#i had known freedom for six and a half glorious months

[thebeetleboy]

you bitches got me back into my hannibal obsessions. ill never forgive you

[theastrophilearchitect]

February 2021 wrap-up.

Every book, audiobook, tv show and movie I consumed in February.

The phrase ‘wrap-up’ is so boring. I want to talk about books, TV shows and movies, so I can’t even call it a ‘reading wrap-up’, however pleasingly alliterative that sounds despite the fact that ‘wrap’ actually begins with a W. One of my favourite YouTubers, polandbananasBOOKS (that capitalisation is loud) calls her wrap-ups ‘Stories I Ate This Month’ which I love, but using exactly that seems wrong. I genuinely debated calling this ‘My Media Diet’, but the word ‘diet’ has so many negative connotations to me, so I dropped that. Besides ‘wrap-up’ all in lowercase followed by a full stop is aesthetically pleasing.

The Hunger Games and Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins (audiobook) I’ve read this series countless times. I read the series first time through six years ago, and, after finishing it, I just kept rereading it during silent reading time at school, so God only knows how many times I’ve read it at this point. This is actually the second time I’ve listened to this audiobook, and I still, of course, love it. When I first read it, this book stuck with me. It was the first teen book I ever read and, most unfortunately, put me into a dystopian phase. However, we got over that. I’m good now. I promise.

You know what this is about, but here it is anyway: in a dystopian future (of literally just North America, it never mentions what’s happening anywhere else), a country called Panem (literally the whole of North America) is divided into the luxurious, utopian Capitol, and thirteen districts, all of which gather or produce something for the Capitol. Some of the districts live in poverty, while others are afforded some luxuries but nowhere near those of the Capitol. It never really explains how this system came to be, but then there was a rebellion against the Capitol in which District Thirteen was destroyed, and every year two teenagers from each district are chosen to compete in the Hunger Games, where twenty-four tributes are put in an arena together to fight to the death, and the last person standing emerges victorious. It feels so strange to talk about the basic premise of this book without going into the rest of the trilogy, but I’ll leave it here.

I hate how the media washes this book out and plays it off as just another love triangle, which it barely even is. It has such an important message about society, and the fact that the media does that just proves how accurate it is. I can’t believe when I first read it I was actually Team Gale, but in truth I think that was just because I liked Liam Hemsworth better than Josh Hutcherson, which I still do, but not the point. Anyway, the narrator is excellent.

I’m not giving these booksa rating, both because it’s a reread and I like to base ratings off my initial opinion, and because the first time I read this book I was literally a small child, and part of my love is the nostalgia.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by VE Schwab

This was the first book I read with my eyes this month, and I ended up getting the ebook because it was just so much cheaper than getting a physical copy - I may have invested if I loved the UK cover as much as the US, I’m ashamed to say (above is UK). It was not what I was expecting.

This book was much more contemplation-heavy than I was expecting and actually very light on plot. In 1714, Adeline LaRue runs away from her wedding and prays to Gods, wishing to be free, and is answered by the darkness, who makes her a deal: he grants her immortality, and she promises him her soul when she doesn’t want it anymore. He, wanting her soul, twistedly grants her freedom by cursing her to be forgotten by everyone she ever meets. Three hundred years later, she meets someone who remembers her.

It’s really about life, freedom and time - there’s no direct message or moral, at least not that I picked up on, but it really makes you think. I do enjoy that in a book, but not as much as one where i just love the story. I generally prefer books where I’m rooting for the characters, and it’s full of ships - the kind of stories you would write fanfiction about, but this is the kind of book that I think will stick with me. I take issue with how cliché the ending was, though.

Anyway, I’m not actually sure how I want to rate this. As a British teenager, I’m not actually that familiar with lettered ratings, and I don’t really want to use stars, but I think I’m going to suck it up. Maybe I’ll think of something else eventually.

Rating: 4.5 stars - books that get five stars from me are generally based on the enjoyment factor, but this book deserved more than four.

Arrow Season 1

I’ve been semi-interested in the Arrowverse/DC TV universe for a while, and finally took the opportunity to delve in. This show is so insanely CW - everyone has that look, it has that tone and it takes itself way too seriously. By the 23rd time you’re hearing it, the recap becomes painful to listen to.

This was the first show in DC’s saga - the show picks up as Oliver Queen returns home from being stranded on an island for five years after a cruise ship sank. When the ship went down, his billionaire father sacrificed himself to save Oliver, and left him with a list of ‘the people poisoning [his] city’. Upon returning home, Oliver becomes the vigilante who will eventually become known as ‘Arrow’ or ‘Green Arrow’ (currently unclear; I’m not a comic book person) but is currently dubbed just ‘the Hood’ or ‘the vigilante’, with the goal of taking down the people on the list. It’s very intense.

It took me about ten episodes to actually get invested - which is nearly seven hours watch time - but, ultimately, I’m glad that I did. Aside from the excessive CW-ness of this show, I love the characters and I want to see what happens.

Still, why is everyone so obsesses with Laurel? What’s so great about Laurel? I don’t get it. Felicity is 10000% the best character - she’s relatable, cute, and I high-key ship her with Oliver.

This little rant of mine was unintelligible.

Rating: 4 stars

Guardians of the Galaxy

I’m not explaining what this movie is about. Honestly. This was just a rewatch: I’m currently rewatching every MCU movie in chronological order (as in, starting with Captain America: The First Avenger instead of Iron Man). For every TV season I finish, I watch a a movie, and I alternate between movie series, one of which is, at the moment, MCU films. It’s hard for me to briefly explain my weird watching patterns.

I love this movie so much. It was the first really upbeat MCU movie, and I love the characters.

I don’t really have much to say about this, but if you haven’t watched MCU movies, please watch them. Even if you don’t want to, this movie is absolutely worth watching and you don’t need to watch any other MCU movies for context.

I Am Not Okay With This Season 1

I’m reeling from this show. I literally can’t tell whether or not this is getting a second season; it seems like it was meant to, but then got cancelled, and now I can’t tell.

This show follows a high school student named Sydney. She’s your typical outcast, and isn’t interested in getting ‘in’ - she’s best friends with a girl named Dina; they both came to their school around the same time and ended up friends, though Dina is your typical pretty girl. Then Syd discovers she has powers that operate based on her emotions, and I really don’t want to say anything else. But it does star Sophia Lillis and Wyatt Oleff, who you likely know as two of the kids in IT (the clown movie, not like computing).

Honestly, episodes 1-6 were very chill, more focused on teenage life than her powers, then episode 7 brought it. Up until the end of episode 7, I enjoyed the show and would be happy to watch a second season, but I wasn’t particularly invested or excited by it. Then episode 7. I would love a second season of this show. I have to at least know where the writers were going with it.

This show came out last year, and I only just got to it, but I can’t believe I haven’t heard anybody talking about it. It’s intense, it’s entertaining, and the first season will only take up about two and a half hours of your time (it’s seven 19-28 minute episodes).

Rating: 4 stars

Blue Lily, Lily Blue and The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater

I listened to The Raven Cycle audiobooks in 2019, and I’m not sure why because I didn’t even enjoy them that much. I did, however, decide I wanted to read Call Down the Hawk, the first book in the spin-off series, and that meant I had to reread The Raven Cycle since I had paid so little attention to the audiobooks, which I started in January and I love this series. Not what I expected from a reread of a series I paid virtually no attention to, but here we are.

This is book 3 in The Raven Cycle series, book 1 being The Raven Boys, which is a paranormal book in which the protagonist Blue, is the only non-psychic in a family of psychics, and has been told her whole life that if she kisses her true love, she will kill him. Then, on St Somebody’s Eve (Mark’s? I want to say Mark’s but I’m not sure), when she goes with her aunt to see the spirits of the people who will die in the next year, she sees one of the spirits, a boy from Aglionby Academy, the local private school, meaning he is either her true love, or she is the one who kills him, which in her case, could very much be both. Then that boy schedules a reading with her psychic family to help him find an old Welsh king, and there is so much more than that to this glorious series, but I’ll stop here.

I think my main thing in books and general media is the characters. They have to follow some kind of sensible plot, but if I’m not invested in the characters, I can’t get invested in the story. I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever been so in love with a cast of characters, not even in Six of Crows - this story is so character-driven, and I can’t get enough. This was an excellent continuation, and so much happened, but it did feel like its purpose was just to set up the final book, so I didn’t enjoy this one quite as much as the previous two.

Rating: 4 stars

As for The Raven King - this was the last book I read this month, finishing it on the morning of the 27th because I knew I would have very little reading time from mid-afternoon until twenty-four hours later.

In complete honesty, I found the climax of this book to be a little rushed - we spend the whole series aware that Gansey’s looking for Glendower, but it never seems to be more prevalent than just their general investigations as to what the hell is happening. As a result, when it came to that in this book, it felt a little out of the blue (no pun intended).

Regardless, this series so well balances strong characters and strong plot where so many others fail, and I love it.

Rating: 5 stars

Fate: The Winx Saga Season 1

This show is a live-action rated-15 Netflix adaptation of one of my favourite childhood shows, Winx Club. And, honestly, you can tell.

I tried to watch this objectively, instead of complaining about how they cut some of my favourite characters and changed so many (Tecna, Riven, Beatrix, Stella, Brandon etc.). While I was upset about some of the cuts, I can agree that they were best for the story. Where in the original, every fairy had their own unique powers, this adaptation splits it into five elements: fire (Bloom), water (Aisha - on another note, screw Aisha, honestly), air (Beatrix), earth (Terra) and mind (Musa), though Stella still has light powers? Which is never explained?

Anyway, this follows teenage Bloom as she discovers she’s a fairy and goes through her first year at a fairy school called Alfea.

I’m not going to go too deep into this because I have so much to say about this show that i think I’m going to make a whole separate review rather than bore you with it now. 

Quality-wise, this show was mediocre, but enjoyment and nostalgia raise its rating for me because I’m biased.

Rating: 4 stars

Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

This is both Bardugo’s first adult novel and her first novel not set in the Grishaverse. I read the Grisha trilogy for the first time years ago and didn’t like it that much, but followed that right up with the Six of Crows duology which I loved. I read King of Scars in 2019 when it came out, and started listening to the King of Scars audiobook just before I started reading this in preparation for Rule of Wolves at the end of March.

I loved this. I don’t think I have anything to criticise quality-wise - the characters had depth, there were plot twists and strong subplots, the world was incredibly well built, and the only thing that got me to put this book down was taking a week to start working on my own writing project (post coming soon). Because I took that week completely off reading, this book took me about two weeks total from start to finish, but it was so worth it.

This novel follows Alex Stern, a twenty-year-old whose friends have all been murdered. She was found beside one of them who died of a overdose, with the same drug in her system. But Alex can see ghosts, and, soon after her friends’ deaths, is consequently offered a scholarship to Yale University, on the condition that she works for the ninth House of the Veil to monitor the activities of Yale’s secret societies.

In complete candour, I found this book somewhat convoluted, though most of that was probably mainly my own poor reading comprehension. Regardless, I loved the plot, and am very highly anticipating the eventual release of its as-of-yet unnamed sequel.

Rating: 4.5 stars

Crooked Kingdom by Leigh Bardugo

So I actually finished this audiobook briefly after finishing Blue Lily, Lily Blue, but I’m tacking it on here because I forgot to add it to the list and already explained my Grishaverse experience in my Ninth House comments.

So, yes, I love this duology, and it really opened a new compartment in my writing brain, even though I haven’t really taken advantage of that writing brain until now (again, post coming soon).

King of Scars by Leigh Bardugo

I am realising I’ve read eight books this month, and nearly half of them were by Leigh Bardugo. Which makes sense, considering how much I enjoy her books.

This book is slower-paced than most of hers, but it does follow two (one of which splits again) completely separate storylines, and is still excellent and entertaining.

I listened to this for a recap before Rule of Wolves is released on March 30th.

[catalinaroleplay]

Gender & Pronouns: Female, She/Her

Date of Birth: November 11, 1989 (30)

Place of Birth: Catalina Island, California

Neighborhood: Ventura

Length of Residency: Native ─ Returned 5 months ago

Occupation: Speech Pathologist

Face Claim: Elizabeth Olsen

BIOGRAPHY

TRIGGERS: Parental Death, Substance Mention, Abortion.

I’m here, I said, and it felt shockingly comforting those words. When I’m panicked, I say them aloud to myself. I’m here. I don’t usually feel that I am. I feel like a warm gust of wind could exhale my way and I’d be disappeared forever, not even a sliver of fingernail left behind. On some days, I find this thought calming; on others, it chills me.

The legacy of the de Beauvoir Family in Catalina Island is prodigious. Multiple generations of the family graced town as they grew instantly to success with ‘Beauvoir Bicycles’. Years of patience and dedication to improving the family company, all of the hard work of their bicycle creation soon hit televisions at the 1982 Tour De France by French rider, Laurent Fignon. Not only did The de Beauvoir Family feel honored by a patron of their formerly migrated home of France representing their company, but the success brought endorsements and demands for an investment of more bicycles at a higher production rate. It caused the company to become known within the States and get used by future Tour De France contenders, Lawson Caddock and Ian Boswell. The promotion was simply the beginning of the success for the de Beauvoir family but as well of unbreathable reputation would soon be those generations to come.

Being born a de Beauvoir may come as a belle, anyone and everyone was full of jealously when the announcement of Jolie de Beauvoir was birthed on the 12th of August 1989, to the future monarch of Beauvoir Bicycles, Pierre de Beauvoir, and Charity de Beauvoir née Fitzgerald. The news of the doe-eyed sea-foam angel laced with honey locks instantly spread around Westlake without missing an entire beat. It was tears of happiness for the young couple. Hell, the birth of a child called for a celebration. Three days alive on this planet and Jolie attended her first official black-tie gala held by her family. Too young to even know what she was experiencing, per her mother words, everyone raved over the birth of Jolie and everyone swarmed her with gifts, lots of kisses and any excuse to take a picture with the newborn child who rumored to have cried her doe eyes out every time a camera flashed. People simply treated her as a doll within her first few days of being alive and present in the real world. Even though she was young and unaware of her surroundings, it was almost as if her gut aching knew more encounters and misfortunes in her life would tackle her as Jolie grew up due to her surname association. It was sadly one thing she couldn’t control – being born into this family but most importantly, having Charity de Beauvoir as her mother.

Misfortune soon rolled over once more. Pierre de Beauvoir, the future beloved monarch of his father’s bicycle creation, passed in a car accident before the paramedics and police could arrive on the scene. At this unfortunate incident, Jolie was only two years old. Memories were blurry. Voice of both of her parents instantly caused her ears to ring at the familiarity of them anywhere near her. It was burdensome for a young toddler, honey slow-growing locks secured in pigtails, dazzling heads with her distinctive taste of designer clothes, Chanel to be exact, to understand what death was or why her mother was crying in the first place. The noise alone made her shut her doe-eyed hues instantly in discomfort in the backseat of her car seat. The day, the accident, the sound of her mother reacting must’ve felt like an eternity to the young daughter. Yet, as the world moved at snail speed, everything of the bond between her mother and herself took an instant sharp change from that day forward. Nights, where Charity tucked Jolie off to bed, turned into her nannies’ responsibilities instead. Any moment and bond they formed before vanished into thin air. Whatever order her mother barked at her nannies, who were raising her, needed to be accomplished or else their heads would’ve been on a silver platter. Only at two years old, not only did Jolie end up losing her father but as well as her mother. It was a bitter beginning to what would be a cruel world ahead for her.

As Jolie grew into her age and beauty, were walking and talking was a first-hand nature without any struggles or assistance, the six-year-old came in contact with a new father figure in her life - Christian Howard. A gentle, dark-haired with facial stubble, knelt down to the petite fair toned girl, instantly bringing her into an embrace as this shown affection had become a rarity in Jolie’s youth from the only parent figure she had left – her mother. It was the first impression of the male which left a lasting impression on the young girl. It was like an ounce of happiness was finally on her side. Even if, as the time Jolie spent with Christian would somehow and someway get ruined by her mother and the toxic comments being thrown at her only daughter. It shouldn’t have been this way. Yet, it happened. It wasn’t as if Jolie did anything to her mother nor did she think so, it was the hostility at every given moment. It was unhealthy for a six-year-old to wish she was never born into this universe in the first place. As Christian became a permanent member of the family, new additions were around every corner. The birth of Jolie’s half-sister, Kimberlin, graced everyone’s life. For Jolie, it was for the worst.

As The de Beauvoir – Howard Family grew further into their looks, everything took a sharp turn in Jolie’s life. Drugs, sex, alcohol, boys – you named it, Jolie got her hands on it and was experimenting. Numbing all of the trauma, whiplash of words etched in her conscious and aching her deep within her soul, all of the substances made her feel at harmony at last. Even though, every night at a glorious evening out, the idea of returning back home to her mother and her half-sister, who started to become an identical version of the monster who has been ruining her life, made her want to scream. Christian, her stepfather, was a different story. The relationship between the stepfather and stepdaughter was the only sense of normalcy in her complicated life. Jolie was aware Christian knew about her sudden use of substances. It was clear by his disappointment at how he looked at his stepdaughter on the evening’s she stumbled into their glass mansion in Crystal Cove in a burst of hysterical laughter and happiness, never shown in her sober state. The teenage rebellion Jolie was encountering would proceed forward until her stepfather became her saving grace at seventeen. On the day of her birthday, when Jolie found out she was pregnant with her then boyfriend’s baby, she came running to the one person who would help her out. Her stepfather.

The secret on that frosty November eve brought the bond between stepfather and stepdaughter together. A promise, pinky promise, which could never be broken, had been sworn between both individuals in the parking dim lot before entering into the sterile office to remove what could be a definite change in Jolie’s life forever. And it did. Not in the way where she would have to commit all of her spare time to raise a child. Instead, to the consuming thoughts rattling her conscience about what life could’ve had planned for her and how Jolie potentially ruined life’s plan. She was never the type to think of these scenarios. As a young girl, she was constantly motivated to become her best self and honor her family surname by being the best and nothing less. If anyone ever found out about her pregnancy, even having a child at a young age and avoiding getting her education, it would’ve been more controversy than needed. That’s why she swore her stepfather to keep a secret. Only between them. Not even her then-boyfriend would find out about the brief existence of his child. On Monday morning, Jolie would attend school as if nothing traumatizing over the weekend happened.

Time after time, Jolie experienced trauma and agony from alternative sources. Left and right. Up and down. Things came flying her way. Every time, she stood tall, all she could feel were her knees were ready to buckle and begging for freedom from anyone who doubted her. Even when she didn’t allow other words to affect her on the outside, those words caused her to lay awake every night. It’s what drove her to accept a full-ride position at Saint Xavier University in the Fall, after high school graduation. While the heaviness of her mother’s words and hatred toward Jolie grew stronger along with breaking from the confines of Charity Howard, there were only a few people whom she would miss – her friends. It was why the decision to move to University out-of-town was difficult. But she begged for freedom. To live her own life without someone breathing down her neck and making her feel worthless. Two weeks before school started, Jolie started on a cross country road trip. Taking stops in cities she would’ve never expected herself to visit. Memories were flourishing. This was freedom. All by herself. The young adult was ready to experience her new life ahead of her.

The past eleven years had been some of Jolie’s favored. Having successfully graduated from Saint Xavier University with a Bachelor of Communications Science. Afterward, achieving a Master’s degree in Speech-Language to fulfill her long-term dream aspiration of becoming a Speech Pathologist. Ever since a young age, being there and assisting others came gracefully to her. The love and passion for the field caught her attention after meeting with an advisor her freshman year of university whilst as they provided her knowledge and fields they thought Jolie would succeed effortlessly in. Putting all of her hard work and effort into her education got her precisely where she wanted to be. Although, she studied and achieved the grades, graduating with Summa Cum Laude, along with the addition of having de Beauvoir as her surname, granted her internships and experiences, unlike other university students. It was never like Jolie took her surname for granted. If anything, she appreciated it. It was just the certain people – her mother and stepsister, who haunted her on the daily even with thousands of miles distance between both of them. Even though, she longed and missed for Catalina Island. After all, only one person could handle glacial weathers for substantial period of time. When her current contract with Northwestern University came to an end, the decision of her future was in her hands. It’s how Jolie decided to return back to her hometown and open up her private practice for her Speech Pathology in her quaint, seashore island of a hometown. With recommendations from the handful of trusted doctors at the Ronald Reagan University of California Los Angeles Hospital, patients flock onto a ferry port to Catalina Island for sessions with the trusted and highly reputable Speech Pathologist, Jolie de Beauvoir. As her work career is feverishly flourishing, the beginning for the doe-eyed seafoam graced, platinum tresses of a female, know the chapters of her future are only beginning. Being thirty years old never looked better on her.

PERSONALITY

Positives: Adaptable | Caring | Hardworking

Negatives: Anxious | Secretive | Stubborn

Jolie de Beauvoir is portrayed by Steph.

[dukevividwriting]

Something i wrote for a contest recently.

    She stood upon the balcony overlooking the lively city. She could hear the people below celebrating the city birthday; smell the smoke of the stands and recreation drugs, see the lights from the streets and multiple large screens displaying commercial products, upcoming entertainment programs and the occasional inspirational message pertaining to the celebration.

‘It really is beautiful here, so full of life and diversity.’ Despite her appreciation, a sad sigh escaped her light pink lips. This was not her home, not her birthplace. Keri-Sintao: her home, was not as technologically advance as this metropolis she’s currently resides. It wasn’t as large or housed as many different species and races.

“I am a prisoner.” A fact that she had to keep in mind. She was a captive and yet, she was never treated as such. She was given full reign of the mansion and urged to discover the city.  Her escaping never been a concern. “All because of HIM.” A nearly animalistic growl escaped her chest at the thought of her captor. Her eyes  caught him in the crowd, laughing among the citizens of the city, drink in hand and weapons on his waist and back. “You’re always prepared for a fight, aren’t you D’trine Amos.”

She smirked at the sound of his name and relaxed a bit on the balcony. She’d been ‘captive’ for three seasons and had hated him for it. ‘Had’ being the operative word, now all she was left with was anger, fear and confusion.

Anger, it used to be due to all he freedom he gave her, she wasn’t able to escape this city.  75 miles away from the nearest city limit, and he has eyes, ears, and mouths all over. She had tried to escape many times throughout the first two months and never got close to the city limits and never accused of escaping.  Now it was that he treated her as a freeloader at times.

‘He should show a bit more respect to me. I was considered a high class warrior and meta wielder among her old people.’

She thought to herself with a conceited smirk before the terms of the sentence set in.

“AM! I AM A HIGH CLASS WARRIOR AND META WIELDER AMONG MY PEOPLE, AMONG THE KURILAIN CLANSMAN!”

Fear; that what she felt. Fear that she is losing herself and her identity. Fear that the love of her home is being replaced with a feeling of attachment for Parasino, for her jail. During her stay she has been around the city more than enough to actually gain some attachment to a good amount of Parasino citizens. She was able to take some local bounty hunting and bodyguard work, that allowed her to use her skills, and  come close to the city limits. All the times she could have escaped…and she didn’t out of fear of being recaptured by him and losing the trust she gathered, but even more than that, A fear of betraying all of those she gained attachments to.

For a moment she allowed herself of home. A city smaller than Parasino, with it being 450 square miles compared to Parasino 750 square miles.  She could imagine the clean air, the grassy land, stone buildings and rural atmosphere of the city. That doesn’t mean it was not as advance as any other city. Despite its looks, technology was a part of life in Keri just as it is in any other city, though not as much as big cities like Parasino. She fallen out of her day dreaming and turned back to the city to see that from the ground below 10 meters down and 20 meters away, D’trine was looking at her with a small smile and his mocha colored eyes full of mischief not unlike that of a child. She unconsciously allow a slightly flirtatious smile to appear on her now blushing cheeks, before walking back into her private sleeping quarters, laying back onto the bed.

    Confusion; every time she feels those particular… Emotions… When it comes to the subject of her captor she can admit that, yes he is strong, he is powerful, and he is intelligent. That did not explain the current…attraction? Admiration?

    “Tolerance…That’s what it is. Just toleration of his existence”

    Saying it out loud did no help to ease her nerve. She knew it was a lie to herself and it disgusted her that she chose to lie…that fact and the reason why she had to lie, She felt her face getting hot as she unwittingly reminisced about what happened a few months ago.

    She was training her swordsmanship. It’s been nearly six months since she was ‘captured’ and brought to Parasino as a ‘prisoner’. She was doing her near daily ritual of combat training, which usually included using the power known as ‘meta-physiology’ or META for short; a power that allows one complete control over a property of existence, and her training in her exclusive sword style. A dual wielding style that favors flexibility, speed, precision, and endurance.

Her movements were graceful and exotic; if not even a bit hypnotizing. Each swing of her blades, each throw of a knee, kick, and elbow was followed by a stance that showed off her control of her well developed and visually appealing body. Whether she is balancing on her blades hilts while in a handstand, crouching low crossed leg, or have her body imitating a panther; her carnal formation was on full display.

She was just finishing one of her ‘Kata’ or practice movements that consist of a series high and low horizontal slashes. She followed this with a sweeping kick into a roundhouse before ending it with a perfect standing split. She allowed herself to take a deep breath as the felt the sweat cascade down her toned and slightly scarred thighs and legs; four strong yet slightly soft abdominals; well defined back, and arms; curvy, if not a little larger than average hips and buttocks; perky, ample breast; and long half braided, half loose, now damp hair.  

 She let herself fall forward to the ground before lifting her body up on top of her blades hilt into a full handstand; all while holding the split. She began switching between the position of her legs from every few seconds changing between horizontal and vertical splits.

As she was focused on her exercise, she didn’t notice the presence of leering eyes in the room, until their owner spoke.

“You are an impressive one, Swordswoman.”

She sighed but still held a smile on her face. Her exercise routine always did give her a feeling of euphoria, as it was one of the few times where she could shed all titles and just be in tuned with her own existence and being. She felt powerful, in control, excited, exotic and even aroused. She was uninhibited and felt a bit animalistic even in his presence; actually the knowledge of him watching her fueled her raw and unrestricted persona more than usual.

Using her strong arms and hands she balanced herself on the sword hilts using only her palms before lifting up to only to her fingers tips and finally jumping off the weapons into frog crouch; her back turned to D’trine.

She could feel his liquor colored gaze roam over her figure she stood slowly and stretched her outfitted body. She heard him breath in and out of his nose, not unlike that of taking in the scent and essence of area.  His satisfied growled coming from his chest made her chuckle and look at him from over her shoulder.

“ Here to train, kidnapper?”

Usually the ‘kidnapper’ would have more of a bite from a venomous snake, at this moment it was more of a shallow and beckoning call.  She realized this, she didn’t care either way. Maybe it was due to her adrenalin induced ‘high’ from exercise combined with their state off undress that made her less biting.  He was topless, wearing ripped loose fitting Hakama like pants and foot guards. She herself was wearing a black, silky, and now sticky leotard with a pair of arm guards.

“I see, six months and you’re still calling me that. I thought we gotten closer than that?”  D’trine smirked as he walked to her stretching his arms.

“Hmm.. Well I do believe we are, but I don’t see you calling me by my name. ” She responded as she too began to walk to meet him.

“That because you don’t want to give it to me.”

“But you know it, do you not?”

“Yes, but having the knowledge doesn’t constitute consent; besides giving your name to someone is sacred in your culture. I will respect that as I respect you”

“Interesting, you say you respect me but you keep me in Paradiso against my will.”

“You know you can escape, if you want.”

“You’d capture me again if I did.”

“Faster and every time after that; even faster.”

“Why did you take me in the first time?”

“It’s complicated, but I have my reasons. Do you want to hear them? It might change your opinion of me. Do you really want to stop hating me”

The two stopped no more that a centimeter apart. She drunk in the display of her supposed enemy, but was something completely different. His scarred, battle harden, slightly round body. Sand dashes upon dark chocolate skin,. His five a clock shadowed face with a slight cross burn across the wide nose. His large, vascular,calloused arms and hands and tree trunk sized legs and feet.

D’trine did not build his body for appearance, but function that much was oblivious. There was nothing thin or pampered about the beast of a man in front of her. He embodies fervent, crude power and ability; he radiates it. He wasn’t the tallest of men, standing at only five feet and three quarters, but that did nothing to hinder him in battle.

The afternoon sunlight gave him an unearthly appearance, making his already impressive aura even more so, almost as he has eclipse the sun itself. She couldn’t muster any animosity toward him; all she can think about in her ‘euphoric’ state was how glorious and passionate a battle would be against the being in front of her. She absent-mindedly started to touch his hard body feeling each scar, tenderly as if they were ancient treasures.  She looked into his eyes, curiosity present moved back just the slightest of inches, while keeping a hand on one particular large scar right between his chest, trailing her middle finger down the full length of the marking.

“This one is fresher than the others.”

“Not fresh enough to be re-opened...But yes it is my newest collector item. An fire Meta wielder got a lucky hit before he lost his head. Job hazards; can’t avoid them always.” He allowed himself to chuckle as she continued to finger the scar with amazement.

“They say for warriors’ scars, scrapes and bruises are full of tales and held experiences of battle.You’re a walking tapestry of battle, aren’t you. Each scar on you is someone lucky enough to sketch their skill upon you.”

“Hmm…Such a compliment…What are you up to, ‘Kurilain’? You’ve been quite affectionate to me…Someone you hate.”

“I guess I have been, but I’m in a mood today. physical exertion have that effect on me admittedly.”

    “Ah, so It’s lust your feeling towards me. How interesting, yet that very based behavior don’t you think?”

    “Haha! I must agree, but life is already complicated enough for me as it. I relish a little simple thinking and impulsive action. There’s nothing wrong with that is it, ‘kidnapper’?

    She took a step away from him, mischief and excitement still evident in her movements as she slowly change her guise from his scar body to his flustered and anticipated face. She let use a mirthful giggle .

    “That’s such a weird look on your face. Is my affectionate side to much for you? Use to me being a bit colder, huh? Don’t worry I still have a lot of aggression and resentment towards you.”

“Tsch! Whatever, you are more pleasing this way.”

“Oh, you wound me sir. Well not yet anyway.”

She smirked before cart wheeling back a small distance and getting in  fighting stance. She placed her left foot in front bent at the arch, her leg was bent at knee slightly to line up with her toes. Her right leg was kept straight and her foot was pointed outward.  Her left and right arm was chest and neck level, respectively; with the left being held open close to the neck and the right being held a bit further out in a slightly open fist.

D’trine smirked a bit before raising two ‘paw’ like hands to his chest and crouching a few inches down. The two stood still in the bamboo pentagon, the setting sun shining through the windows onto the ring.

“You sure you want this spar, woman?”  

She licked her lips lustfully before leaping forward towards him, throwing a high kick towards his temple. D’trine didn’t try to guard himself as the foot stopped an inch from his person.

“I have some aggression to workout, plus I don’t want to stop feeling this high anytime soon. Along with the need to put my own ‘signature’ on your ‘tapestry’; so yes, I am sure.”

D’trine smirked before throwing a fist towards her abdominals. She dropped low and attempted to sweep D’trine of his feet with both legs; only to have him skip over her and out of her range, back into his stance. She was still on the floor, her leotard body perpendicular ring with her legs spread open into a “V”.  She kept her eyes on him as she slowly lifted her bottom half to a standing position keeping her legs closer yet still open; her stance imitated a cat about to pounce. D’trine released a small growl at this action and clenched fist tighter.

“You love showing off your body don’t you, you feline like woman.”

“I’m just enjoying the skin I am in. Why? Is it distracting? Felling a bit aroused are we?”

“it’s kind of difficult to ignore the show in front of me.”

“Those thoughts are instinctive and very base. You know we’re in a spar. Maybe this is my plan to win.’

“Bewitching me with your figure and body control, you might be on to something.”

“Charmer.” She said with a smile, as she lowered her buttocks, slowing swaying it as she did. Her honey eyes steeled and her stance settled. A deep breath before her slow stalking began, circling clock wise her eyes trained on his powerful stance. Waiting, anticipating…hungering for any twitch of a muscle.

It was her concentration that in turn threw her off.

D’trine broke from his stance and quickly charged towards her, his steps giving of a sound of rumbling thunder. He stopped right next to her and with sent down a powerful left palm towards her clothed and sweaty back.

She moved back before the palm could connect and watched it cracked the wood below them. She twisted her body on to her left side, before throwing her right foot towards his neck. He dodged the kick by moving his head just out of the path; the speed of her kick did send a bit of a breeze towards him though.  Using the current momentum, she twisted her body into a handstand facing him before delivering a flurry of kicks towards his chest and stomach.

D’trine guarded and endured the barrage up to the tenth kick, when she leapt from her handstand and attempted to kick him with both of her feet only to for D’trine to grab her hips while stepping just out of the path of her attack. Before she can react he tossed her up on to his shoulders before smacking her rear with his hand.

“Guah!”

D’trine smirked at the sound of her surprised groan, before spanking her again.

“Guah! Goa! Gah! God! Stop! Spanking! Mmmm! Mmm! ME Perv!”

 She scrambled out of his grasp with elbow to his back, after one last spank from D’trine. She was embarrassed as she fixed the seat of her ridden up leotard, her face a bit sweaty and flushed. She walked straight up to him anger radiating of her and looked straight into his cocky confident smile.

“What the hell? I thought you wanted to spar!”

“I believe I just hit you with a barrage of attacks.”

“You spanked me!”

“You enticed me.”

“What? How?”

“Your stance.”

“Bullshit!”

“ Wasn’t you trying to distract me with your sensuality?”

“Oh and that give you the right to spank me like a child?”

“A child, never; besides you loved being treated like a bad little girl. A Big callous hand being brought down on your surprising round and soft bottom, you loved the feeling…Those weren’t sounds of pain..”

“That’s beside the point, D’trine!”

With that she struck his chest with an open palm pushing him back a bit. He had no time to be surprised as she attempted to claw his face with her right hand only to have him dodge behind her. Before smacking and squeezing her already spanked ass one more time.

She yelled before trying to strike his neck with a chop which was stopped by her wrist being grabbed by his left hand.  Suddenly she found herself falling back towards the ring floor, swept off her feet by her sparring partner, only to be held a few inches from the floor by D’trine wrist hold.  She watch as he sent a ‘clawed’ hand heading toward her stomach. The searing pain burnt her inside as the force made her gasp for air and crashing to the floor. She felt his finger tear through her leotard revealing a patch of tone, slightly bruised brown flesh when he lifted his hand again for another.

D’trine was caught off guard when she blocked the blow and grabbed the retreating wrist under her arm before delivering a kick deep into his stomach putting him off balance and lower towards her. Using the momentum, her strength and control, she was able to pin him on to his back by locking both of her legs around the man mid-section and tossing his body over hers while simultaneously rolling back to a straddle upon D’trine's waist.

“Nice…move woman.” D’trine coughed with a grimacing smirk.

“You say that as if you didn't allow this to happen.”

“That shot to the gut knocked the wind out of me, momentarily.”

“And now you're at my mercy…” The swordswoman held up her left index finger and imbued it with silver and greenish flare of ‘meta’.  D'trine smirk settled into a slight passive leer as she lowered the hand to his throat. “Tell me…. What do you think you would get from treating me this way?”

“What way? Respectful? Dignified?! Kind!?” D’trine couldn’t help the annoyance in his voice as he sat up. The glare on his face was tempered steel. “ and here we were having such a good time.”

“Stop playing mind games with me D’trine.” The woman growled as her honey eyes gained a grave glint to them. She wanted to strike him; to lay her ‘signature’ on him, but hesitation was settling within her. “Why the luxury, the camaraderie, the freedom? What do you hope to gain from this?“

The livid tone of her voice caused a draining sigh from the man. She watched him closely as she  waited for a answer. The grimacing of his cheeks and chin, his refusal to look her straight in the eye and how his body gotten tense.  She realized these signs, he has a secret that involves her and he’s not going to give it.

He laid his hands on her hips but didn’t try to move her. In fact, he allowed a bit of sincerity leak from him a she gave her a gentle smile. “ At this moment, to gaze at your beauty walnut skin in the sunset. Is that a problem or would you prefer me lock you away somewhere?”

“Stop mocking me!”.Her instincts took over and she swung the meta infused hand downward ,towards his chest, attempting to grate off some of his flesh. D’trine grabbed the hand before it collided with his skin, the power cutting into his hand as he did. Ignoring the pain, he rolled her over onto her back reversing their positions and saw the pain in her eyes, the struggle of not knowing what or why she’s here?

“Protection, you’re here to be safe. That’s all the truth you’re allowed, Xiomara.”

Hearing his reason and her name spoke with such care shook her heart. The meta she held dissipated with a slight poof, but neither cared. It was here that a current of affection was established.

Just as he was about to speak again she silenced him with a kiss, deep and full of emotion. She bit his chapped lips drawing blood before going back on to the floor.

“Don’t EVER say my name without consent; take that scarring kiss as reminder of that Kidnapper.” Her words clashed with her playful tone as she licked her lips, tasting his blood with a smile. It was invigorating to her.

She was caught off guard when the beastly man returned the kiss with just as much animalism as she did. She allowed him entrance into her mouth and  the movements of his long thick tongue causing her knees to buckle as hel lift her off the floor and sat her upon his lap. The kiss ended with ragged breaths as the two glared at each other. Though their eyes held wanting and challenge, but no contempt.

“I’ll abide by your request Xio; you remember whose city this is.”

She gasp as she felt  his grip on her hips and the sinking of his teeth into her collar bone causing her to suck in the breath she was still trying to catch from the previous action. She moaned deeply to the pain and pleasure holding him tightly in place; even through her leotard it felt skin to teeth. She smirked as his sent mixed with hers. It was overwhelming extraordinary to her senses. It was oil to the fire that was already in her. She was losing herself; she knew this. She didn’t give a damn!   

*present*

“Damn it.” Xio couldn’t help but to curse herself as thoughts of what they did...The passion, the touching, the intimate, rhythmic actions .The panting and groaning each others names on that dojo sweaty floor.  Their combined body pressure and heat...It never left her.

She would had chalked it up too the ‘high’ alone..but it was only their first bout with intimacy. While they kept it normal in public, they opened themselves in private, got to know each other, truly. Through physical and personal intimate interactions. She even allowed full permission to call her by her true name, signifying him as someone irreplaceable to her, by kurilian law.

"Not that it matters, I am in Parasino not Keri-Sintao."

She mimic his deep tone as she spoke, the reason why she isn't with him rising in her mind. An argument about a future he saw gleefully and she not as much. She couldn't just give up her home for this can she, for him? Not when he still won't  tell why he stole her in the first place.

It was then she heard the door to her chambers opened and the man himself stood behind it. Her heart swelled at his visage.. Before she could greet him teasingly, he spoke.

"Xiomara."

She froze as he moved aside...revealing a shorter older man with her eyes. Her heart stopped as she pointed at him. D'trine nodding was all she needed.. the reason for her kidnapping.  Supposedly five years dead was smirking at her, Her father.

[tedwoodward]

first line game

rules: list the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published. look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. then tag some friends.

tagged by @krayonders 🧡🧡 tyyy

Zoey 101

Before Charlotte even opened her eyes she knew things were different. She knew something was off. Her body felt strange. No longer sore, no aches or pains that came and went as the years passed lately.

Warm Reminders

Winter in Hatchetfield was always quite beautiful. The brush of snow across every lawn, the crunch of the salted sidewalks downtown, the areas that iced over year after year which the locals always knew to avoid lest they slip and fall on their asses. Sure, the cold set in early, but it was never nearly as bitter as the first few months of the year, with the winter fully in swing, the biting wind forcing everyone to bundle up and hurry to keep themselves out of the cold as much as possible.

New Year’s Bliss

The Woodwards had decided to go out for their New Year’s celebrations. Normally they’d spend the holiday as a family, but Alice had gone to a friend’s house for a sleepover, and the couple found the atmosphere at home… lacking, for lack of a better word.

Comfort

They had a dinner date planned. Paul was cooking, and Emma was more than happy to call off work for the evening to spend time with him.

Happy

Ted raised his glass and his voice, catching the attention of the table, “Tonight we gather here at the glorious Birdhouse to celebrate the newly divorced Charlotte and her freedom from that bastard who shall not be named. May we never have to see him again.”

Transferrable Skills

Owen Carvour should’ve just been an actor.

Not to say that he wasn’t. One could argue that in his line of work, half of what he does could be considered acting. And, well, he was an actor. He had been trained, he had gone to university, received his degree, and entered into the industry. He had known exactly what he wanted his future to look like from a young age, and he worked for it, and he did it.

His current reality was a different story.

Winner

It was a stupid argument, of course it was. It was silly and not at all something to be heated over, but after their increasingly long and stressful days at work, both Bill and Ted were reaching their wits’ ends, and it was no shocker when the two exhausted men found their voices raising.

Boundaries

Their mouths crashed together, hands roaming the moment the door closed. They stumbled across the room and collapsed onto the couch without even breaking from the kiss. They were experts of the craft at this point.

Jerk

“How did we end up at a potluck without a protein?”

The gang looked around at the containers of food that lined the small kitchen of Paul’s apartment. A colorful bowl of diced fruits sat next to a tray of store-bought cookies. A bowl of pasta salad rested on the counter next to a six pack of beer and a bottle of wine.

The Grass is Greener with You

“I’m sorry, Billy.”

That’s the last thing she says. Then Sylvia turns her back and runs into the office building, into safety from the cold rain that now pours down as Bill stands still, staring after her.

this is really cool! I’m excited to analyze this especially since it’s been so long since I’ve written the majority of these pieces!

i should start off w dialogue more i think that’s fun and it’s compelling when i do! most of these have a basic set the scene description with poetic language to start out so that could be a fun way to grab attention first!

not gonna tag anyone bc I honestly don’t remember who writes anymore I’m sorry but everyone should do this it’s so cool!!

[oculis-grp]

Alexis’ Work I

The Darkest Chapter of the Philippines

Former President Ferdinand Marcos announced that he had placed the Philippines under martial law on September 23, 1972 at 7:17 pm.

There are some who justified Marcos’ declaration of Martial Law as a way to instill discipline and quell the communist rebellion. A presidential spokesperson once said in a statement  that martial law “ instilled discipline among the citizenry at its inception” and reaped “ success in dismanting the then spreading communist insurgency in the country”. These people are who agreed to what Marcos considered the best years of the Philippines. Among the myths: that the Philippines enjoyed a golden age under the Marcoses. Various reports and historical accounts debunk this; while it may be true that infrastructure spending increased during that period, it also came at a staggering cost: plunging the Philippines in billions of dollars in debt.

Through martial law Marcos has put the entire power of governance over the country under his ruling. He sent armed forces all over the country to suppress all acts of rebellion. He enforced curfews, banned group assemblies and shuttered media facilities. The media became a threat to Marcos which is why he shut it down, arrested those who were a threat and spoke ill of him and his ruling. Many Filipinos were enslaved, about 70,000 people were imprisoned and 34,000 were tortured. According to Amnesty International, while 3,240 were killed from 1972 to 1981. These people were subjected to various forms of torture such as: electrocution among prisoners, beaten up, strangled, there are some that was burned with flat iron or cigarettes, water poured down their throats, women were stripped naked and raped, various objects forced inside their genitals. Aside from physically harming his people Marcos also put the Filipinos under psychological torture and humiliation. Those that have been under these forms of torture still haven’t recovered from the torture and pain Marcos has put under the Filipinos.

Control over media was one of the first that was established when Marcos declared Martial Law. Editors and journalists were one of the first that was arrested and incarcerated in military prison camps. Media became a threat to Marcos as it can reach, connect and inform millions of viewers, listeners, readers, and audiences in a small period of time. Under Marcos’ governance, he manipulated the media, made a different image, made every appear neutral, that nothings wrong with the government, only showed what was appealing for him making the people ignorant to the real situation of the country, pure deception.

 We may haven’t been around during the darkest period of the Philippines and for that we are thankful, although we would like to address the Martial Law as a crutiating period of the Philippines, through the experiences of those before us that was able to experience Martial Law. We strongly disagree to Pro-Marcos demonstrators of addressing the Martial Law period as our country’s Golden years. As stated above some may believe that it really was Philippines Golden years because the media was manipulated. We know people have opinions, and expressing them is not a crime, although ignorance over the pain and torture many Filipinos faced during Marcos’ regime might as well be. After reading many articles of the experiences of Filipinos during the Marcos regime we have come to say that there is no way moving past that traumatic period. To all the youth believing that Philippines was at its finest during the era, do your research. We once believed that it was the Philippines’ years but those golden years caused us in deep debts. The discipline you say Filipinos were during that period was caused by fear. There was no freedom of speech, resources was limited to the people, Filipinos were enslaved to work hard not to earn but to survive and to live, they work hard for their lives because their lives were their debt to the government. Filipinos were tortured, imprisoned and worst killed without any reason to be punished for. No justice was served to all those that were traumatized. And now youth are protesting upon transferring Marcos’ body in the grave for heroes.

The country exists with parallel histories at odds with each other as number of youths are yearning for a glorious throwback to an age of discipline and supporting Marcos’ son who was nearly elected to the vice-presidency. This reality of Ignorance among the youth are almost as scary as the days leading up to Martial Law.

People snatched from their homes in the dead of the night and battalions of armed men pierced through once busy districts. Curfews were enforced, all media content was screened by the state, all opposition organization were criminalized, publication companies were shut down, anyone who posed as a threat to the government was rounded up and tossed in jails with no warrant of arrests that eventually became a norm over the regime. Even the slightest violation of any sort of regulation could merit the harshest of punishments from the authorities. The entire bureaucracy and military force and absolute bending upon Marcos’ will.

There was growing repression of political opponents, rampant corruption, and a surge in the prices of basic necessities. Protests had also reached unprecedented numbers and militancy in the two years prior.

The Aquino assassination, Benigno ‘Ninoy’ Aquino Jr. is a former Philippine senator who was considered as one of the opponents of the then president Ferdinand Marcos. Aquino was one of the first individuals arrested after Marcos’ proclamation of Martial Law. Aquino was placed under a military trial after he was accused of murder, illegal possession of firearms, and subversion. He protested to the charges against him by going on a hunger strike for 40 days from April 4 to May 13, 1975. After 2 years the military tribunal sentenced him to die which was never carried out. Marcos allowed Aquino to have bypass surgery in the United States after 7 years of imprisonment. The family of Aquino then settled in Boston after his operation. Before he flew back to the country using a passport name under “Marcial Bonifacio”, he quoted “ I cannot allow myself to be petrified by the fear of assassination and spend my life in a corner”.  On August 21, 1983 he arrived at the Manila International Airport which is now known as the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. He was escorted by soldiers from his seat to a waiting military vehicle that was supposed to take him to Fort Bonifacio. Only few seconds after he exited the airplane, gunshots were heard. Moments after the firing a bloodied Aquino was lying on the ground along with another body that was later identified as Rolando Galman.  Aquino’s death sparked outrage from his supporters throughout the Philippines. The convicts of the assassination  filed an appeal to have their sentences reduced after 22 years, claiming that the assassination was ordered by Marcos crony and business partner Eduardo Cojuangco Jr. This is one part of the Philippines dark chapter that we should remember and reflect on as a man who stood up against the dictator former president Marcos was assassinated without proper reason.

The Manila Film Center. First lady, Imelda Marcos wanted to stage an annual film festival that would rival Cannes and put Manila on the International cultural map. There was a grand plan for the building, but iwa was eventually redesigned to house only an auditorium, a film lab, and film archives. The scheduled event was only 3 months away with a budget of 25million. Around 4,000 laborers were hired and they rotated among three shifts across 24 hours. With only a small amount of time, the grand lobby needed six weeks to finish. For the center, a thousand workers finished it in 72 hours. At around 3 a.m. on November 17, 1981 a scaffolding on the fourth floor collapsed and workers were trapped in the quick-drying cement. The start of the problem was when quick drying cements were poured on each floor without waiting for the layers to dry first. Because of the rush and endless hours of working, too much cements were poured which resulted to the disaster. Nena Benigno was a public relation officer at that time who was sent by her father, Teddy Benign to the site as he wanted to write a story about the incident. In an interview she said  “ from a distance I could see people in stretchers being carried out, frozen in cement. When o got there, they were still digging out people; the cement was not completely hard. And there was a guy that they were trying to keep from going into shock” she added with “ Half of his body was buried. He was alive, but half buried. I don’t know what it was, but to keep him awake, alert, not go into coma or shock, they kept him singing Christmas songs. I was watching this”. There was a media blackout for fear that the accident would cause a scandal. Nine hours after the incident the only ones that were allowed to access the site was the responders. NINE HOURS??!?!?!?! After the accident, to all the youth who justified the Marcoses’ actions, they only allowed respondents and for your information there were at least 168 workers that were already dead and if not, buried under the hardened cement. And a few more hours later they employed jackhammers. There was a gruesome view of bodies sticking out of the pavement. The exposed parts had to be tampered off and built over. The rule was they had to meet the deadline, no matter what happened. They let the construction go on as if nothing has happened, as if there were no workers that died in the making of the film center, there were no justice served for those who died as there were too many workers and they weren’t able to keep track of the 4000 construction workers names because most were poor labourers from the provinces and there weren’t able to keep records of their names. The centre was completed in 1982, some say with still the dead workers entombed inside. My question to those pro-Marcoses how are you able to sleep at night knowing the people you support initiated these mass deaths? How are you able to justifies their doings? If discipline is what you look for then why not do it by yourself, within yourself, discipline among oneself needs to leader. Why participate in supporting one who took part in this many death of your fellow Filipinos? Couldn’t all of you just teach and impose upon your fellow Filipinos discipline? Does protesting and making rally’s to support a son of a dictator really show discipline?

To those who supports the Marcoses are we to forget the amount of Human Rights violation during the Martial Law?

Some of you may ask, “What is wrong with having a dictator’s son as a vice president?”. Many. All of us treasure our freedom. So let us remember how freedom was very limited during the Marcos reign. Many died, Many sacrificed to achieve the freedom we have today. Filipinos who fought for their freedom during the martial law died, tortured not only physically but also mentally in the most gruesome and unspeakable ways, women were raped.

Have you ever considered our ancestors sacrifices in order for us to be free? Shouldn’t we, as the future of our country, cherish, live and improve within the lessons our ancestors taught us? Yet, instead of learning from our past mistakes here we are fighting against each other over a history that brought doom over our country. Here we are still continually electing people who plunder our wealth and stifle dissent.

Some of you may say, “ why dwell upon pasts remorse?”. Recalling history is a way to teach us a lesson, a lesson we must live by.

As discussed above during the Marcos regime Human Rights Violation in the Philippines increased. Some of the violations are: Death in evacuations, Violent Dispersals, Salvaging, Physical assault, Massacres, Harassment, Hamletting, Faked or forced surrender, Disappearances and many more.

Indeed we must all move on and forgive. There are some of the victims or the people that were traumatized during the Marcos regime that have been able to find it in their hearts to forgive Marcos and move on with their lives. But acknowledging Marcos as a hero is a whole different story to some.

Years of torment for the Filipinos. Years of suffering under the hand of the Marcoses. It is heart breaking to see them back in power. Many years may have passed since the torment, many may have forgiven them, but the Martial Law under Ferdinand Marcos inflicted our history deeply. Why do we younger generations fight for those who inflicted such deep tragic history of slavery and suffering support those who once was part of inflicting scars among our people, our ancestors when first of all none of us has experienced it, we weren’t there to justify such horrifying journey like our ancestors have.

To remind us the torment our people has endured, here is one of the experiences among the many that suffered: Roberto Verzola was imprisoned for years. “ Then they brought in the machine. Two lengths of wire extended from it, both ending with wire, the insulation stripped. One end was tied around the handle of a spoon. The machine is a field telephone generator. It has a wheel with a handle. The wheel turns a dynamo, which generates electricity that causes a distant telephone ring. The field generator probably generates forty to sixty volts and is turned really fast may give as high as ninety volts or more. My interrogators tied the end of one wire around my right index finger and inserted the spoon into my pants, on my right waist, until it rested where the leg meets the lower abdomen near the crotch. When I was young, I used to watch my uncle and older cousins whenever they slaughtered a pig. As soon as the pig realized something bad was going to happen, it would shriek for dear life. It was a grating shriek of helplessness, desperation and terror… it was that kind of scream that issued from my throat every time my torturers spun the wheel around.”  There are one of the reason that no matter how much we forgive them the scar of what they have done among our people is and will be hard to be forgotten.

Those stories weve seen floating or roaming around online about the discipline and peace of the Philippines during the martial law. There are many misleading lies or fake news roaming online. Do you honestly think Marcos did the Philippines, the Filipinos a favor by proclaiming Martial law? Then let us be aware of the truth. The Philippines has been in depth during that time. Infrastructures? The economy rising? Have you ever thought of it as greed? Look at the riches the Marcoses are still swimming deep in until now.

Let us consider our selves lucky we werent born during that era. Let us be considerate of those that was able to experience the torment under the ruling of the dictator Marcos. We ourselves have seen our parents argue about the son of Marcos setting their foot upon power again. In their eyes we see them reliving the kind of life they lived back then, during the era. Upon hearing our parents, grandparents talk about their life during the marcos regime our hearts are breaking. They are the symbol of strength, sleeping at night with fear and waking up with wonder if anybody you know have disappeared. If your family is safe or thinking more ways to keep your family safe.

President Ferdinand Marcos could’ve been a great leader as he brought our country somewhat good. During his time there was almost no crime. He was able to establish the Philippines as the top exporter of rice in the whole world. If only he wasn’t too power hungry, driven by greed and steal from the country. Under his command the military arrested opposition figures, journalists, student and labor activist, and criminal elements. About 30,000 detainees were kept at military compounds run by the army and the Philippine Constabulary. Weapons were confiscated, and “private armies” connected with prominent politicians and other figures were broken up. Newspapers were shut down, and the mass media were brought under tight control. With a stroke of  a pen, he was able to close the Philippine congress and assumed its legislative responsibilities. Like much else connected with him, the declaration of martial law had a theatrical, smoke and mirrors quality. The incident that precipitated the Proclamation of Martial Law was an attempt, allegedly by communists, to assassinate Minister of National Defense Enrile. As Enrile himself admitted after Marcos’ downfall in 1986, his unoccupied car had been riddled by machinegun bullets fired by his own men on the night that the Proclamation of Martial Law was signed. After the proclamation Marcos claimed that martial law was the prelude to creating a “ New Society’ based on new social and political values. He argued that certain aspects of personal behavior, attributed to a colonial mentality, were obstacles to an effective modernization. These included the primacy of personal connections, as reflected in the ethic of utang na loob, and the importance of maintaining in-group harmony and coherence, even at the cost to the national community. Despite Marcos’ often perceptive criticisms of the old society, him, his wife, and a small circle of close associates, the crony group, now felt free to practice corruption on an awe-inspiring scale. The Marcos self proclaimed “ revolution from the top” deprived significant portions of the old elite of power and patronage. For example, the powerful Lopez family, who had fallen out of Marcos’ favor, was stripped of most of its political and economic assets. Although always influential, during the martial law years, Imelda Marcos built her own power base, with her husbands support. Under the provisions of martial law, Marcos shut down Congress and most newspaper, jailed his major political opponents, assumed dictatotial powers, and ruled by presidential decree. During this era, the Philippines had one Asia’s worst human rights records. The army and police were notorious for their use of torture. Victims which included political dissidents and suspected drug dealers were beaten, flogged, given electric shocks. He also muzzled the press, and banned strikes.

EDSA People Power Revolution. The Philippines was praised worldwide in 1986 when the so called bloodless revolution erupted. February 25, 1986 marked a significant national event that has been engraved in the hearts and minds of every Filipino. This part of Philippine history gives us a strong sense of pride especially that other nations had attempted to emulate what we have shown the world of the true power of democracy. he true empowerment of democracy was exhibited in EDSA by its successful efforts to oust a tyrant by a demonstration without tolerance for violence and bloodshed. Prayers and rosaries strengthened by faith were the only weapons that the Filipinos used to recover their freedom from President Ferdinand Marcos’s iron hands. The Epifanio de los Santos Avenue (EDSA) stretches 54 kilometers, where the peaceful demonstration was held on that fateful day. It was a day that gathered all Filipinos in unity with courage and faith to prevail democracy in the country. It was the power of the people, who assembled in EDSA, that restored the democratic Philippines, ending the oppressive Marcos regime. Hence, it came to be known as the EDSA People Power’s Revolution.

 Former President Ferdinand Marcos & Imelda Romualdez-MarcosThe revolution was a result of the long oppressed freedom and the life threatening abuses executed by the Marcos government to cite several events like human rights violation since the tyrannical Martial Law Proclamation in 1972. Former Senator Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino, Jr.In the years that followed Martial Law started the suppressive and abusive years–incidents of assassination were rampant, particularly those who opposed the government, individuals and companies alike were subdued. The Filipinos reached the height of their patience when former Senator Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino, Sr. was shot and killed at the airport in August 21, 1983, upon his return to the Philippines from exile in the United States. Aquino’s death marked the day that Filipinos learned to fight. His grieving wife, Corazon Cojuangco-Aquino showed the Filipinos and the world the strength and courage to claim back the democracy that Ferdinand Marcos arrested for his personal caprice. Considering the depressing economy of the country, Ninoy’s death further intensified the contained resentment of the Filipinos. In the efforts to win back his popularity among the people, Marcos held a snap presidential election in February 7, 1986, where he was confronted with a strong and potent opposition, Corazon Aquino. It was the most corrupt and deceitful election held in the Philippine history. There was an evident trace of electoral fraud as the tally of votes were declared with discrepancy between the official count by the COMELEC (Commission on Elections) and the count of NAMFREL (National Movement for Free Elections). Such blatant corruption in that election was the final straw of tolerance by the Filipinos of the Marcos regime. Former Defense Minister Juan Ponce EnrileThe Fidel V. Ramosdemonstration started to break in the cry for democracy and the demand to oust Marcos from his seat at Malacañang Palace. The revolt commenced when Marcos' Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile and the Armed Forces Vice-Chief of Staff command of Fidel V. Ramos, both withdrew their support from the government and called upon the resignation of then President Marcos. They responsibly barricaded Camp Crame and Camp Aguinaldo and had their troops ready to combat against possible armed attack organized by Marcos and his troops. The Catholic Church represented by Archbishop Jaime Cardinal Sin along with the priests and nuns called for the support of all Filipinos who believed in democracy. Radyo Veritas aired the message of Cardinal Sin that summoned thousands of Filipinos to march the street of EDSA. It was an empowering demonstration that aimed to succeed peacefully with the intervention of faith. Nuns kneeled in front of tanks with rosaries in their hands and uttering their prayers.

 Former President Corazon Cojuangco-Aquino. With the power of prayers, the armed marine troops under the command of Marcos withdrew from the site. Celebrities expressed their support putting up a presentation to showcase the injustices and the anomalies carried out by the Marcos administration. Finally, in the morning of February 25, 1986, Corazon Aquino took the presidential oath of office, administered by the Supreme Court Associate Justice Claudio Teehankee at Club Filipino located in San Juan. Aquino was proclaimed as the 11th President of the Republic of the Philippines. She was the first lady president of the country. People rejoiced over their victory proving the success of the EDSA People’s Power Revolution, the historic peaceful demonstration. Although in 2001, there was an attempt to revive People Power in the efforts to oust then President Joseph Estrada, it was not as strong as the glorifying demonstration in 1986. The bloodless, People Power Revolution in EDSA renewed the power of the people, strengthened the meaning of democracy and restored the democratic institutions of government. Continue to the 5th Republic (1986) up to the Present Time.

The people power revolution not only became a great impact on us Filipinos but also to the rest of the world.

 “The triumph of EDSA people power revolution has been a manifestation of how peaceful protest can change the status quo. For 20 years of enduring the autocratic regime of Ferdinand Marcos it has finally come to an end. After the successful revolution many social changes has prospered, most especially the restoration of democracy where Filipinos are not anymore reprimanded and can fully exercise their freedom of expression. And it is something we, the millennials, should continuously embody. As we commemorate the 34th anniversary of the EDSA revolution we may continue to be critical thinkers to challenge the current administration. Let us always remember that the fight our fellow Filipinos has started and it should not end in ousting the dictator Marcos but should always continue to protect the welfare of the people and of the generations to come.” – Marnell Sularan, Editor-in-Chief, Pagbutlak, Official Student Publication of the College of Arts and Sciences, University of the Philippines Visayas

“EDSA will always be a reminder to us that dictatorship and leaders who don’t deserve to be in their position will not always stay long in power as long as we always make noise, criticize, and voice out our disdain towards evil regimes. The same revolution may not happen again but there will always be other ways to stand up against an oppressive leadership. Now that we are seeing again an impending threat to our freedom, we must remember that EDSA revolution was not only an uprising on streets. It was sparked by songs, poems, films, and artworks that spoke for people who can’t speak for themselves, and who were hungry for peace. As artists and writers today, it is always our responsibility to safeguard our freedom from oppressive regimes and EDSA will always be our inspiration.” – Michael Caesar Tubal, Instructor, College of Education, West Visayas State University

May all these serve as a lesson to all of us, especially the young people. Through this paper may we realize  and think of ourselves to be in the shoes of those people who shared their experiences during the Marcos regime. Let us rethink our decisions.

Sources for this paper are:

· https://www.panaynews.net/an-ageless-encounter-edsa-people-power-revolution-remembered/

·  https://www.philippine-history.org/edsa-people-power-revolution.htm?fbclid=IwAR38rmSdvm7fvESWWeO7y1WwOXb-Spn851wZCCIg24rjN76LjMgogPTXPNE

· https://www.bworldonline.com/tales-of-the-dark-days/?fbclid=IwAR17aQiZeU0k4Uvoi_WQdLrn4qRfXk57LOlYfxe6TfWDCxkhkpgbM8DmKFE

· https://peacebuilderscommunity.org/2019/02/remembering-the-violence-and-horror-of-the-marcos-dictatorial-rule/?fbclid=IwAR09ebVAzIWC4C9kvSiucOJRuq4hr4KL9AVBzeukz8me_YoP7reIgKCvUrk

· https://www.esquiremag.ph/long-reads/features/manila-film-center-haunted-a1729-20191107-lfrm2?fbclid=IwAR3oHdgS93v62TYyg_1Df-zDZcKWOOHcQu347gJRES-6z3LB9Bdz1EjfcF4

· https://prezi.com/775g4onbsdso/philippine-media-during-martial-law/?fbclid=IwAR2wwIA763iNTgF3Ll1k0dKw8eC2YGV7hrOkWlXECxr-toTZqN-mEo6Z0H4

https://www.nytimes.com/1972/09/24/archives/mass-arrests-and-curfew-announced-in-philippines-mass-arrests.html?fbclid=IwAR0MYdI3hECBW9TpXAt8-RB0EqdOd7_OGis9ueG2KxZdTUF0GZty_hdVZcc

[multiple-fandomimagines]

Avengers & Guardians Family Masterlist *updated 2/12/19*

NONE OF THESE ARE MINE!!! I did NOT write any of these! I believe they are amazing fanfics, written by insanely talented people, and deserve to be shared. ALL CREDIT GOES TO THE AUTHORS!!! 

Marvel Masterlist  Marvel Smut Masterlist 

Tony & Avengers Team

Silent Ilien by everythingispoetry (Parent Tony Stark)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony is bringing up his autistic son. The world - and the Avengers - are oblivious. They just think Tony is being typical self when he disobeys orders or just disappears. Encounters through years. Pepper, Rhodey, Natasha, Steve, Thor, Bruce, Clint, the team, JARVIS. Bonus: Phil.

An Ever Watchful Eye by torianmist (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Guardian Angels come in all shapes and sizes and are not always who you think they may be.

I Really Do Trust You by tsjn (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) The team does a very different version of trust falls. Tony, dealing with the aftermath of New York, doesn't participate. The team starts to wonder if Tony really trusts them. Or Tony tries too hard not to disappoint, and has a panic attack because of it.

Not Fighting by arianapeterson19 (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Fury had no room to complain, he had known what would happen if he made Tony sit through one more meeting without providing decent coffee. He didn't have to be such a dick about it. Or the one where Fury is a shit and the Avengers have some forced bonding.

In Deep Water by itsallAvengers (Steve Rogers x Tony Stark)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) The Avengers want a pool. Tony can arrange that for them. He can. The thought doesn’t fill him with horrible, daunting dread and crippling fear. Not at all. (Or maybe denial does more harm than good)

Submerge by Oceanbreeze7 (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Not many people escape being a Prisoner of War untouched. Lucky (unluckily) for Tony, he wasn't entirely the exception. Besides, water is a terrifying thing.

Division of the Heart by TylerM (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony Stark is sick. Surely that's not going to be a problem? When he doesn't tell the team a normal cold is a little more complicated with the Arc Reactor, things get a little out of hand.

Grown Now by TylerM (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Loki de-ages Tony Stark, and the team have to now deal with a tiny four year old who is nothing like the Tony they're used to, and nothing like they'd expect him to be as a child.

Sick Games by arianapeterson19(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Anyone who locked Tony in a room with electronics was either stupid or insane. Or both. OR The one where everyone gets kidnapped and Tony’s not exactly useless.

Me and Myself by Kyu_Momo (Insecure Tony Stark)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) "Tony! If you could just be a little less like you we would all like you a lot more!“

Expendable by Kelady (Steve Rogers x Tony Stark)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony's expendable and he knows it. So why is the whole team in his hospital room, worried? or Tony gets stabbed by Loki and he learns exactly how much they care. Hint. It's a lot.

TONY STARK, PRESUMED DEAD by Kelady (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony Stark's house is blown up on National television. Of course, the remaining Avengers are going to find out. This is what they do while Tony Stark is Presumed Dead.

 Not just a team, but a family. by Thebookofavenging (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Post the arc-reactor surgery, tony wakes up to find the avengers in his hospital room and needless to say he is a little surprised by it. Fluff and Confusion ensues.

Ghosts by madwamoose (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) The Avengers have been placed under a spell. Each day, a ghost of a member of the team will haunt them until they face their worst fear and stick up to it.

It Only Hurts a Little (He's Lying Through His Teeth) by F-117 Nighthawk (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Two times Tony hid the fact that the arc reactor was causing him pain and one time Pepper didn't let him.

The Triggers List by TeaSpent (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) After the first 'incident', the triggers list was made. Stuck on to the fancy fridge in the Avenger's Tower with a purple smiley face magnet, the paper has everyone’s name's on it, as well as a bulleted list of triggers. Well, that is, everyone except for Tony.

Truth, Secrets, Mind by Kelady (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) The Avengers team is thrown in to Tony's mind and they are shown some of Tony's bad past.

I Don't Like To Be Handed Things by Kelady (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony Stark doesn't like to be handed things. The avengers find out why.

Not a Soldier by SailorChibi (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) When a villain kidnaps the team and demands sex in exchange for the team's freedom, the obvious choice to offer up is the person who has the most experience (and the worst reputation). Unfortunately, Tony didn't actually consent.

Stuck with us by petroltogo (Tony Stark & Avengers Team)(High School AU) Prompt fill: can u write like a hs au, with avengers as a group of friends. they act like they think tony doesn't have feelings, they seem to never take him seriously and they often tease him or laugh at sth that actually hurts him (they dont know that it makes him feel bad) he usually just takes it, because he thinks he deserves it. but then he has just the worst day ever, and they make some comment abt sth and he just breaks and starts crying, cause he just wants someone to care abt him. they comfort him.

The Star-Spangled Man With A Plan by Mistfire24 (Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony is forced to clean out and organize his father's old things. He finds a special surprise that he can't wait to share with the rest of the team. OR Everyone is laughing because Steve Rodgers, A.K.A. Captain America is dressed in SPANDEX

Fix You by Princess_Aleera (Clint Barton x Tony Stark)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) “Hello, Tony. I want to play a game.“ Tony is taken by the Jigsaw Killer and forced to endure five grueling tasks - each of them representing one of his teammates. The same teammates who, on Jigsaw’s orders, are forced to watch every second of Tony’s torture on a set of monitors. “Hello, Avengers. Today, you are not here to save anyone. You are here to help with the clean-up, for once in your life.”

The Tony Stark Squad by BellaP (Tony Stark Defense Squad)(Not Team Cap Friendly)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Because Tony does have loyal friends, and they are not happy with the Avengers.

Me Without You by Wix (Tony Stark Defense Squad)(Not Team Cap Friendly)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) Tony’s moving on, slowly and one piece at a time, but he’ll get there eventually. With a little help along the way.

We Are Tony’s People [part one, part two, part  three] by Tempest_Raining (Tony Stark Defense Squad)(Not Team Cap Friendly)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) The first time the Exvengers walked into the refurbished compound after three-and-a-half years of sitting in Wakanda they are met with some of the more… vindictive people on Tony’s roster. Or, I just wanted to experiment with Rhodey, Doc Strange, Matt, Foggy, Jessica and FRIDAY working together to confront/warn the Exvengers.

Contractually Obligated [part one, part two, part three]by poetically_ordinary (Tony Stark x Stephen Strange)(Tony Stark Defense Squad)(not team cap friendly)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) When the wayward Avengers finally sign the Sokovia Accords, they return to a place that is no longer like they remember it to be. Everyone must come together to portray a united front to the world. Even if that’s the last thing happening behind the scenes.

Tony Stark is Not a Supervillain (But his Poker Group All Are) by DaughteroftheSilverMoon (Tony Stark & Marvel Villains)(Tony Stark & Avengers Team) A superhero walks into a room full of villains- and they play poker and give him a drink. After all, it’s the polite thing to do. Only then they get to liking him, and all of a sudden they’re slaying dragons for the good guys. It’s very disconcerting, but kind of nice.

Avenger’s Game of Tag by athletiger (Steve Rogers x Tony Stark) It wasn’t supposed to go on this long, but it just…happened. It started off as a child’s game of tag, but the Avengers just had to evolve it into something long and glorious, collateral damage included. Inspired by Jeremy Renner’s new film “Tag.” In theaters June 15.

Broken by NotEvenCloseToStraight (Tony Stark x Avengers Team) It took months of therapy for Bucky to break his Winter Soldier conditioning, and Steve was there for him, encouraging him to talk about his past, his fears, his time as the Soldier. And Bucky talked about everything– except why the barest mention of an Alpha makes him panic. When Steve brings Bucky home, Alpha!Tony is ready to welcome Bucky with open arms and wings, but Bucky can’t look at him, can’t be in the same room without his wings flaring out to keep the Alpha away, a broken Omega panicking in the presence of a strong Alpha. But Tony is a good Alpha, and the team pulls together to help Bucky, showing him what it means to be loved, to be healthy and whole, and one day when Tony holds his hand out, Bucky trusts him enough to take it. And Bucky realizes that with a family behind him, with the safety hes found in the Omegas, the companionship from the Betas, and the unconditional love from the Alpha–HIS alpha, he isn’t broken at all. But with a team like the Avengers, tragedy is never far off, and this one rocks the family to their core. How can they fix the broken pieces of their lives when their Alpha is gone?

Peter Parker & Avengers Team

In The Home by aloneintherain (Peter Parker & Avengers Team) The Avengers have been infected, turned violent and aggressive against their will. And Peter, the only one unaffected, is trapped inside the Tower with six feral teammates.

He’s Ours To Protect by ImaKaraTabiHe (Parent Tony Stark)(Steve Rogers x Tony Stark)(Kid Peter Parker & Avengers Team) Things are going well at the Tower since Peter was adopted. At least, they were before someone from Peter’s past reappeared.

The Sun Will Come Out  by aloneintherain (Peter Parker & Avengers Team)  The Avengers bombard Peter’s place of employment, meet his awful boss, and ruin a man’s life. Peter quietly suffers

Working For A Miracle by ImaKaraTabiHe (Peter Parker & Avengers Team) Peter’s alone in the world, struggling to be both Peter Parker and Spider-Man. Sometimes he feels so low, he wonders if he’s living, if it’s worth it. Maybe miracles take some work though?

Fitting In (Tiny Spaces) by aloneintherain (Peter Parker & Avengers Team) Peter’s trapped beneath a collapsed building during a mission, hurt and unable to move. Luckily, his comm still works. Unluckily, the Avengers don’t realize how bad of a state Peter is in, and Peter isn’t inclined to tell them.

Peter’s International Debut by ImaKaraTabiHe(Peter Parker & Avengers Team) “Where the fuck were you!?” It comes out as more of a yell than he would’ve liked, but his control is slipping and all the anger, fear, and hurt are crashing out. In which Peter comes back on a Sunday and he has good reasons to be ticked at the Avengers for leaving him behind to go on a mission.

5 Times Spider-Man Saved an Avenger’s Ass by TunaFishChris(Peter Parker & Avengers Team) What it says on the tin.

Peter & Wanda BFF’s [part one, part two, part three] by TunaFishChris (Peter Parker & Avengers Team)(Peter Parker & Wanda Maximoff) Nobody’s thrilled at the idea of “that kid” Peter Parker on the Avengers team. Nobody’s thrilled at the idea of “that weirdo” Wanda Maximoff on the team, either. Until they disappear, that is. Or, the one where Peter and Wanda are besties and the other Avengers are jerks until they realize how important and awesome they both are.

With Arms Wide Open by xSeshatx (Peter Parker & Avengers Team) 5 times the Avengers helped Peter Parker, and the 1 time Peter Parker helped the Avengers

Peter Parker is a ridiculously nice person by NeighbourhoodGay(Peter Parker & Avengers Team) The realization that Spider Man is in fact the sweetest human being on the planet takes the Avengers by surprise.

void by thepensword (Peter Parker & Avengers Team)(Infinity War Spoilers) He wakes up gasping. For a moment, all he sees is blackness, and he is searching for air that feels as though it will never again enter his lungs. He feels numbness and pain as one, terror and despair racing through his veins, and he thinks this is what it must feel like for the world to end. Peter in the void, after the war.

here comes the sun by porcelaincarnival (Peter Parker & Tony Stark)(Peter Parker & Avengers Team) No one believes that Peter interns at Stark Industries, so when the class takes a field trip there, Peter can’t help but be a little upset about it

Peter Quill & Guardians Team

Breathe by ren (Peter Quill & Team) Peter has asthma. The team don’t know about this until he suddenly has a severe attack in the middle of a battle. To make matters worse, they don’t know what it is in the first place or how to make him better.

Unpack Your Heart by aloneintherain (Peter Quill & Team) The Guardians are captured and Peter is taken to their captors to be questioned. Instead of torturing him, however, the interrogator injects him with a truth drug. Due to his hybrid nature, however, the serum works a little too well: Peter can’t shut up and starts babbling whatever comes into his mind. Frustrated, his captors throw him back into the cell to let the serum wear off. Unfortunately, that means that the Guardians are stuck with a drugged up Peter who can’t stop talking!

If You Need Me, Call Me by AutumnHobbit (Guardians of The Galaxy x Avengers) They’ve all got their issues, and their own unique patterns of brokenness. Except now, they also have each other’s backs. Or: Five Times The Avengers Helped The Guardians, And One Time The Guardians Helped The Avengers.

Darcy Lewis & Avengers Team

Avengers Means Family (a cautionary tale) by moontyrant (Darcy Lewis x Avengers)(Big Brother Avengers) Darcy's cheating (ex)boyfriend won't give her stuff back after she leaves him, and it's up to the Avengers to make it right.

Darcy is Done! by Caiti (Darcy Lewis & Avengers) Darcy is the all-around gofer for these people, and she's sick and tired of not getting thanked. She is going on strike.

Reader & Avengers

Always Remembered by WinterReadingerDixon67 (Bucky Barnes x Reader)(Reader & Avengers)  Reader finds out her grandfather has passed away and now attends his funeral with Bucky and the team at her side.

What We Do For Our Own by isntthatjustmarvelous (Avengers & Reader) You experience something traumatic, but your super secret boyband are there to help. And to discuss revenge.

Avengers Team & Team Free Will (Supernatural)

The Touch Point by The67ImpalaDragonChild (Avengers Team & Clint Barton & Team Free Will) When Clint Barton was young, he met two boys. Two boys that became closer to him than his own brother. Years later, Clint is now an Avenger, and his two adoptive brothers are the deadliest hunters in the United States. If not the world. They’re closer than ever. And when Clint is snatched directly from the aftermath of a battle by a face from his past, and only has a few minutes to call for help, Clint makes a call to Natasha Romanov… And Dean Winchester. Now Avengers and Hunters alike must race against time and work together to find Clint. Before his time runs out.

An Occasional Matter of Family by dare_to_do_our_duty (Tony Stark & The Winchester Brothers) In which Tony Stark is related to Sam and Dean Winchester and they drop in on occasion when nobody is busy saving the world. And sometimes when everyone is busy saving the world.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Read Chapters One through Six here.

Our Story

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down: “I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops—the sound booth unmanned—until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other. 

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

The Spirit in the Horse, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at their very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight: corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafting from the windows, electrical wires chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse, his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

Carroll’s Theory of Truth, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines: Macintosh, Dell, Gateway. All brand names accompanied by her husband’s reverent whisper, longing glances at window displays, or jabbing elbows. “We should get one, Claire.”

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued, a kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. And so to spite him, she’d finally surrendered, gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite pages 32, 208, 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

 And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of +44 3456 2222.” She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work; she almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opening—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again. In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

Three Times the World Ended, 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart. 

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the note pasted to his door—Your sister called. Said it was urgent—he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking his druggy fug. 

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove behind her and the gleam of utensils from the table, forks and knives arranged in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food which she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose. Laoghaire’s side of the bed like a cold breeze.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

All 4,380 of them. One letter for every day he had missed her.

The Killing Girl, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , Chief of Staff at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story but more accurate, one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— following her parents, pushing them off the edge, feeding them into the river’s stone jaws. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year anger then, how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in. “Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours, either.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick notes—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve. You—you…I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire, forever spinning and spinning at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” 

They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything, everything shared. A cot, a child, bodies, sins, blame.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall. Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall, Chief of Staff. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

Point of Convergence, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons 

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: a waiter dashing towards snapping fingers, the hostess offering towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them—of their readiness, how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.” 

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came. 

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. Thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, knocked the mirror off the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand, lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips. 

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song. 

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.” 

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.

[lalobalives]

*An essay a week in 2017*

Today I saw a video of a whale caught in a fishing net. A boat approaches. They think the humpback is dead. He begins to move. A last ditch effort to save its own life. The people on the boat radio for help. They know the whale won’t make it until help arrives. They must be the help. They begin to cut away at the net with what they have on the boat–a small knife. They cut and cut. The whale begins to move. He is still tangled. They keep cutting. Suddenly the whale gets free. For the next hour it dives and jumps out of the water. It slaps its enormous tail on the water. It hurls its body above the water and splashes back down into the depths. This is its freedom dance.

***

On Wednesday, in my high school fiction class, we started reading Gabby Rivera’s “Juliet Takes a Breath.” I got the students, three boys and five girls, to talk about people who have inspired them, like the protagonist Juliet is inspired by Harlowe. I ask: “Have you ever had someone make that big an impression on you? They go around sharing.

One boy says he has no big inspirations. I know him to be a huge comic book fan. He’s a burly fourteen year old with kind eyes and a big heart who is often biting with his jokes. He’s awkward. He’s been bullied. His humor can sometimes sting. I’ve had to remind myself that he is just learning how to be a brown man in this world. The world has already tried to crush him.

I ask: “Well, who introduced you to comic books.”

He smiles with no teeth. Says: “No one did.” Then he shakes his head. “No, my dad did but not through comic books. He introduced me to super heroes. He gave me a whole bunch when I was like five or six. He wanted to see which ones I liked.” I smile. Lean in closer. “And a few years later, I learned that comic books tell the stories of those super heroes.”

“And you were hooked,” I finish for him.

“Yes.” He smiles again. This time he shows teeth.

I move on to a senior I’ve known since she was a ninth grader. Before she went natural and now dons a head of tight brownish blonde curls. She looks at me and smiles with her whole face. “You,” she says and starts to turn the pages of her homemade journal. She folds white papers in half, staples them, seals the cover with clear packing tape. I imagine she has stacks of these at home. “I quote you all the time,” she says. “Last week, you told me…let me see.” She flips through the pages. I see lines of poetry. The beginnings of stories. Anecdotes. Musings about her day. Quotes from the many books she reads, some that I’ve suggested. She’s always reading. She stops on a page. Scans it with her index finger. “Last week I told you something shifted in me. I told you I think I’m more than a poet. You said, and I quote: ‘I’ve been waiting for you to see that. You’re a storyteller.’” She looks at me. Her eyes are welling. I blink hard. I can’t hide the heat in my face. I am all the colors.

“You’re the first person to tell me I’m a writer. To make me believe that I can make a life out of words.” I give her a high five.

I will hug her later. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that I believe in her. She is going to Smith in the fall on full scholarship. She is going to major in creative writing. I tell her: “You are light years ahead of where I was at your age. Just keep doing the work. Keep writing and pushing yourself. You got this.”

Later that evening, I cried at a comic shop after hugging and congratulating my sister friend homie Gabby Rivera on her first comic book outing, America #1, published by Marvel. There was a line out of the door for her signing, yo!

On Tuesday evening I went to a screening at the UN of the documentary AfroLatinos: The Untaught Story written by my Comadre Iyawó Alicia Anabel Santos, produced by Renzo Devia. The room was packed!

It hit me in the back of the comic shop on Fulton how very proud I am of these two glorious women who mean so very much to me and are amongst the best humans I’ve known. To say that I am proud does not suffice. I was moved to big fat tears, and just as I was about to apologize, I remembered what Lidia Yuknavitch said during workshop at Tin House: “Never apologize for your tears. My Lithuanian grandmother used to say that crying was the only language she trusted because it was the language of the body.”

I think of the inscription Gabby wrote in my copy of her novel: “We are the revolution.” Indeed.

***

I have a hard time accepting compliments. I have a hard time hearing that I have inspired and motivated and been an integral part of someone’s journey. I have seen these two talented women grow and evolve. We have gone through changes together. There were moments where it was too much to be in each other’s lives, so we weren’t. And then we came back. We’ve shared joy and tears. We’ve shared writing and stories. We’ve sat in classes together. We’ve workshopped each other’s work. They’ve both participated in my Writing Our Lives Workshops.

I tremble as I write this. I want to explain that I’m not say that I’m not taking credit for their accomplishments. I am acknowledging that we have been part of each other’s journeys. I want to say that I don’t know if I’d be where I am had I not met and loved them. I want you to know how much they feed and inspire me; that they are integral parts of my life and my evolution.

I remember when Iyawó told me she Renzo had invited her to tour Latin America and the Caribbean to work on the documentary. I remember when she started preparing for the months on the road and when she left. I talked to her from so many places across the globe. Me here in NYC, being a single mom, working and writing and trying to build a life for myself. Her in Haiti and DR and Brazil and Colombia and Honduras and…

I remember when Gabby told me about this book she was writing. I remember when she shared that Juliet came to her in my first Writing Our Lives class, in the petri dish class. I’ve often thought that that class was a failure. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was still figuring it all out. You learn so much in the journey…

***

In her essay collection Create Dangerously, Edwidge Danticat writes: “All artists, writers among them, have several stories — one might call them creation myths — that haunt and obsess them.”

***

Imposter syndrome has been sinking its claws deep into me this week. It’s nothing new. The feelings of unworthiness have walked with me for most of my life. If I look at the root of it, at where it comes from, I know it comes from my mother. Here’s the thing: a part of me feels guilt over this, over this writing I’ve done about my mother, over calling myself unmothered, over not being able to tell people that I have a great relationship with my mom, that she is my foundation and my church, that all things go back to the altar of la madre.

We texted a few days ago. It ended like it usually does: I am left reeling and questioning and wondering: if so many people love me, why can’t you? Why can’t you love me, mom? Why?

I am tired of feeling that. This shit is exhausting…and yet, here I am. Writing it. Again.

***

In her forecast for this week’s Venus retrograde, Chani Nicholas writes for Sagittarius:

Get to know what you are capable of. Don’t back down from it. Refuse to diminish it. Own it without arrogance, but with an unwavering acknowledgement of its magnificence.

Consider all that you have learned about your creative, erotic energy over the past 8 years. Which love affairs were your greatest teachers then? What did you learn from them? How have you healed? How do you approach this aspect of your life differently now? What were you learning about your creative energy then? What projects were your biggest teachers? How did you approach them then? How do you approach your creative work now?

The last two weeks of Venus’s retrograde ask you to sink deep below the surface of things. They get to the root of why you feel worthy and unworthy. Desirable and undesirable. Connected and disconnected. They scour the base of your energetic reservoirs, your creative wells, your oceans of imagination for clues as to what may have entered your streams of consciousness, telling you that you aren’t what you are. They ask you to heal the old wounds. Flush out the poisons from childhood. Cleanse the systems that were put in place by familial patterns so that you can better honor the gifts that you have received from the gods. ~ChaniNicholas.com

***

Over the past two days, I’ve found found myself searching for unmothered womyn like me. I’ve searched their names, their stories, their poems. I’ve been looking to feel less alone in the world. I need to see words like mine. Words that dare to speak our truths about our mothers. Words that chip away at the mother myth with a sledgehammer.

I reached out to folks on FB: Emily Dickinson’s poem Chrysallis inspired the title of my memoir. My sister friend Elisabet told me the other day that Dickinson was very much unmothered like us. I did not know this. There’s something about knowing I’m not alone in this that has gifted me much solace. All this is to say that I want to know more about Dickinson’s relationship with her mother. And if there’s any other unmothered woman writer that you think I should know and read, please do share. Yes this is me searching for roots. I am willing to be vulnerable and share that. There is no shame in our wounds.

In my research, I discovered that I am indeed not alone. There is nothing like learning that you are not alone in your ghosts and obsessions…

In a letter to her mentor, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Dickinson wrote: “Could you tell me what home is. I never had a mother. I suppose a mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.” http://classiclit.about.com/cs/articles/a/aa_emily.htm

Virginia Woolf’s mother died when she was thirteen years old. She writes in her autobiographical fragments Moments of Being: “Until I was in [my] forties”—until she’d written To the Lighthouse—“the presence of my mother obsessed me. I could hear her voice, see her, imagine what she would do or say as I went about my day’s doings. She was one of the invisible presences who after all play so important a part in every life.”…

And once it was written, Woolf noticed, “I ceased to be obsessed by my mother. I no longer hear her voice; I do not see her.” Why? The question haunted Woolf. “Why, because I described her and my feeling for her in that book, should my vision of her and my feeling for her become so much dimmer and weaker? Perhaps one of these days I shall hit on the reason.” Source: The Day Virginia Woolf Brought Her Mom Back to Life

Woolf would later call her mother’s death “the greatest disaster that could happen.”

***

They call us unmothered. There are those who are unmothered because their mothers died. Then there are those like me, whose mothers are alive and still don’t mother us.

Merriam-Webster’s defined unmothered as: deprived of a mother: motherless <adolescent gosling that, unmothered, attached itself to him — Della Lutes>

Dictionary.com takes you straight to the various definitions of “mother” as if unmothered couldn’t possibly exist. As if nature would not allow that. God wouldn’t. The universe wouldn’t. And yet, I exist—an unmothered woman. ~excerpt from “They Call Her Saint”, A Dim Capacity for Wings, a memoir by Vanessa Mártir

***

I remember finding the term unmothered and how shocked I was by it. More than anything I was shocked by the realization that I wasn’t alone in my suffering and there were other people out there like me, who walked unanchored in this life. I wanted to read more work by and for us. I’ve searched high and low for it. I’ve reached out to mentors and friends for suggestions and recommendations. What has this made me realize? That I want to, have to, will one day compile an anthology of work by and for us unmothered women. An anthology of poetry and fiction and essays. I will create this for womyn like me to see that they’re not alone. That we see them. That there is refuge. There is something about seeing yourself in literature that is so profound and comforting. This is also true for the unmothered who have been living with the mother myth for so long, who have been told “solo hay una madre,” who have seen people gasp and clutch their pearls when they dare to speak of their mothers honestly, to show that she is not what the myth said, she wasn’t loving, she wasn’t kind, she broke you in so many ways… And here we are picking up the pieces. Let me show you how this shard glints in the moonlight. Let me hold up that mirror, sis. Let me show you what solidarity looks like…

***

In his essay “Finding Abigail” Chris Abani write: “Ghosts leave their vestigial traces all over your work. Once they have decided to haunt you, that is. These ectoplasmic moments litter your work for years. They are both the veil and the revelation, the thing that leads you to the cusp of the transformational.”

***

To be clear, there is no pride in me saying I am unmothered. This is a wound I walk with. I just decided that there is no shame in it either. This is my truth. This is me coming to terms with my existence. This is me seeing you. This is me telling you that for far too long we have carried this, telling ourselves that there must be something wrong with us because how could a mother not want to mother and be tender to her child? Mother is earth. Mother is the world. And to say that mother is wrong or incapable is to say that the world is wrong and incapable, and how could that be? It can’t…right? Wrong. There is nothing wrong with you now as there was nothing wrong with you then, when you saw your mother sneer at you, hatred pulling at the corners of her eyes. This was her pain. This was her trauma. That is not yours. You, I, we are worthy of love. We are lovable. It has been a journey to see that and own it. And some days I still struggle to see it and be it. But today you saw me. You said, yes. You said, me too. This healing ain’t easy but you must name your ghosts before you can tackle them. Mother is not the enemy. She just is what the world made her. What are you going to do with that unmothered wound? Me? Imma make art and I’m gonna love and Imma mother in resistance to how I was mothered. This is what I have and it is everything.

***

Kintsugi (“golden joinery”) or kintsukuroi (“golden repair”) is the centuries-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Beautiful seams of gold glint in the cracks of ceramic ware, giving a unique appearance to the piece. This repair method celebrates the artifact’s unique history by emphasizing the fractures and breaks instead of hiding or disguising them. Kintsugi often makes the repaired piece even more beautiful than the original, revitalizing the artifact with new life. Kintsugi art dates back to the late 15th century, making it more than 500 years old. It is related to the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi, which calls for finding beauty in the flawed or imperfect. The repair method was also born from the Japanese feeling of mottainai, which expresses regret when something is wasted. Source: My Modern Met

***

I started therapy a year ago. My first words to him were: “I am an unmothered woman.” I am still in therapy, still digging into that wound. What I’ve come to is this: there are people who have mothered me in ways my mother couldn’t and still can’t. I am grateful for those surrogate mothers every single day. I had my Millie and I had my brother and so many others who reminded me that I am loved and lovable. They taught me that I can be different. That I can use these scars to make something beautiful out of this life I was given, that I have made. And, no, I didn’t do it alone. And, yes, I can stop the cycle. And there is also the bittersweet realization that I wouldn’t be who I am nor would I be able to do what I do, see you and be with you and be the mother and writer and teacher and student that I am, had I been mothered. See, it’s true in many ways que solo hay una madre, and that’s why I am still wounded by this truth of being unmothered. So the decision is: be broken by it or let it be my fuel. I didn’t know that I made the decision when I left at 13 and didn’t look back. I didn’t have the language then but shit, that girl somehow knew she had to save her own life. I’ve been doing it ever since. Even when I fucked up. Even when I repeated the “love me, please love me” cycle I learned from my mother. I was then and now still trying to save my own life. I was trying to see the glint of the moon in these shards. Today I want to say thank you to that 13 year old Vanessa. You are my hero, nena. You be the illest.

***

I have family on my FB friends list who don’t get why I write what I write or why I do the work I do. I see you. You’ve had a different experience with my mother or you don’t want to look at your own wounds or you’d rather I stay silent because you’re more interested in protecting the family name and keeping these secrets that don’t protect any us. I get it in many ways. I still won’t be silent. Don’t ask me to be. I’ve thought this through. I know I may hurt some people in my journey to heal and free myself of these ghosts. Yes, I think it’s worth all of it. Why? Because the cycle stops here. It has to. Silence already killed my brother. There can be no more casualties.

***

A little a while ago, as if to remind me again, a post came across my FB. The article starts: “How did Marcia Butler, the distinguished oboist, save herself from a detached, withholding mother and a sexually abusive father?… But Marcia was also hooked on trying to understand her mother. ‘I cobbled together weekly rituals through which I might pretend to be close to her and imaginatively pierce her thick veneer,’ she writes.”

So many of us are broken by our wounds. Some of us have somehow found a way to overcome and be fed by them. This is one story. I am writing mine.

[Woolf] was shocked by her [mother’s] death, but then again Woolf believed it was her “shock-receiving capacity” that “makes me a writer.” She thought the productive thing to do with a shock was to “make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together.” The Day Virginia Woolf Brought Her Mom Back to Life

Relentless Files — Week 61 (#52essays2017 Week 8) *An essay a week in 2017* Today I saw a video of a whale caught in a fishing net.