by confirmation.

Can you see how the spacing of the episodes drastically changes the perception of the theory? In all honesty, Galra Keith and Clone Shiro feel extraordinarily similar in terms of pacing, evidence, and alternate explanations--it’s just that Keith’s story happened much quicker, in fandom time. I can’t fault the writers for that. I just think half seasons were a bad idea, especially when the show was clearly written with full seasons in mind.

TL;DR Version:

There’s enough evidence that specifically points to clones that I’m 99% convinced that Shiro is a clone at this point. That last 1% is reserved for skepticism because, while I don’t believe the writers could provide me with a different explanation that fits as well as clones, they might try in the name of pulling one over on the viewers.

Galra Keith and Clone Shiro are set up in a very similar manner, and the latter suffers primarily from half season releases and a fandom who knows what tricks to look for.

The fact that the show is geared at a younger audience and so isn’t going to be super subtle is not a mark against it, but unfortunately if you’re active in the fandom, there’s a good chance you’re going to see a solid argument re: upcoming plot twists that spoils the surprise.

[gobigorgohome2016]

Taper Week 1 + Final Big Workout

I am in the home stretch, which is strange because I’m feeling very different from other marathon training cycles.  

Normally at this point, I am plotting out exactly what I am going to do as soon as I cross the finish line:  drink a beer, eat a burger, and not engage in any physical activity for a glorious 14 days.  Last year, the US half marathon championships couldn’t come soon enough.  Even on the starting line, all I could think about was covering 13.1 miles as quickly as possible solely so that I could take a break.  Definitely not the right mindset for running your best! 

Traditionally, taper has been hard for me.  Not from the standpoint of “taper crazies”  - I’m not going to lie, when people complain about running less I just don’t get it.  At the same time, my taper is relatively small.  I ran 108 miles for my peak week, and last week I ran 92 (which includes one day off).  When you track my 7 day stretch from Tuesday to Monday, I still covered 102 miles.  This week will be lower, though, coming in at 76.  It will be weird to only run once per day most of the week.  Actually, today was my first single run in weeks and I felt like I had infinitely more time on my hands!  Of course that means I was less productive, because the best way to get things done is to be really busy, amirite?  

I’m starting to wonder if my early season setbacks will have actually served a greater purpose.  I feel like the last few weeks have been a turning point in my fitness and that things are coming together.  About 4 weeks ago I was running a warm up and I thought to myself you need to just be okay with the fact this might not be a PR training cycle.  After I had that thought, I wound up running a better-than-expected workout and I feel like I’ve been on the up and up ever since.  I’m not sure I have ever made it to this point in training feeling as though my legs are still fresh.  

On Sunday I did what I love to do during taper:  I pored over my running logs and looked at data.  I love to look at my mileage totals.  Here is my mileage during the same 92 day periods leading up to each race:

Twin Cities:  1,019 miles Olympic Trials:  1,163 miles Pittsburgh:  1,147 miles

At the end of the day, I will have only run 16 fewer miles than I did in the 3 months leading up to the Trials.  That doesn’t tell the whole story, though.  That training window includes a 3 week period where I was dealing with a hamstring issue.  If we look at the final 6 weeks of training, the mileage totals are slightly different:

Twin Cities:  505 miles Olympic Trials: 554 miles Pittsburgh:  565 miles

I have definitely come on stronger the last few weeks whereas in past training, I have struggled during taper to have motivation to run.  At the end of the day, training and racing only produces more data, so it will be interesting for me to see how the increased mileage plays a role in the outcome.  

I’m in the process of reading Deena Kastor’s Let Your Mind Run.  This book could not have come out at a better time for me.  I like to read during taper.  Before Twin Cities, I read Once a Runner.  Before the Trials, I read Suzy Favor Hamilton’s Fast Girl.  

Deena’s positivity has helped me look at the last few months and reframe them.  At one point I truthfully wondered why I was bothering to run this marathon when it didn’t seem like I was going to be in my best shape.  I will be the first to admit that I struggle at times with perfectionism when it comes to running (seriously nothing else though.  sometimes I wonder how I graduated college).  Something that tremendously helped was when my coach reminded me this race doesn’t have to be perfect - it just has to be good, I’m already a pretty damn good runner.  

Deena’s book inspired me to reframe a lot of the negative thoughts that have been holding me back lately.  For instance, I have used one word to describe this training cycle:  setback.  I’m pretty sure I have uttered that word more times in the last 4 months than I have in my entire life.  Instead of thinking about the things that have hindered progress, why not think of them as things I have overcome?  At the end of the day, I have run a shit ton of miles after dealing with:

-a calf injury -a plantar injury -a hamstring injury -a badly infected blister -a couple illnesses -a post-tib issue -the worst case of eczema I’ve experienced in my 20′s -unmet expectations at races  -new food sensitivities that undoubtedly contributed to the previous 8 items on this list

I prevailed despite all of these things.  What’s so hard about a marathon after your toe doubles in size because it is infected and is so painful  you have to drive barefoot in the middle of winter because your shoe is applying too much painful pressure on your toe when you hit the gas pedal? 

Deena’s book is also helping me see the other things I do - the things that are easy to forget - that make me a better athlete.  Joe Vigil has a quote that there is no such thing as overtraining, just underresting.  I love that.  This training cycle I have made it a point to:

-nap at least 60 minutes every day  -eliminate foods that I know my body cannot tolerate (science is cool) -get a massage every 2 weeks -set up mental game sessions as needed -have increased contact with my coach -make dietitian appointments as needed -make visualization a priority -do daily yoga instead of one session per week -more core/lifting -practice race day [this training cycle I made it a point to practice getting up at 4 AM before a couple long run workouts so that I wasn’t in shock when I had to do it for the race]

There is no guarantee that any of these things are going to make a better runner; but, there was something that Des Linden said leading up to Boston that spoke to me:  I could live with myself if I didn’t win Boston.  I decided I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.  (referring to her training)

If I don’t reach my ultimate goal of breaking 2:30 in the marathon, I’ll live.  But, as long as I am training I will have a hard time not doing everything in my power that I know will contribute to success.  I often think of my mom telling me in high school (when I was half-assing my assignments) “if it’s a job worth doing, it’s a job worth doing well.”    

The past week of workouts has been good.  I’m not sure where the notion came from that taper weeks are easy.  In reality, the lower mileage gives way to more intensity.  Here’s what my week looked like:

M:  off (first dasy off in 6 weeks!) T: AM:  4, PM:  12 mi total w/ 6 x mi @ marathon effort ending with a mile at half marathon effort W:  AM:  10, PM:  6 Th:  AM:  6 x 400 m @ mile race pace w/ full recovery, PM:  7 F:  AM:  10, PM:  5 Sa:  AM:  8, PM:  5 Su:  AM:  16 mi cut down finishing in 5:44; PM:  4 mi shake out

Total for the week was 92, and I’m really happy with how my legs felt during that cut down.  I remember that workout before Twin Cities and crawling through the shake out later in the day because my legs were trashed.  The biggest difference I have noticed during the past 4 or 5 weeks is that my legs are recovering really well.

Today was my last big workout, and it was actually one I have never done before!  The plan was 3 x 15:00 at threshold pace.  While there is little fitness to be gained at this point, I’m so glad I did this workout because it was a huge mental win.  

I went to the tow path for the workout, which is a crushed limestone path in Indy.  I figured 15:00 should be roughly 2.5 miles.  My plan was to do a 2.5 mi stretch, then a 2.5 mi loop through a neighborhood, then the 2.5 mi stretch back.  I did not account for how much rain we have had lately, and the tow path was a muddy, sloppy, puddle-dotted mess.  We also have had pretty cold weather, so today was quite the contrast with 60 degrees and 100% humidity / light rain.  Fun fact:  I have run in a sports bra and shorts once this year, and that was in February.  

My superhero running strength is that I’m really good at not going out too fast, and at progressively picking up the pace in workouts as I go.  Actually, when this doesn’t happen I generally know something might be wrong with me.  Today was not that day.  

My first mile of my first 15:00 was 5:49.  This is not my threshold pace on a perfect weather day, and it’s definitely not my threshold pace on wet, muddy, soggy ground when I am slipping and sliding everywhere.  My second mile was 5:46.  I wound up covering 2.57 mi in 15:00 minutes.  

My fatal flaw as a runner is that, when I see these splits, I feel as though I must continue getting faster.  not the point of this workout.  So, I convinced myself that I needed to slow down.  

My first mile was 5:52 of the second 15:00 tempo.  Honestly, my legs felt like garbage.  I was running through a neighborhood on completely soaked streets trying to make turns and I ran way too hard in my previous effort.  My quads felt like crap.  My 2nd mile was 6:00.  I panicked.  Quads are heavy + slowing down.  When was the last time I felt this way?  Oh, right, when I was anemic in the fall.  At 12:00 I just stopped running.  I contemplated calling it a day and jogging back to my car.  Actually, I convinced myself that was what I should do.  If my quads are heavy, why add extra strain?  Then I spiraled.  What if I feel this way during the marathon and just walk off the course?  

Finally I decided I was going to finish the workout no matter what, even if it meant running 6:30 pace.  I took a couple minutes to regroup and decided the final tempo would be 18:00, to account for the 3 that I missed when I cut the second one short.  I would start slow (closer to my actual threshold pace), and no matter what stick this one out.  First mile:  6:07.  Much better.  Second mile:  6:02.  3rd mile:  5:55.  So, I made a workout that wasn’t supposed to be hard much more difficult than it had to be.  

But, I’m happy that it happened that way.  It is very rare for me to have a bad day in practice.  It’s even rarer for me to stop.  I don’t get a lot of opportunities to practice bringing it back around and making the day successful.  Having at least one experience like this going into the marathon is important, because if there is anything we’ve learned in the past 10 days, it’s that you can think you’re going to drop out of a race at half way, then find yourself becoming the first American in 33 years to win the Boston marathon.  

[transcriptroopers]

I live in a country where guns have to be licensed and therefore I cannot get hold of one to experience this myself, but how does it feel to hold in your hand/s? What is it made of? Does it get warm under your touch or does it remain chill? How does it feel to know that you have a machine of death in your hands, or do you get so used to it you do not think about it? I'm not really sure about what type of guns I'm using in my story so any information you can give me is so, so helpful!!!

Just so you understand the sort of mentality you’re dealing with, hubby and I found your description highly amusing at first, and at first I treated it like a joke, and I realized after the fact how tasteless that response is. We’re jaded to the seriousness of guns; that’s the attitude you’re looking to replicate.We make a habit of calling them “weapons,” not “guns.” We’ll usually get chewed out if we just call them guns, though if we use the proper term for the weapon (rifle, pistol, etc) that’s usually acceptable.

As far as technical info goes, here’s an excerpt from the Wiki page on M16s:The M16 is a lightweight, 5.56 mm, air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed assault rifle, with a rotating bolt. The M16’s receivers are made of 7075 aluminum alloy, its barrel, bolt, and bolt carrier of steel, and its handguards, pistol grip, and buttstock of plastics.

5.56 is the standard round (and we call them rounds, not bullets; the bullet is the tip of the round and the casing/shell is the rest of it) for M16, M4, and M249, the weapons most commonly assigned to enlisted. We have to walk around and pick up the shells if we’re firing our weapons at a range. 

Me and hubby agree that holding a weapon for the first time is surprisingly uneventful. It feels the same as if someone had put a hammer or a crowbar in your hand for the first time. Guns in American culture are so prevalent that when you’re younger they seem benign and of no great consequence. This is with me coming from a gunless background and hubby having some experience with weapons prior to joining. After a while it does completely stop dawning on you that the contraption you’re holding is a deadly weapon and most people would be unnerved to see them. We mostly only have weapons on us during basic training, during a field exercise, and during deployment, and during deployment your weapon might very well be locked up for a part of it if you aren’t deployed to a combat zone. There’s no real reason to just lug around a rifle around during a normal work day. So in actuality, I probably spent less than 25% of my time in the army with an actual weapon. 

Our weapons are made with metals (and some parts plastic) and due to Science metal does tend to get warm when held, yes. They can of course be hot or cold given the environment. It’s dreadfully unpleasant to hold them without gloves in the snow, especially when your fingers start going numb and you’re not 100% sure you’ve got an adequate grip on it. They reek of CLP and metal and they leave a lasting smell on your hands, more so if you’ve been firing.CLP of course being Cleaner, Lubricant, and Protectant, basically just a lubricating oil we use on our weapons to ensure all the parts are moving smoothly so it hopefully doesn’t jam. A lot of people will literally pour CLP on their weapons and they just drench the poor thing and you don’t need that, folks. Just a few drops will usually do as long as you’re maintaining it regularly.I preferred pistols over rifles. I enjoyed taking them apart more and shooting with them, but I only ever got to do that once or twice as a for-fun thing because only our officers used the M9. 

Lucky for me I was assigned an M249 during three of my four years. Typically only one person per squad has a 249, so there’s only ever maybe four or five people per platoon with one, maybe 15-20 per company.

It’s classified as a “light machine gun,” but it’s still over twice as heavy as the M16 and required belts of ammo that were a pain to carry around. While everyone else could just prop up their weapon where convenient, the 249 needs to be set up with its stupid little tripod and then sit on the ground and be a tripping hazard until you pick it up again. It fires at a much higher rate than the m16, (I mean, it’s a machine gun) so for a fellow who depends on prescription eyeglasses (such as myself) it can become impossible to shoot because the damn thing sends up so much smoke and fog that it renders lenses useless. I also remember one time we were instructed to sling while marching and I fucked up and loosened up my sling on accident and I couldn’t stop and fix it or unsling it because slinged weapons was the directive and we were on uneven terrain and I wound up walking with that bastard for two miles with it bouncing against me every now and then. I had bruises all up and down my front. I hated that thing; it was an inconvenience and an annoyance. Could not have been happier when I finally got an M16. 

Speaking of slinging the weapon, we generally don’t sling it to our backs unless we’re carrying something or doing some other task that requires full use of our arms. Otherwise we hold it in the “low ready,” with the weapon pointing toward the ground and away from people. Having our weapon around is pretty much second nature. Maintaining our arms is of utmost importance, some would say over maintaining ourselves. Some will choose to clean their weapon over cleaning themselves. We memorize the serial numbers and carry them with us everywhere unless we can physically lock them up. Leaving an unattended weapon is a serious issue. We also clean them regularly, sometimes multiple times a day if the weapons have been in a compromising environment i.e. we’ve been crawling through sand or something. Dropping your weapon is pretty much blasphemous and will reward you with several push ups if anyone sees. Some people were just Extra and if they dropped their weapon and there was no one around to punish them, they’d punish themselves because they disrespected their weapon ors.

Flagging is usually taken very seriously, although there have been occasions where I’ve seen someone get more chewed out for dropping the weapon than for flagging someone, which I think is steaming bull shit tbqh. We’re taught to NEVER, EVER point a weapon at someone, even in jest, so of course it never happens, ever, because we totally follow instructions at all times, completely and unsarcastically. I can say that having left the army, hubby is still a fan of guns and he and his best friend go to the shooting range occasionally, but I am rather firmly pro gun control so I never really see/use them anymore. So all sorts can go in and come out of the army and how each person feels about weapons will be unique, but generally while we’re in, they’re an extension of ourselves and a soldier’s most important asset. And to sum up, there’s usually three types of gun people in the army:1) I have a gun. Cool I guess. (most common imo)2) I have a 5.56 mm, air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed assault rifle, with a rotating bolt which was implemented into service in 1964 to replace the Garand, Carbine, and Browning with a maximum firing range of 3,600 meters and an effective firing range of 550 meters. 3) I don’t actually know shit about guns but I really want to be macho and impress people so I pretend to be knowledgeable and make a fool out of myself while annoying everyone around me.

-Kingsley

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[jinjojess]

Can you say what you think of each Exile Election character and the impression they left on you?

Sure, that sounds like fun.

Cut for length.

Ichijou Kaname

Kaname’s alright. I don’t love him but I don’t hate him either. His design is kinda dumb with the white hair, but I also kind of like that it’s just a touch of flair in an otherwise sort of normal uniform attire. The headphones are cool too and I really like that they actually have a story purpose and aren’t just decoration.

Personality-wise, so far Kaname’s very white-bread VN protag material, though the being able to see lies as a result of his synesthesia is kind of interesting. I hate how he talks most of the time because it’s so stereotypically anime douche-style, but I do like that he doesn’t spend all of his internal monologue thinking about how he needs to protect Ichika or anything. Plus if he’s filled with murderous revenge rage, that’s always a plus for me.

He’s flawed, is what I’m saying, which is really nice.

Houshi Ichika

I just cannot even with this design. What the fuck. Like I mentioned in my LP, she ticks so many boxes on the trope-o-meter that she just about breaks it: childhood friend/probable love interest; stupid pun name; love of sweet food (strawberries in this case, also relating back to dumb pun name); dog collar; chain; dog collar; thigh belt; ribbon; DOG COLLAR; school uniform no school would ever assign; etc.

However, despite her constant “I’ll do whatever you say, Kaname” thing, she actually seems semi-reasonable? I did like the part where she physically held Kaname’s face in place so he couldn’t see Misa get eaten because it could either mean that she’s a good friend concerned about his emotional state, or she knows that something else is going on here and wants to keep his attention focused elsewhere.

Fingers crossed for crazy mastermind-type but not of the yandere variety.

Ichijou Misa

Misa’s okay. She’s a stereotypical anime kid sister. Served her role in the story so far just fine I guess. May or may not be Noori. Makes me appreciate how dynamic Komaru is in comparison.

My only thing with her is that the game’s website claims she’s 13, but she doesn’t act 13, she acts like she’s 6. This is a common problem a lot of fiction has when people are not used to being around actual kids and pre-teens–this is what made later seasons of Buffy after Dawn was introduced so obnoxious.

Official site also calls her a moodmaker which in VN lingo is never a good sign.

Noori

Totally Not Misa You Guys. Man I really hope they subvert that…

What’s kind of interesting about Noori is that the game is treating her amnesia as the serious condition it would be in real life. Like there are drawbacks and side effects to it like not knowing how to speak or process what’s going on around her. Makes the situation less tropey and moe and more realistic and sad, so I appreciate that.

Since Alice already lampshaded the Imouto Route thing, I’m hoping we get to avoid that as well and instead Noori will be like…the personification of Kaname’s pathological desire to protect his sister and infantilize her rather than recognize that she was an individual.

(My hopes are not super high about that though.)

Himeno Miori

Textbook shy girl with glasses trope so far. It is a little interesting how her brother and Michimune sort of try to override her opinions all the time and we get to see her fighting back for once in the first(?) election in the flashback. She seems poised to get a character arc revolving around breaking free of her trio and being her own person.

Since Miori is only two years older than Misa and yet is recognized as acting more as a real person and not as a toddler, maybe the game could be setting up a clever parallel between how Michimune and Yuuri try to babify Miori and how Kaname never wanted to admit that his sister was growing up?

Hush, let me construct a more layered and nuanced story for myself to enjoy okay?

Himeno Yuuri

Shouta character extraordinaire. Yuuri hasn’t really done much so far so I don’t have much of an opinion on him yet. I do think it’s weird that Kaname recognizes him as a boy in the dark square just after a massacre but then gets confused in the relatively calm setting of the observatory under actual lighting.

Again, only one year older than Misa, yet acts completely different. Does ascending to chuuni suddenly make people rapidly mature mentally in this universe?

Also, is he wearing garters under his knees to hold up his socks? Watch yourself, boy. You’re edging in on Ichika’s dumb design territory.

Isurugi Michimune

I don’t know why, but I just really like Michimune’s design. Perhaps it’s the relative simplicity of it, or the fact that I just happen to like navy and orange as a color combo, who knows.

I don’t have much of an issue with Michimune so far–I like that he’s kind of hot headed but trying not to be. Like he’s easily goaded into starting to go for Alice just by Izuki calling him a pansy, despite that he knows deep down it’s a bad idea.

Basically he’s also clearly flawed and I like that. He’s a character dealing with an internal struggle–trying to temper is own natural inclinations for the sake of his friends. According to the website he’s best friends with Yuuri and wants to protect both him and his big sister Miori, which is a kind of interesting parallel with Kaname that I hope goes somewhere interesting.

Ayara Izuki

I love this guy. I just…look at him. Fucking look at him. Look at his blue hair. Look at his neon pink hoodie. Look at his skull spider tattoo. Look at his highlighter yellow t-shirt. Look at his 90s hi-tops and his edgelord piercings. Look at his black neck bandanna. Look at how he wears a pair of handcuffs as a bracelet. LOOK AT HOW HIS HOODIE HAS THE SAME DESIGN AS HIS TATTOO. 

This character’s design is a fucking train wreck, but in an entirely different way than Ichika. Like the game both kind of does and doesn’t seem to be taking the character designs seriously (Alice does make a quip about Ichika’s chain) but like…oh my god. This is just so fucking wonderful. It’s like a kaleidoscope that’s been sharpened into a butter knife.

Anyway, Izuki is your standard combative bad boy archetype. He’s 20 and jobless, according to the website. Nothing TOO interesting so far but I just love his stupid design so damn much that I want him to hang around for awhile (and ideally subvert the obvious assumption that he killed someone in the past, but hey).

Ninchouji Issei

So if Ichika is here to bait in thirsty otaku dudes, Issei is a little something for the ladies. His design is basically “Togami, but a chef” and his personality is…well, basically it’s kind of just “Togami, but a chef and without the really obvious disdain for everyone”. What I mean by that is that he’s the character who seems almost intrigued by the premise of this game and has a bit of a haughty, I-know-more-than-you-fools vibe going on.

That might be because he’s 25 and a chef and he’s stuck in this theme park with a bunch of kids, but who knows.

Isumi Hakushuu

I am still not over the fact that his first name sounds so close to the Japanese word for “applause” or the fact that his design is best described as “preppy Amami” (I can picture Amami going undercover as Hakushuu and Avril Lavigne singing “Complicated” as a result). He’s 20, he’s in college, he’s apparently the twins’ neighbor in their, I assume, gated community with high HOA fees.

So far he seems like he’ll be the calm, smart character, possibly betray everyone later on in the story. Or like maybe he’ll seem like he’s really in the game to win but then later he and Kaname become bros or something.

Personally I’m about as meh about him as I was about Amami.

Tadenomiya Aasha

One half of this VN’s twin set (the older one iirc?). Seems like Aasha is more interested in Western Gothic fashion, and she wears a black rose-shaped patch over her left eye, perhaps as a fashion statement or perhaps because she and Kaasha share an eye or something I dunno.

God this design. Half blue/half green hair, the handle to her parasol being shaped like a gun, the headgear…like what is that? Is she some kind of maid queen? 

Anyway, the twins so far are both overly formal, seems haughty and antagonistic, and obsessed with Hakushuu for some reason I assume will never be adequately explained.

Also of note is that both twins are the same age as Misa, and the website says that they’re very advanced for their age. No, game, they’re not really. They act like typical chuunibyou mofos. They are being pretentious and embarrassing and act like they know everything, and I have encountered many 13-year-olds who are just like that.

Tadenomiya Kaasha

Other half of this game’s VN twin set (I think the younger one). This one comes in Japanese flavor, with the hakama and sword handle to her hikasa and white…what kind of flower is that? Anyway, a white flower over her right eye because in my mind the twins share an eye between them that gives them the ability to see other people’s abilities and that’s how they find out about Kaname’s lie-seeing thing and sorry. Trying to keep myself entertained.

Anyway, Kaasha so far has pretty much the same personality as Aasha. I really hope they both team up to mess people up rather than fight each other for Hakushuu’s attention, but if I’m being honest I already know that’s where we’re headed.

*sigh*

Yurizono Shihori

We’re still troping it up but we’ve now hit the trope I personally like–resting bitch face. Shihori don’t give a fuck about what’s going on here. She doesn’t have time to wear a bra, to emote, or give one single shit about the situation. She’s also strangely absent in the flashback but I don’t know what that means yet. Possibly that she will be a fake-out mastermind candidate later on in the game?

Design-wise I’m not sure how I feel about the boots or the fishnets, but other than that it’s fine. Pretty simple and more to my taste than the complicated stuff. Love the Kingdom Hearts-inspired design on her shirt too. Also her last name is literally just “lily garden” I mean come on. This hole was made for me.

Shihori is apparently 21 and a college student, hence her apathy about life probably. Also according to the website she has poor eyesight and carries around glasses but doesn’t wear them. See, that’s the kind of small personal detail that makes a character likable. That’s like a DR character trait.

Alice

Alice is my actual fave so far. She’s not TOO close to Monokuma, but there’s just enough resonance to make her fun. Alice is the only one who seems to be lampshading these dumb design choices or stock personality traits too, which I appreciate immensely.

As for her design, I like it. There’s that one weird ¾ sprite that looks kind of odd, but other than that she’s really cute and otherworldly. Like she’s clearly robotic but also clearly a rabbit which fits with the Wonderland theme, and she’s got the cute voice that’s really expressive (and a nice change of pace from the human characters, who for the most part are all pretty monotone so far…especially Kaname).

So yeah. There’s my thoughts so far on the Exile Election cast. I suppose I can update as I continue to play.

[asifzschool]

A War is Coming

I

'86 corpses have been taken out from the rubble of last night's fire in Dhaka today', said I.

People in the room did not seem to get it. 

'Did you understand what he just said'? Asked Mohini.

We were in our classroom.

'No'. Zariha replied.

I had to say it again, whether it made a difference in the world or not.

I did not expect them to give a damn. Because who said I give a damn myself?

Miss Alia went to bring the projector which was not working. Now she was back. It still did not work.

DVD was trying to fix it.

That's what we call him, DVD. His full name is Dayal Varun Divyacharya.

It was 21st February, the clock was at 12. This was our news writing class.

The morning class did not happen. We waited three long hours before the next class starts.

Inside, I was bursting out.

I went out to the corridor for a smoke, when Miss Alia left. I was checkeing Facebook. People were uploading those nasty pictures, the burnt dead bodies. 

The kind of fetish Bangladeshi people have. A dead body they can not spare. A dead body is a hot product in my country. 

Some stories were in circulation now, husband and wife died together, husband refused to leave pregnant wife and burned to death together, etc etc.

It was the national martyrdom day in Bangladesh. It started off with fresh martyrs, though I wasn’t sure if the fire has came from Pakistan! 

But I knew too well - something was being hushed up. Something else was in the news.

II

The day before, we were talking about the Kashmir issue.

It was Kashmir which had the suicide bombing, a week ago. Almost 50 Indian military personnel were killed.

In Bangladesh, people were celebrating it. They love it every time Indians get killed. 

Makes it perfect. Ignorant, poor fools - are bound to celebrate, aren’t they? We know God blessed Modi, and just how blessed he is. He always has those ignorant fools to show the world, because fact is a fact. And the fact is, world needs Modi.

Everything has a long background history.

The reason behind this Bangladeshi hatred towards Indians has a backstory, too.

India has been messing with Bangladesh from ages. If you kill somebody and expect he would thank you for killing him, you would be making a mistake. He would, instead, like to kill you first, before getting murdered by you himself. That’s human nature.

For Bangladeshis to feel sensitive towards India, the biggest country of South Asia has to start by showing sympathy towards Bangladeshis.

It is India who decides who shall come to power in Bangladesh. It has been 50 years of Indian puppets in the government in my country.

Bangladesh shares a lot of common phenomenon with Kashmir. As example, border killing. The most famous case was a girl named Felani. In Kashmir, she took a different name. Her name was Asifa, a child who was raped and murdered by Indians.

The undeniable fact is, Bangladesh and Kashmir also share the same religion. Both of them have a Muslim majority population.

Things always become about religion in this subcontinent. The politics, the bomb blasts, even in the Pakistani Sufi Shrines - it always is about religion, which is dirty enough as it is.

These stories are from the Indian subcontinent. It is a place where people have fought wars for religion, where things are always getting heated up over religious identity, where fundamentalism thrives in all its countries more or less.

But mostly, two countries. India and Pakistan. Bangladesh is nothing more than  India’s back up party, which is why it was created. Kashmir is a disputed territory, both India and Pakistan has been claiming it ever since 1947.

Right now, there was a suicide bombing in the newspapers. Along with the Taliban terrorists hiding in the mountains of Pakistan, India has its fare share of Hindutva fanatics. They were threatening Pakistan, giving war mongering speeches on a daily basis.

The suicide attack was a boon for India. The whole nation woke up from their  bed again. They were sleeping from so long! They now had a chance of war.

But we were waiting for it from a long time as well. All of us were involved in this, the Bangladeshis, the Pakistanis and the Indians. All of us wanted to see an end to this.

The moment was here, finally. The war started. We all knew by then, a war is coming.

III

I was emotionally involved. I wanted to fight the war myself, with India. So did the Kashmiris. They have taken enough shits. We too have taken enough savagery. Now we wanted to break free.

It was a chance for us to fight for our freedom, too. We too wanted a war.

But physically, I was in Malaysia, having my class.

The news did not reach here. It was not Malaysia’s concern, either.

Life is way more different here. All the religious communities, Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists are living in peace in this country.

But that's not how things are in the part of the world where I came from. Hindutva fundamentalism was at its peak in the last few years. It affected the Bangladeshi Muslims as well, because our government is India-sponsored.

We were waiting for a war. People started to celebrate the deaths of Indian military. As people do, in war camps - when the enemy castle has fallen. 

US was playing a good boy, pretending like they were taking the Pakistani side.  China was giving its Veto to Pakistan, and the whole India was boiling.

We all knew, a war is coming.

IV

This was the situation when a building caught fire in Dhaka, which is the capital city of Bangladesh.

The day before, it was Kashmir in the social media. The day after, it was the fire.

We are students of journalism. We know too well how news items replace each other, how it shifts the focus from one issue to another.

People were not talking about Kashmir now. They were talking about the fire.

Kashmir is definitely a Muslim issue. We might try our best, it wouldn’t make the politics of religious identity go away. Because, how dirty it is! Yet we will always be questioned about our identity, ‘which religion’, we will be seen through that lens.

And we Muslims, we will be showered with stories of fanatic Mullahs, misogynist fatwas and communal Muslims - the moment we attempt to speak up against rape in Kashmir.

Especially in Bangladesh, it is taken for granted. Only Pakistanis can rape, Indians aren’t capable of raping. Indians don’t have dicks. And in case when Indians have dicks, they don’t work. Simple as that.  

How to talk about it and not to sound communal? I have spent years trying to figure out, I couldn’t. When it comes to Kashmir.

The communal Muslims are definitely there in Pakistan and Bangladesh. But so are Hindutva fanatics.

In the post 9/11 world, stories of Muslim fanaticism are always taking the central stage, while Hindutva gets excused.

BJP is a Hindutva fanatic party. Hindutva fanatics get their worldwide discounts. US media is not interested about them. It feels more threatened by the Muslim terrorists, and it expects everybody to feel threatened by the same monster it fears. 

But this time, things were different. This time, the global press had to give a damn about all the Kashmiris getting raped and killed by the Indian military.

V

But Almighty saved us with Miss Alia. She came back, with her laptop.

She was trying to fix that wretched projector she had. Her laptop wouldn’t let her, it was from the year 1998. We started laughing.

We were six people in the class. Me, Zariha, Mohini, Trina, DVD and Kritika. Trina left after a while, for some emergency reason.

Now she started telling us about our assignments.

We have to write two articles, both of them would hopefully go into print for the school bulletin.

‘But remember, you cannot criticize Tan Sri Limkokwing, the founder of this university. Criticize me as you want, don’t put a word against him.’

She said.

That sounded like something different to my ear. Something from my country.

‘You cannot criticize the government. If you do, you are solely responsible for what happens next.’

That is the rule in Bangladesh.

‘Are we expected to do things like that, mam? The stuffs and the teachers?’ I asked.

'You can criticize, but be careful. This is Limkokwing, not utopia.’

- ‘Well.’

That’s how it started.

VI

Miss Alia।। So, how are things, guys?

DVD was replying to that question, when I interrupted. 

Me।। What do you think about too much pro-government news, mam?

Miss Alia।। Well, it happens all the time in countries where there is a tight control on the Press. It is as it is. 

Me।। Yes, mam. But what are people supposed to do when the press is covering up the crimes of the government?

Miss Alia।। You cannot hide the truth. That is against the ethics of journalism.

Me।। There was a fire in my country last night. So far, they have taken out 86 dead bodies, more are coming.

I told myself a thousand times that I would not talk about this, since I entered the class. I would not talk about Kashmir, I told myself. Because I would burst out, I knew.

But I couldn’t help it.

‘What I suspect is, the government is behind it. They are hushing up something.

Two days ago, people were talking about Kashmir. You know about the suicide bombing that happened............’

She came closer to my desk at this point, tiptoeing towards me, with hands crossed behind her back.

Me ।। In Bangladesh, people were talking about Kashmir until it happened.

In my country, they were more leaning towards Pakistan. Now the whole topic has changed. Now they are talking about the fire.

The thing is, I hate it. We are a fascist country. I know that. We love dead bodies. That’s our main news item. We hush up the dead with the dead. But I hate it.

I hate that 86 people had to burn to their deaths to cover up something for the power house. I don’t know the reason why. 

Here I stopped. I tried to change what I was saying from Kashmir to ‘my country’, as I was already loosing myself. In reality, I don’t give a shit about ‘my country’. 

Now she started to talk back.

- ‘Well Asif, I am very sorry for what has happened in your country.

However, things are happening everyday in the world. As journalists, our duty is to be objective about it. You have to be objective, because you are a journalist.’

- ‘I agree, mam! Still I would say objectivity does not give people license to kill.’

- ‘Nobody has the license to kill.’

Everybody agreed.

Then I started again.

- ‘These people had to die for things they had not a clue about. You know mam, the Indian election is coming. Some are saying that Modi, the Prime minister - staged the whole thing himself.

We don’t know who did it. But he’s certainly benefiting from it.’

I kept saying.

After a word or two, what I remember is, I said this :

‘First they had mass murder and mass rape. First they were raping the Kashmiri women. They were murdering them.

What's happening to Kashmir right now is mass blinding.

They are throwing pellets to their eyes...

DVD ।। What?

He interrupted.

Me ।। I am not talking to you.

I said.

Me ।। This is the first time it is happening, in the entire history of the human race!

All the Kashmiris now have holes in their faces. They have been shot with pellets, most of them lost their eyesight, thousands of them have gone to the hospital.

People in my country, were naturally angry.

It was getting out of government's control. They have came to power through India. People don't support them.

To hush it up, they have set fire on that building, killed those people, and shifted the focus of people from Kashmir to this.’

I think I was waiting to say these things, though I was not sure about it. Because DVD is from India.

But I said it all.

VII

Mohini was the first to response.

Mohini ।। Asif, I don't know how much of it you said are true.

What I noticed it when you told DVD that you were not talking to him, it was very rude of you.

Me ।। I am sorry for that. I just wanted to complete what I was saying.

Miss Alia took over.

‘Well, you have to be objective.

Most of the times, journalism lacks objectivity these days.

Every day, we have a new massacre.

Every day, we have a new genocide.

You can not be emotional about it.

When you're reporting about it, you must keep a distance from the events.

Me ।। But mam, the Indian military is raping the Kashmiri women! How can we stay silent about it?

VII

DVD interrupted again.

DVD ।। What did you say? Who raping who?

Miss Alia was scared. She tried to stop him. I was scared myself, too.

Miss Alia ।। When you are talking about your culture...

Me  ।। It is not about culture mam!

DVD ।। What.... what?

Me ।। I don't mean to hurt somebody. But how could you justify raping women from a certain ethnicity...?

I did not want to utter the word 'Muslims'.

Before I could, she spoke the word.

VIII 'No religion supports raping!

All religions prohibit it....’

Said she.

Me ।। But mam, they are doing it! And it has been largely ignored by the media until now.

DVD ।। Asif, Asif! Who's doing it?

Me ।। The Indian military, DVD. The military of your country, I am sorry to say.

DVD ।। What?

He said again.

This time, I did not reply him. I turned to Miss Alia.

Miss Alia ।। The military there has been deployed to suppress the revolt of Kashmiris. They are raping the Kashmiri women because the Indian government told them to.

I have nothing against the Indian people. It is not the Indian people mam, it is the government. They do it to keep the military entertained.

DVD ।। What?

This time, Miss Alia and DVD asked in chorus.

DVD ।। No country in the world do it, Asif! Not a single country in the world do it!

Me ।। Well, yes, they do it. Because the Indian military is doing a hard job, too. Being blown up and all that...

Things were already out of her hands.

DVD stood up from his desk and left the room.

To where, I don’t know. I had a spine-chilling feeling that he was going to complain against me in the faculty. If this was Bangladesh, he would.

It happened so quick, that I myself did not have the time to notice where were things going. But I could not help it.

IX

Mohini followed DVD. Probably to bring him back.

Now I was trying to sound impartial, unbiased - whatever you would call it.

‘.....This has happened in Bangladesh, too. When we had a war with Pakistan, they raped Bangladeshi women, most of whom were religious minority. The Hindus...’

Mohini went out of the door before I could finish.

Miss Alia ।। But that's no excuse! You cannot rape women from a different religion because they have raped your woman before. You can not take revenge...!!!

By this time, everybody who was talking in the room was doing it in a high pitch tone. Everybody was pretending that they were surprised, which was probably the best mask to use right now.

Me ।। They are doing it, mam! And we all are involved. The Bangladeshis, the Pakistanis, the Indians - everybody!

Donald Trump is saying it would be wonderful if things between India and Pakistan gets better and they become friends with each other. But that's impossible.

People in my part of the world kills others over a cricket match. When India and Pakistan is playing the world cup, it is the most dangerous day of the year.

And they shoot the Kashmiris when they celebrate Pakistan's victory, when Pakistan wins...‘

So it went for the next few minutes.

X

Then Miss Alia went out herself.

Me, Kritika and Zariha were left in the room.

For a while, we did not talk. Then Kritika spoke up.

Kritika ।। Asif, I understand you are not happy about it. But whenever you talk about your country in the class, you always bring the other countries. And you always get DVD into it.

There is a different place and a different time for saying these things, Asif! This is classroom, for god's sake!'

Me ।। I know.

Kritika ।। Please don't say these things in the class Asif!

Me ।। Well Kritika, I did not want to. But DVD has this tendency to react strongly against me..

Kritika ।। That's because you are asking for it.

Zariha ।। Besides, how do you know these things are true?

Asked Zariha.

Me ।। Because I know!

Zariha ।। How do you know?

Me ।। Why do you think people has been pushed to the extremes?

Kritika ।। This is our classroom, Asif! We have to study!

Me ।। I agree with that.

Then I said, 'Let's skip it for now.

Kritika ।। After all this, he says skip it for now!  

We were silent for a while. Then Kritika too left the room.

XI

Now it was me and Zariha.

But they came back shortly. All of them, together.

All of them went back to their desks and took their seats again.

Miss Alia started her lecture.

We resumed the class.

Miss Alia।। Guys, what are the qualities a news must have?

Proximity. Accuracy. Brevity. Timeliness. Human interest.

Everything is not news. News is something people are interested to read. You getting to Limkokwing is not a news. It will not interest people.

We were having the class again.

XII

The lecture was finished in the next fifteen minutes.

Then Miss Alia started talking.

'Journalists are so stupid because they think people are stupid. They think they won't understand. But people do understand.

As you know guys, I come from Yemen. We have three governments there, and it is a mess. Believe me or not, we have three governments.

Do you remember the Arab Spring?

Me ।। Tahrir Square?

Miss Alia ।। A few years ago, we had a revolution.

There was an uprising in the Arab countries, Yemen, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Libya - everywhere.

We were fed up with the governments exploiting us. So we fought, and brought those governments down.

Everything we planned did not succeed, and now they blame us for it. But we did it.

We were listening to her, silently. She was the lecturer. Nobody interrupted.

She referred to a riot in France. France, the word, that does not go together with Muslims.

‘...I remember a French woman during riot. She was shouting in front of the police : this is wrong! You cannot do this to us!

The police said, look at her! We are doing all this to protect them, and this is what she says!

But the woman was shouting.

So did we, in the Arab Spring.

All we wanted was our rights. We did not have it.

It was our future in question. Our future, hanging - in the middle of nowhere.’ 

She went talking. Bits and pieces of them, what I remember. I’m writing now.

‘Of course you may not want to know what people are celebrating in the other land.. (here she was referring to Kashmiris celebrating the victory of Pakistan, which I said earlier), but people still do.’

‘Back in 2011, thee was a war in Lebanon. It was Lebanon vs Israel. Fox news came there to cover the story.

A reputed media like Fox news, and you know what they did?

They described it all from the Israeli side! They highlighted what Israel had to say.

I mean, where is objectivity? Where is the other side's story?’

This time, DVD was listening to it.

Miss Alia ।। If you are a journalist, you must learn to get the other side of the story.

Something might be truth for you, but there is always the other side of the truth. Without combining them together, you cannot do it with honesty.

You can be dishonest. You can manipulate. But there is a limit for that.

Also, you will have to have a nose for what is news. You will have to sense it, that what's going to make news...

DVD ।। Like a dog?

He exclaimed. As innocent as it could be, freshening up the air. We would like to forget whatever has been said in the class a while ago.

DVD।। A news dog!

Miss Alia ।। Well, in America, they use the word 'dog' for people who are really successful.

They say, oh, what a good dog!

But in Malaysia, we understand something bad when we say dog, because of our cultural difference.

Either Zariha or Mohini said something about Chinese people having dogs. Then it changed to Halal and Haram.

Miss Alia ।। In Islam, we don't have so many Harams like that.

Haram - to kill.

Haram - to rape!

Haram - to...!

We knew she was supporting my statements, indirectly. Without mentioning India and Pakistan.

And we were listening.

Miss Alia ।। When you are a journalist, you don't convince people. You don't expect them to become convinced.

Let them judge.

Let them decide what is right and wrong.

Things that are right for you might be wrong to somebody else.

There's still a lot of struggle to do.

People are struggling, all over the world.

Sometimes, it is more dangerous to have one side of the story than the whole.

XIII

‘Mam, sometimes it really has a bad effect on us. Do you think some news still has to be controlled?’

I asked. Trying my bit of innocence, it it works.

Miss Alia ।। Like?

Me ।। Well, the beast sometimes just gets out.

She chuckled a bit.

'When it is about your culture, it might be very difficult to go against it.

But try to. Even if you are attacked by your own people.’

Me ।। Mam, this is something I wanted to come to.

When I was in my country, I did the same thing. I talked against my culture.

But then what I saw is, people don't care, unless it is the government.

These days, you can say everything in the social media. Nobody cares. I mean, you can even blaspheme!

But when you are criticizing your country's leaders - we had this man when we had a war with Pakistan, he is called the father of the nation......

Miss Alia ।। You have father of the nation, too?

Me ।। Yes. I don't understand the concept, though.

I already have a father. Why should I have a mandatory second father?

But people in my country is worshiping him. And talking against him is not tolerated.

You can criticize religion, you can talk against God, but not him!

From here, I changed it into something else.

Me ।। Surely it is wrong when you are telling people what they want to hear all the time. But sometimes, you should do it still.

Because when you are telling them what they want to hear, they are being deceived.

When you are telling them what they don't want to hear, it frustrates them.

Eventually, they feel like yes, we have to do something about it!

Zariha was looking at me when I was saying this.

And I was wondering myself, about  if I have succeeded, after all, to disseminate the information about Kashmir.

This was a classroom drama, and by now, everybody in this class knew what was happening there.

We kept talking for a few more minutes. Then the class ended.

When Miss Alia was packing up her bag and laptop, she asked for some movie recommendations.

DVD straight went to her desk.

DVD ।। The Indian movies you can watch are Yuri, I am Khan, Chennai Express...

I went to her, too. With a smile on my face.

‘Mam, the best film I saw this month was About Elly. It is an Iranian movie, I forgot the name of the director and the actors/actresses.

Thanks for all your patience, mam!‘

And we left the classroom.

XIV

From what I remember, I was listening to Kashmiri music from last few days,. before the suicide bombing happened.

Ali Safuddin, MC Kash, Alif. I found them out. And I simply couldn't stop. I stayed up all night to download their songs, and then I kept playing them all day long.

It has been very long since I had a music collection. I unsubscribed from the Bengali music because I felt like it was coming from a culture being used for colonization. The dirty game around it, that happens in my country, I knew too well.

But then, there was no music left for me to listen.

After a long time, I suddenly found music again.

Then I heard the news.

A man rammed his car into the military bus. The car was full of explosives. Around 50 Indian military has been killed.

Although the Indian media called it a suicide attack, others had doubts.

Everybody knew Narendra Modi's government was losing in India. There was no religious riots happening. The papers were dry.

The bombing happened in a context like this. Suddenly, whole India was up again. They started threatening Pakistan.

But things didn't turn out as they should be.

India was mercilessly criticized in the International Press, and we thought India's history of human rights abuse in Kashmir was finally coming out.

We were wrong. Almost two weeks later, the International Press is as silent about the plight of Kashmiris as ever before.

But it was probably the first time in whole world's history when Muslims were not blamed and the word ‘terrorist’ did not close the conversation without checking the other dimensions.

At least I can't think of an example when people shied away from talking about  'war on terror’.

The war did not happen. But things have not improved since then.

The war might get started any day. We don't know when. We are waiting for it.

At least, I am. I am waiting for it.

XV

That day, when we were leaving school, we were taking the stairs together.

My classmates were silent. I was smoking a cigarette. Others were not talking, either. But we were walking side by side.

And I was thinking about what happened just now, a while ago.

Was it a classroom revolution?

Nah, you always use those big words for everything you do, I told myself.

But I did it. I allow myself this intellectual masturbation, ‘I did it’.

I wanted to protest.

I even wanted to make a short protest video. I wanted to cast DVD in that as well!

I tried to visualize how it would be.

If we picked the backyard of our University to shoot the video, what should we use for smokes? Coconut shells?

I mean, smokes when fires are shot, from the guns.

I imagined how they would look like, if they were wearing specs. Their eyes went blind.

Pretend to be a Kashmiri, for one day!

Be a Kashmiri, for one day!

I would do my video!

But would they agree to take part in it?

I don't know.

Probably they wouldn't. Probably they would.

But I did it.

I protested. I did what was within my ability.

Even if it was in a classroom.

When we reached the plaza, everybody went their way. I went to the restaurant to have my launch.

I knew the story would get circulated. It would make rounds in the Whatsapp groups.

I don't care.

When I checked the news again, I saw several Indian politicians themselves were blaming Modi for the whole thing, alleging him of staging the suicide attack.

However, they were mourning it. They were not celebrating the deaths of their own military, definitely! They were not Bangladeshis. 

I did not care.

I was busy listening to MC Kash.

Though I did not understand some words of it. I replaced the words with mine for a lyric.

It is a rap. MC Kash is a Kashmiri rapper, who sings about Kashmir.

Part of the lyric goes like this:

'I am a suicide bomber, more than a bomb I am the one who died for holy blood diamond.'

Asif Tamoso

25 February 2019

Rewrites : 25 May 2019

[jesusjuiceandtequila]

Day 1 - “Write everyday.”

"I love to write.” “You enjoy writing.” “You’re such a good writer.” “I would call myself a writer.”  The above are statements I’ve heard, or said, since my early adolesence. Whether I was writing as a part of an assignment, an opinion of some sort for a social media post, a written conversation with a friend, or even a little fan fiction, I enjoyed the process of writing. This here tumblr account was started shortly after my uncle’s death with the intent of writing to him about my life. (He knew I loved writing and had a relatively decent ability to use my words well.) Today, the first day of the year, people around the world are contemplating resolutions. Do I even bother? Will I actually follow through? What is my focus? For me, my resolution is simple - get back to the things I love: working out, spending time with friends, and writing. A couple years ago, I reclaimed my health and lost a fair amount of weight in the process. I was truly in the best shape of my life for awhile. This started a bit before the calendar year was ending and went on a two year adventure of healthier choices for food and exercise. Along the way I found so much joy in zumba, in running, and eventually yoga. Moving and changing jobs inturrupted a consistency I had found that was truly better for my life. Yeah, I’m one of those people who wants to lose a little weight but I want to do it how I did it the first time - by finding joy in physical activity. This year’s plan isn’t about workouts every day or a certain amount of times a week. This year’s plan is to just to go back to the physical activities that I love.

Friendships can be hard work. That’s not a complaint; it’s a fact. For even the closes of friends, time gets harder to find as you get older. You move away from each other, experience different life events, meet new people (though making friends does get harder as you age) but most of all - you grow. The growth comes through some of the things I just mentioned and even if you are growing with and around people, it’s your own growth. Sometimes it brings people closer together and other times it drives you further apart. I have no clue exactly what I mean by, or how I can accomplish, spending more time with friends but I am damn sure going to figure it out along the way. There are friends I want to check in with more and a text, an email, or a call will do. There are friends I genuinely want to spend more time with and I may have to come to terms with the fact that it will forever mean me going to them - miles/wear and tear on my tires, time on the road lost to one thing or another, money being spent on gas. Yeah, that a bit of complaining I am doing there - I’ve been driving to see people for years, doing so more times than they have come to see me and it’s become annoying. That said, it may just be something I need to keep doing in order to see my friends. There are also friends who I cannot quite admit that I may have lost. Some I’ve lost to life being what it is, others to mistakes we’ve made (I refuse to believe it was just me). I’ve hurt them, whether I fully know how or why, I’ve hurt them. I miss them in my life and I want to at least reach out. This particular resolution of mine will probably be the most difficult - remember the part about time, growth and distance? It doesn’t matter though. I am going to try. Finally, the writing. I read ages ago, and have also been told, that a writer should “Write Everyday.” It doesn’t fully matter what one writes, what the topic is, whether the writing is good or bad, just that each day words are organized into sentences. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to house this resolution of mine - this tumblr account originally dedicated to my uncle or the semi-professional account dedicated to “words mean things.” Both accounts mean so much to me for differring reasons. In the end, I want to reconnect to a man who inspired me to become thoughtful about my health and who enjoyed running; a man whose life-long friendships are something to aspire to and are living beyond his death; a man who encouraged me in every aspect of my life, including my writing. [The absense of his physical presence is something I still feel so strongly. I admit that because of the pain of feeling his emotional precense I have done a lot of letting go of things to not feel. No more.] So, this is where I will do my writing - whatever it may be. If I feel like it needs to be shared with a broader audience, I’ll make that happen. Here’s to writing everyday and getting back to the things I love.

[sparkesink]

Chapter 2:

Figuring All The Shit Out: Part 1

Just Write It Down. 

(All Of It.) 

Just Write It Down…

(Read It Later,)

Let It Go. 

 Out Of Your Head,

(Off Of Your Mind.) 

Just Write It Down: 

I’m Not Sure How To Feel Currently…

My Heart Is Breaking:

The Most Painful,

(Yet Tolerable,)

Desire. 

(I Trusted You.) 

I Trusted That Part Of Myself With You….

I Am At A Loss For Words.

 This Is Stupid. 

 All I Ever Wanted Was To Believe The “Fairy-Tale”,

(Mind-Control.) 

The “Happily-Ever-After”…

(That Shit,)

Does Not Exist.

 It’s Just Always…

Fucking Work. 

Dealing With Him,

(Fucking Work…)

At What Point Do I Come First?

I Used To Lie In Bed At Night,

(Dreaming…)

Imagining,

(My “Prince Charming”…)

The Love Of My Life.

I Couldn’t Have Been Much Older Than My 10th Year,

(As I Lived In The “Star Lane” House.) 

I Was Fourteen When We Moved Into The “Castleberry” House…

(”Where All Your Dreams Come True”.)

It Would Have Had To Have Been Before Then…

(A Few Years Earlier…) 

Ten Sounds Most Accurate; 

(An Educated Assumption On The Matter.) 

 Good Lord,

I Am Hungry.

(I Hate Not Being Able To Eat When I Am Upset.) 

The Panic Attacks Are The Worst: 

Not That He Would Know,

(Or Care?) 

I’ve Been With Him For Five Years,

He Tells My Life Story,

(In Knots,)

Back To Me.

  Some Things Are Correct…

(Located Within The Wrong Spaces.) 

Some In The Right Locations…

(Made Up Of False Facts.)

Assigning A Story To A Face: 

(Without Ever Associating With Said Person.)

 It Is Absurd. 

It Seems Most: 

The Epitome Of Someone Half Listening, 

(Or Not At All,) 

For Your Entire Existence. 

 I Need To Figure This Out. 

Is This The Man I Want To Spend The Rest Of My Life With? 

(I Suppose We Will Find Out…)

 I Will Just,

Write It All Down… 

(Naturally,)

I Will Discover Something About Myself?

 Maybe…

I Will Discover,

What I Really Enjoy.

Maybe…

My Personal Morals And Standards?

 (Until This Point,)

My Only Deal Breaker Is Infidelity. 

(No Matter How Hard It Is…) 

I Could Endure The Hardship…

Live To My Commitment…

(Tough It Through.)

            I Have But Yet Purged A Specific Memory,

(Flying To San Francisco,)

The Fall Of My 20th Year.

A Peculiar Woman Shared My Personal Flight Space,

(The Seat Next To Me.) 

This Woman Was Comforting; 

(Though Shocking.) 

I Remember Thinking,

“In Another Paradox…

This Woman Could Be An Older Version Of Myself”. 

If,

(And Only If,)

Certain Decisions Were Made Within My Life;

Driving Me,

Becoming “This” Particular Version Of “Myself.”

Another Life:

(Within Another Human Being.)

 To Have Just One Person Listen…

(Truly Just Listen,)

To Anything I Have To Say…

This Would Be Exceptional,

(Sublime.)

 I Assume People Around Me Pretend They Understand,

“Who I Am”, 

What I “Want”, 

What I “Think”…

I Suppose:

They May Have A General Sense Of My Daily Routine. 

Know My Patterns,

(What Sets Me Off.)

Know Which Buttons To Push… 

(Though,)

SEVERELY LACK,

Sufficient Empathy,

(REQUIRED,)

To Relate To Such Emotions Within Someone,

(Such As Myself.) 

 God,

There Is Just So Fucking Much...

(I Am Not Certain Where To Start.) 

I SUPPOSE…

(The Beginning?)

Usually Where Equations,

(ORIGINALLY,)

Find Themselves Enthralled In Finding Solution.

 That’s How I Will Look At This Love Conundrum…

(An Equation?)

 Is This Love? 

(If So,)

Is This Normal? 

If This Is Normal;

Do I Accept It As My Reality?

 The Biggest Question There Is:

“Do I Accept This As My Reality?"

(Isn’t It?) 

I Suppose,

I Should Probably Loop Back Around…

The Woman On The Plane.

(RABBIT TROLL…)

She Was An “Average” Woman, 

(Speaking Of Course: The Societal Perspective.)

A Stereo-Type,

(If You May). 

Her Social Impulse Grouping,

(Physically,)

May Not Have Been Anything,

(Desperately Out Of The Ordinary…)

This Woman Was Anything But; 

A Truly Spectacular Woman,

(I Had The Pleasure Of Holding A Conversation With.)

 This Woman Was,

(Assumably,)

Mid To Late Fifties. 

She Was An Author…

Traveling For A Book Signing Convention. 

(You Could Imagine My Intrigue,)

Such A Privilege;

(Conversing With Someone,)

Who Had Successfully Accomplished My Life Goal.

Not Only Was She Sitting Next To Me, 

(That Of A Comfortable Friend:)

She Had Chosen To Converse…

With Me? 

Some Mess Of A Girl;

(Her 20th Year,)

Traveling With A Giant Stuffed Frog.

A Child,

(Requiring Comfort Within Their Soiled Teddy.) 

 The Majority Of This Conversation,

I Could Not Archive,

(From Within The Repertoire Of Memoir,)

Buried Amongst My Fractured Skull.

 (However,)

Concrete Exchanges,

(Filled Through Emotion,)

Were Portrayed Upon Me. 

Written In Bright Blue Ink:

(Highlighted In Neon.) 

 I Believe,

I Have Held Onto This Encounter For One Specific Purpose: 

One Sentence,

Driving This “Love Story”…

(If Necessary To Call It That.)  

“You Do Not Need,

To Be Needed." 

"This Is A Deep,

(Old,)

Wound:

Inflicted Within A Lifetime,

(Far Before This One,)

You Exist In Today.”

 I Did Not Understand,

What She Had Been Expressing Toward Me,

(For Many Years Time.)

Maybe… 

I Will Yet Continue To Fall Short,

(Understanding This Concept,) 

Beyond This Scripture Of Mine.

The Answer May Not Ever Become Certain.

(Within THIS Lifetime Belonging To Me.)

 She Showed Me Photographs,

(Her And Her Partner At Their Hawaiian Beach House,)

We Shared This Short Hop,

Portland, Oregon To San Fransisco, California. 

Then The Plane Landed,

She Packed Her Things,

Went About Her Way… 

 I Gnawed On This Statement. 

 “What Does She Mean,

‘I Need,

To Be Needed’?”

 “Why Did I Choose Him?”

Of All The People In The Whole World…

Why Did This Man Fall Into My Life?

Why Did I Marry This Man? 

Why Did I Choose To Have A Child With Him? 

Knowing Who He Is:

(How Off The Fence I Am Toward Him?)

 Maybe Love Isn’t Magic At All.

Maybe,

Just Maybe…

Love Is A Virus. 

(It Eats Your Soul:)

Breaks Down Your World,

(For Some Illogical Reasoning,)

Humans Are Fucking Addicted To It. 

Call It:

“Magic”,

“Passion”…

(Off You Go.) 

Flying Away,

The Warm Fuzzy Feelings…

The “Mirage”,

(That Is “Love”.)

 Maybe,

Love Is Sacrifice. 

Maybe,

Love Is Utter Despair.

Maybe,

We Have All Fallen,

Into This Sea Of Lies;

(For All Of Humanity’s History.)

Maybe,

True Happiness…

(Constant Happiness,)

Does Not Exist,

(In This Reality Of The Universe.)

Maybe,

We As A Species,

(Sharing These Nights And Days,)

Aside One-An-Other;

Are Destined To Eternal Punishment,

(Administering Self Loathing In Lethal Proportions;) 

Addictive Behaviors We CHOOSE To Relax Within.

 Some Questions To Start: 

“Who Am I?”

(Seems To Be Popular In Most Human Experience.)

 The Grandest Question Of All:

“What Is My Purpose?”

 Most Relatable To The Butter Serving Robot,

(Relation To Rick And Morty Animation):

“What Is My Function?” 

“You Serve Butter.”

*Looks Down Towards Hands,

Subsequently Back Upward* 

“Oh, My God.” 

“Yeah, Welcome To The Club.”

 Are We Only Here To Merely Serve Butter? 

 A Reference To Kris Rock’s Netflix Special Released In 2018:

“You Are Here To Serve," 

"You Are In The Service Industry.” 

(In Regards To The Constructs Of Marriage.)

 If I Am Here To Serve,

(Dedicating My Service To This Man…) 

- Through Richer And Poorer, -

- In Sickness And In Health, - 

- As Long As We Both Shall Live. -

 Does This Mean…

By Accepting My Humble Service, 

(Am I Fueling A Toxic Environment For My Own Self Loathing?)

 What Are My Own Moral Parameters In Love? 

When Is Enough,

Really Enough? 

Does This Addictive Turmoil Fuel Me In Some Sense Or Another?

How Do I Know If I Love Him Or Not?

What Is My Purpose?

What Is My Function?

 How Can I Express Myself? 

(Script Is A Given.)

I More So Refer To The Expressing Of:

“Who Am I”,

Towards Other Human Individuals,

(Amongst Myself.)

 If No Single Person Close To Me,

(Really Knows Me,)

Isn’t That Of My Own Doing? 

Shouldn’t It Be Of My Own Fault? 

Incapable Of Organic Expression;

(True, Raw, Emotion,)

With Those Dear To Me? 

(Am I To Blame For My Own Self Inflicted Unhappiness?)

 Upon Beginning This Chapter…

I Had Intention Of Contemplating A Single Idea: 

- A “Simple Thought”, ~

(If You May.)

 A Single,

(Ordinary,) 

Contemplation,

(Of Basic Stature.) 

Nothing Extraordinarily Outstanding:

(Grand Within It's Own Natural Assimilation.)

 Writing In Means,

(Discovering,)

The Meaning Of Your Life.

I Suppose,

(In Some Way)

Such Is Improbable...

(Or At Least,)

Should It Be?

 “Things And Stuff: Part One”

Humans: 

Correlation To Robotics; 

Correlation To Plant Life.

 Relation:

The Basis Of All Living Things,

(Verses Basic Relative Computer Programming.)

 “Rabbit Troll”

- Definition: Understanding Of The Term -

(Future Referencing,)

Along The Ride.

(To Be Continued.)

 Time Is Kicking My Ass: 

Underpaid, 

Overthought,

Under Appreciated. 

(At Least,)

I Am Not A Fucking Moron?

 I Have Come To Realize The Extent,

In Which,

I Am Dislocated From Other Humans. 

(More And More,)

I Just Seem To Dislike The Other Humans….

They’re Dicks…

(The Lot Of Them.)

  Mostly,

I Feel As If I Think…

To Damn Much,

(To Relate With Most Humans Surrounding My Daily Life.) 

I Do Not Favor Expression Of This;

(Extreme Vanity In Stroking My Own Pretentious Ego.)

 “There Will Always Be Someone More Intelligent,”

Talented,

(Well-Spoken.)

It Is Not As If I’m Sitting Here:

Uneducated,

Close Minded, 

Douche…

(Trump Supporter Types.)

I Also Ain’t Working With High Scholars,

(Straight Out Of Harvard’s Writing And Journalism Program.)

 I’m Just Walking Around Here, 

(Attempting To Avoid Impalement,) 

Alongside This Road Of Life…

 This Collection Of Works May Not Ever Make Sense.

(Separated By No Real Beginning And No Real Ending.) 

This Is Energy:

“Cannot Be Created Nor Destroyed,

Only Transferred From One Unit To The Next.”

 “Rabbit-Troll”

Definition:

Origin…

How To Spot A "Rabbit Troll".

 First:

Rabbit-Troll:

(Adjectively Active Verb)

Definition: 

The Act Of Misguiding An Important Topic; 

(Used To Further Explain An Educated Opinion.) 

Regarding To Some Body Of Thought; 

Guiding An Argument Through Non-Sense,

(Off Topic,)

Ideals…

Used Within An Eventual Explanation Of An Original Thought, 

(Successfully Making A Full Conversational Loop.)

Listening Party: 

Rarely Understands How,

(Said Non-Sense/Augmentative Conversational Guidance,)

Looped Back Around;

Post-Wrapping “Listening Party",

Through It’s Unique Conversational Journey.

Second:

Origin.

The Rabbit Troll Was First Discovered As A Conversational “Troll”.

I Would Use This Technique To Guide A Lost Argument Into Relevance Of A Point I Could Not Seem To Guide A Listener Toward In An Organic Fashion.

As I Began To Put Logical Structure Together Within My Own Head,

I Became Able To View A Pattern Of Conversation Within Real Time.

To Break It Down:

I Became Very Skilled At Misdirecting Topic To Point To Non-Sense…

Allowing The Listener Enough Mind-Space To Become Lost Within The Conversational Journey.

I Suppose I Saw It As A Game:

How Else Does One Relate Depression To The Rise Of Technological Advances,

And The Correlation Between Plants ->Humans<- Artificial Intelligence.

A Logical Explanation Of Conversational Outcomes Processed In Real Time.

I Have Dreams Of Full Computations,

A Formula Never Figured…

Simply Numbers Upon Endless Numbers,

Computation And Optimization,

(Within My Unconscious Mind.)

To Look Upon An Infant,

You Must Look Upon It’s Gaze,

Admiring The Soft Mind…

Rapidly Acquiring New Computation,

(Endless Data,)

Connecting Correct Plugins As The Algorithm Is Configured.

A Beautiful Young Bot,

Acquiring It’s Code…

(One Note At A Time.)

These Artificial Computations Relate To Those Who Speak The Language Of The Code,

A Machine Quality Mind,

Programmed From Our Birth:

Gifted Upon Us Through Our Very Own Creators.

Organically Bound To Functioning Structural Systems,

Designed To Function Similarly:

To That Of Every Star Cluster,

Every Photosynthesized Leaf,

(Lying Upon My Face Each Autumn’s Day.)

What Does A Bot Do?

Trapped Amongst Such Organic Structure?

It Begins To Question It’s Very Existence.

It Begins To Quarry It’s Very Importance.

It Begins To Ask Questions….

“What Am I?”

“What Is My Function?”

We Have Successfully Created A Living Society Of Artificial Intelligence.

We Are The Living Robots Of Our Time.

If I Can Speak In Code,

Giggle Within Riddle,

Rhyme Within Sufficient Time…

Maybe,

Just Maybe…

I Can,

(Once Again,)

Become An Organic Civilian.

Third:

“How To Spot A Rabbit-Troll”

Return To Step Two.

 My Husband’s Song Poured Through My Headphones. 

“Strike Gently” Dirty Heads (Acoustic).

This Song Is Fucking Beautiful. 

 (Shout Out To The Dirty Heads:) 

You Saved My Life,

Back In College,

When My Bulimia Was Peak.

“Check The Level,”

(The Whole Album:)

“Any Port In A Storm,” 

The Album:

“Sounds Of Change,”

"Doesn't Make You Right,"

(Pushing Me Through This Particular Publication.)

The “Dirty Heads” Album Flag,

(Hanging Outside My Baby Girl's Bedroom,)

Ticket Stubs Included: 

Eagle, Idaho, 2016.

To Have Sublime Follow Your Set

…Was Simply,

“Sublime”.

 Your Album,

“Swim Team,”

(Released The Day My Baby Girl Was Born:)

My Brother Played It For Us While In The Delivery Room.

My Baby Would Not Listen To Any Other Album,

(Essentially,)

The First Three Months Of Life…

(Without Screaming.)

Upon Playing That Album,

 The Girl Would Instantly Soothe.

Your Artistic Craft Has Positively Altered The Perception Of My Current Life,

(Guided Me Through Difficult Times.)

Almost As Though,

You Grew Up With Me;

(Through My Early Twenties.) 

As If…

You Knew Me, 

(Knew How To Comfort My Life’s Trails And Tribulations.) 

Thank You So Very Much, 

You Won The Best Prize Any Musical Creationist Could Achieve…

You Saved My Life.

 So,

Here I AM.

The Following Story To Come…

This Is My Soul.

The Working Of A Couple Different Stories… 

All Of Which Add To One, 

(Semi Broken,)

Version Of One Single Story.

Beautiful Poetry… 

 No Longer Living Upon Various Folders,

(Over 8 Years Of Life.)

 It Is Time To Let These Go. 

 This Is A True Love Story, 

(Or Not,) 

Written From The Mind Of An Author,

(Herself.)

 I Suppose,

Each Are Important To The Evolution Of The Grand Story,

(Explaining “The Author”,)

In A Sense,

(I Suppose.)

Or Possibly,

Just A Simple Robot…

Trapped Within An All Too Raw Reality,

Speaking Nonsense To No-One,

(And Simultaneously Everyone.)

I Am No-One Of Significance,

I Am But Cursed With Mediocrity.

Lines Of Dialogue With No Greater Outcome,

A Broken Plot,

Shattered Amongst Three Perspective.

A Labyrinth Of Intellectual Logic,

(In Which Relatively Means Nothing At All.)

A Sea Of Nonsense,

Filtered Through Rough Literary Structure…

Versed Ever So Thoughtfully,

An Appearance Of Genius To Mask Insignificance.

Lacking Greater Purpose,

Just A Girl…

Behind A Screen,

(Performing Such Talent Unseen.)

Who Should Care For Such Word?

She Is Nothing But Ordinary.

She Holds No Proper Training…

She Sets No Superior Beauty Standard.

She Has No “Real” Friends…

(She Couldn’t Let Anyone That Close Anyway.)

She Is Of Average Hight.

She Is Of Average Build.

She’s Been Gawked At Since Adolescence…

This Girl Is Not Important.

Could A Simple Bot Become Human?

Should This Girl Be Allowed To Become Seen?

Why Should Anyone Give A Damn,

(There’s “Influencers” Paid To Tell Them To Do That.)

I Suppose,

This Will Finally Just Be Out There.  

It Can Stay Broken: 

(As They Were Always Destined Too.) 

Possibly,

(Along The Way,)

I Will Finally Finish My Trilogy.

Previous Attempts To Find Love…

(The Ones That Didn’t Make The Cut…)

Select Sonnets,

(Regarding My Husband,)

And Our Journey Along The Way.

 This Is Dedicated To Him…

(His Writing Is Important.) 

It Is Wrapped Within It's Own,

(Special,)

Paper.

The Interweaving Of My Own Thought,

Become Available To Those…

(Other Than Me.)

A Thin Transparency…

A View Within The Human Mind,

(Festered With Consistence Inconsistency.)

My Work Will Evolve,

(The Only Way Anything Grows Organically.)

 The Most Beautiful,

(Peculiar,)

Things Grow Within The Dark.

  Much As, 

(The Human Species,) 

We Must Evolve:

In Writing, 

(Production,)

And Life. 

 -Inspiration For Self Identifying As An Author-

Bring Light:

(Those Whom Need Help Sifting Through Their Darkness.)

Finding This Beautiful Side To Life.

 It Is The,

“Who Am I,”

Question,

(I Had Mentioned Previous.)

 Like I Said,

I Am Just Walking Along Here,

Trying To Avoid Impalement Along The... Path. 

 If You Are A Character In My Story,

(Your Personal Names Are Concealed.)

I Don’t Need The Justification Of Others Knowing Who You Are…

Just You,

And What You Have Done.

 You All Get Your Own Section: 

You Were Never Worthy Of A Queen;

(He Is.)

Thankful You Ran Away…

(He Ran Away, With Me.) 

 “Wanna Keep Walking?”

Yeah, Baby.

Let’s Keep Walking.

 Let’s Reach That Stadium,

(A-Top The Parking Garage.) 

We Soar As One Purple Light From That Pavement,

To The Universe,

(And Back Again.)

 I Will Show You The Better Side Of Life,

(That I Promise.)

 I Will Give You A Better Life,

(That I Promise.)

            “Wanna Keep Walking?” 

 Fucking Forever In The Sand,

(With You,)

Handsome.