#i hope he continues to survive in spite of everything

[chaiaurchaandni]

4 year old Ahmad Shabat - an israeli airstrike hit him, his parents & 4 siblings; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his father's relatives; he survived, they didn't - then they hit him & his uncle; he survived, his uncle didn't - both of Ahmed's legs have been amputated because of injuries. He survives.

i hope Ahmad gets to live. i hope he has a beautiful and fulfilling life. i hope he finds love and safety and comfort and success. i hope he finds happiness. i hope he heals. i hope he continues to survive. in spite of the violence, in spite of the trauma, in spite of the horror. in spite of the world.

[ghcstao3]

I hope your day is as amazing as you.

What would happen is soap was Makarov's son who run away to live with his Scottish Aunt? He knows Russian and how Makarov operates and wants to stop it, that is why he joined up. What would happen with the team and Makarov finding out?

Have a lovely rest of the year. I hope it is restful and relaxing

i actually love this prompt so much !! thank you, and i hope you are doing well :)

-

The first thought in Soap’s head upon being passed a photo of his father isn’t of revenge or abhorrence like he thought it might be—it’s wondering if Ghost notices the tremble in his hand as he’s given the picture.

His second thought is that he must have, because Ghost isn’t even looking at the photo pinched between his fingers.

He’s looking right at Soap.

“Makarov,” Price supplies, though Soap needs no introduction. He’s more familiar with the task force’s newest target than he’d like to be.

But he’d been waiting for this. Soap had been surviving out of spite and the hope that maybe one day he might finally reach this point. That maybe he could be the one to put a bullet in his father's skull for all he's done.

Ghost’s eyes continue to bore into the side of his face up until a passive dismissal from Price, and even then there’s a second set of footsteps behind Soap as he leaves the bar.

His shadow only lets him get as far as the elevator of the run-down hotel they're posted up in for the time being, before the emergency stop toggle is pulled just as the doors slide shut and the car moves upward.

Soap is suddenly shoved up against a wall, Ghost's forearm pressed to his throat while a handlerail digs into his spine. He could fight the lieutenant off, he could—but Soap’s senses tell him it'd be futile. That whatever it is Ghost wants from him would be inescapable, inevitable, no matter how hard he tries.

"You know something," Ghost says, barely loud enough to be heard over the blaring elevator alarm. His eyes are intense, dark—and for a moment Soap is in full understanding of the fear Ghost's enemies carry for him.

"Not sure what you mean, sir," Soap replies. And maybe a part of him knows exactly what it is Ghost is talking about, but a louder majority is panicked. Confused.

Soap's throat is squeezed tighter. A threat, from his own lieutenant.

"About Makarov," Ghost grunts. "I saw your face when you looked at that photo. There's something you're not saying, MacTavish, and I reckon you'd spit it out before I make you."

Soap's eyes go wide, never having even thought of Ghost picking up on his expression. Never having even thought there was an expression. He feels his heartbeat jump pace, thumping in his throat as he struggles to swallow. This isn't how he'd imagine telling anyone his place in this. Who he really is.

In all honesty, he hadn't imagined it happening at all, mostly because he wished for it to never have to come up.

But perhaps Soap should've known that Ghost is too smart for that to be possible.

"Don't think you'd believe me if I told you," Soap rasps. He knows it's the wrong answer for Ghost, but he's not quite sure what else he could say.

Thankfully, Ghost doesn't suffocate Soap further, though he doesn't budge his hold yet, either. Not as he hisses, "Try me."

Soap screws his eyes shut, huffing air through his nose to brace himself for whatever reaction he'll receive. For whatever reaction he doesn't want to wait on.

"I'm—" Soap sighs his uncertainty, his voice quivering, "Makarov is my father."

Though Ghost scoffs, Soap can feel some of the pressure on his windpipe mercifully lift. "Bullshit he is. Why would you be hunting him?"

Soap finally begins to scrabble at the thick forearm at his throat. "I ran away when I was old enough. He... he made me do awful things for him, LT, and I—can you please just let me go?" Tears sting the corners of Soap's eyes. "I'll explain everything, I just—"

Ghost suddenly frees him, and Soap doubles over, heaving in gasping breaths as he rubs at his neck and collarbone. The alarm stops ringing as Ghost pushes the emergency toggle back in place, and the car begins moving again.

It's a blur, being led to Ghost's hotel room, but he's appreciative to not have to think about his steps as Ghost drags him along and seats him on the foot of the made bed.

Soap opens his mouth to let his explanation begin tumbling out, but Ghost shushes him before he gets the chance.

"I'm getting Price, Gaz, and Laswell before you say anything," Ghost tells him. "Whether you like it or not, I'm not keeping this secret from the team if it'll help us take down your f—Makarov's operation."

Soap understands, he does—but that doesn't mean it hurts any less to hear the distrust in Ghost's voice that Soap had only recently managed to work away.

Ghost pauses in the doorway, and for a hopeful second Soap thinks he's changed his mind.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, before turning and heading back into the hallway.

The door clicks loudly shut, the electronic lock mechanism resetting. Soap sighs, feeling his shoulders slump uncomfortably low as he waits. He suspects he has a night of storytelling ahead of him, now.

If only he'd been more careful.

*

The team takes in the new information better than Soap had anticipated.

Ghost says nothing the entire time. Asks no questions and offers nothing more than a grunt or huff to acknowledge what's being said. Soap only hopes his walls haven't been permanently rebuilt.

Price takes the information in stride, just as Laswell does. They both ask questions that pertain more so to their current mission, poking and prodding to see if any of Soap's personal intel could help them find more and easier success in the near future.

Gaz sits with him and tells Soap it changes nothing about who he is. That because he's still fighting for the right cause, nothing else matters—not his past nor paternity.

Soap is just grateful that beyond his confrontation with Ghost in the elevator, no rash decisions have been made otherwise in the face of this revelation.

But after everything—Soap just wants to sleep. He just wants space.

It takes longer than Soap would’ve liked for it to happen, but it does eventually. He’s finally allowed to leave the room and shuffle to his own, though not before Price catches his arm in the hallway, once Gaz and Laswell have both disappeared, Ghost’s door having long since been shut.

“This isn’t to say I don’t trust you to do it,” Price says, “but if it comes down to it, Soap—you can’t hesitate.”

Can’t hesitate to kill Makarov, Price means.

“Of course, sir.” Soap nods. In no world does he need to be told to take action. “I understand. No second-guesses.”

Price hums. “Good,” he says, and pats Soap’s shoulder. “Now rest up, sergeant. Lots of work still to do.”

Soap nods again and bids Price goodnight before finally slipping into his own room. He barely takes the time to toe off his shoes and shed his jacket before collapsing onto the bed, more than ready to curl up and sleep for an eternity.

But alas, as Price had said—there’s still plenty left to do.

[valentine-writes]

hello, hope this is okay! you wrote angst for miguel, how about spot this time around?

holding my night in your hands.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited, bittersweet, not fully angst,, my bad, pre-collider drabble, unhealthy work habits, mentions of burnout 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. johnathan ohnn/the spot

author's note: (；′⌒`) this is so so short ohh my goodness,,, i am so sorry if u wanted post collider!! lmk if u want that becuz i will 100% do that! was jus in the mood to write up some pre collider johnathan aawuagdhe,,, anyways a little bit of a different format today (☆-ｖ-) i hope itz ok!!!!

johnathon ohnn: perpetually working on whatever the team of scientists at alchemax are researching on. you've always known him to be ambitious, admired him for it even– though, more recently, you've found it to be a cause for concern.

it barely ever stops, the constant clicking of computer keys, the feverish scribbling of notes, the quiet muttering under his breath about whatever's holding his attention hostage at the moment– these habits carry him into the late night, much to your dismay

you know it's not healthy, the way he insists on working himself to death– yet by the way he acts, you're willing to bet that johnathan thinks it'd be an honourable way to go.

"there's no way you intend on living like this forever." you comment idly, mumbling the words more to yourself than to him. frankly, you're unsure if he senses your presence at all, leaning against the doorframe of his room with your arms crossed.

"it's the only way." he mutters back, not looking up. a tired chuckle escapes his lips, even though you know he means it humorlessly.

almost all his life, he'd been working to be something more– to discover something more out of the universe. it was devastating to watch him endlessly toil away at something he won't end up even getting credit for.

it's as if he can sense your disquieted state, before you can even think to interject. he glances up at you for a moment, hesitating before speaking. "...i'm almost done here, anyways–"

"you said that three hours ago, johnathan. c'mere."

you gesture for him to come closer. he sighs as you watch him expectantly. you know all to well that he'd love to stay glued to his screen for a little longer, but he nods anyways.

"i don't know what i'd do without you." he laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. you bite your tongue, knowing exactly what he'd be doing if you weren't there to drag him away for a break. now is no time to be snippy. he's complying at least.

he stand from his seat and stretches, the tension from his long held uncomfortable sitting just barely alleviated by the movement. you hear a few joints in his arms and legs make a few pops and cracks, which makes you cringe ever so slightly and still, in spite of this,

you feel relieved.

somedays he's a bit more stubborn with you. today, he doesn't seem like he even has the energy to put up a fight.

you've seen brilliant people burn themselves out. you're familiar with working yourself to the bone too– and day after day, you try to ensure johnathan doesn't do the same. you continue to insist he takes break, you ensure he's taking care of himself– you do everything in your power to make sure that he's doing more than just survive.

and even after all that, he might not know how much you truly care. but you don't know the half of how grateful he is for you either.

[vicioux]

☀️ ELUCIEN FIC RECS ☀️

my OG acotar ship will always be nesta x lucien lol but i got suckered into falling for these two as well by @valamerys ("dove" 🥺) and all the seriously beautiful work that continues to be written year after year. without any further ado here are some of my fav elucien fics i've had the pleasure to read - hope y'all enjoy reading and happy elucien week! p.s you can find the rest of my fic rec lists here.

oneshots

BETWEEN THE RAINDROPS WITH YOU by stardustsroses Lucien comes home after a mission to find his mate sleeping in their garden among the summer flowers. Fluff ensues.

DESPERATELY WAITING by shipatfirstsight She tries not to think about Lucien.

COLD HANDS, WARM TOUCH by shaziskhalid Lucien falling sick and Elain going all mother hen on him.

BLAME IT ON THE ALCOHOL by perseusannabeth Elain gets drunk and decides to sleep in Lucien's room. Also, she keeps talking about her boobs.

DON'T LET ME GO by ellesbasement The first time Lucien comes to visit, Elain doesn't talk to him much.

BURNING GOLD by sennawritesthings “I don’t think I want to know you.” “It’s alright. Would you mind if I know you?”

human!elain

EFFLORESCE by flowerflamestars So bleeding and burning, lost and found, Lucien Vanserra staggered into human lands, and found he wanted to live.

A SOFT PLACE TO FALL by valamerys Math was never a strong subject of hers, but the calculation is too simple to allow error: if one of them must die for this, their family cannot survive without Feyre. But they can survive without Elain.

LA VIE EN ROSE by thelonelybarricade He was being purposefully vague, she thought with a stab of irritation. Elain tried quickly to recall the other rhymes children whispered in the streets of the market. “Can faeries lie?” That russet eye gleamed. “Most can.”

TO MATE A FAERIE by flamesandshadows Elain Archeron is happily married to her true love, Graysen Nolan, and has settled into life at the Nolan estate. But her life is thrown into confusion when a faerie prisoner is brought to the manor.

EXILE by separatist_apologist Humans have been bred for the Fae for as long as the Archeron sisters have been alive. Separated, Feyre and Nesta are sent to shadowy Night Court with feared High Lord Rhysand and his unpredictable winged General Cassian while Elain is taken by Eris Vanserra to terrifying Autumn Court to serve the High Lord's wife.

multichapter

A GREEN AND GROWING THING by valamerys This is the story of the fox boy and the flower girl, of spring and fall and everything inbetween.

THE SUN RISES by zhiantara Fate has tied their souls together; now they just need to get to know each other.

THE AUTUMN FLAME by the_twisted_kingdom Months after the war, Lucien returns to Velaris to see Elain and is pleasantly surprised when she appears open to spending time with him. He is even more surprised when Rhysand sees fit to send him and Elain across Prythian to visit the other courts in an effort to unite them all.

FOX AND FAWN by daevastanner “I have spoken with Feyre...And she has agreed to break our bond.” Lucien stood gracefully and held out his hand. Then he raised her knuckles to his lips, just like a knight in one of the books that Nesta read to her as a girl. Just like a prince. Just like a gentleman. “Happy Solstice, Elain.”

A TALE OF NYMPHS by reveriedusoir Elain is a nymph of spring, spreading beauty and happiness wherever she goes. Lucien is the Lord of Death, whose realm is dying. When they meet, he knows he will need her to save his court - and perhaps for some other things as well.

WONDERLAND by separatist_apologist In a kingdom where a Maiden is forced to be sacrificed to appease the monster in the woods, Elain Archeron is chosen out of spite by her spurned suitor. She doesn't know he's freed every maiden he's ever been sent...but her? Her, he intends to keep.

FIANCES, FIREBIRDS, FOXES AND FAWNS by mango Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa.

LIABILITY by myinnercrisis A mating bond is supposed to be sacred, right? It seems to be working out just fine for everyone but him.

KINGS, QUEENS, AND VAGABONDS by gingerwritess Elain is wasting away in the Night Court, seeking out a destructive last hope to return to her human life and human love. Her unwanted mate wants nothing more than to see her healed, and takes her to the Day Court, in hopes that true sunlight can bring her back into herself.

smut

WHAT WE WANTED by valamerys Lucien’s first Fire Night as High Lord of the Spring Court puts he and Elain’s fledgling relationship in an awkward position.

YET WE DREAM by valamerys In which Elain is *not* having a nightmare.

NOCTIS by valamerys Lucien is a vampire. Elain is the village's sacrifice in an attempt to keep him at bay.

UNDONE by highfaelucien & pterodactylichexameter "Elain sucks in a delicate breath when she sees the silk binding her hands to the headboard, holding her there for him...And over her eyes...he’s blindfolded her."

modern au

HOLY GROUND by separatist_apologist Blindsided when her ex-fiancé informs her he's taking his mistress on their honeymoon, Elain decides to move back home just until she's back on her feet. When Lucien and Elain reconnect on the dock behind her childhood home, sparks fly instantly and Elain is forced to reconsider what she wants out of her life, and if there's a place for Lucien in it.

BRIGHT AS A FLAME, SOFT AS A ROSE by aquietpersonwithaloudmind An Elucien florist AU.

INSPIRATION by moononastring Aspiring writer Elain Archeron is looking for some inspiration for her new novel when she happens to meet the perfect man for the job.

ALL MY LOVE by lebensmuede In which Lucien does not take well to hearing how Graysen mistreated Elain.

A SPARK OF SOMETHING by shadowriel Elain is a half-fae party girl unwilling to accept her mating bond with Lucien, the fae male she can't help but want. (a Crescent City AU)

THE LOCKER ROOM PACT by neverthecanonotp Lucien Vanserra will soon find out that his transfer to play as goalkeeper for the football team entails many more responsibilities than he bargained for. Or: The one time Elain tries to have a casual hook-up goes spectacularly wrong.

anything and everything by these authors

VALAMERYS SEPARATIST_APOLOGIST ABOOKANDACOFFEE HIGHFAELUCIEN RABBITLOVER1027

[foxglovefaun]

yeah ok like we’ve seen many a mass exodus from the twit but at this point I’m so bitter about that emerald prince clown man that im officially refusing to leave

like if they’re gonna use my images, I hope they at least remain dumb enough to scrape everything I’ve posted. I Glaze my shit, and to quote a whiny tech loser, “this is DATA POISONING!!”

good.

excellent.

I’m gonna keep posting new stuff while regularly deleting older work with the knowledge that Glaze will continue to update and provide stronger protections. Older work doesn’t live on the way it does on tumblr or a gallery-based app anyway. regularly scheduled deletion doesn’t overburden my workload and doesn’t impact my traction.

so fuck it. I lose nothing more than I’ve already lost, and what I gain is the knowledge that I could repeatedly fuck their stupid learning model from within.

until they change the TOS to say “eugh u can’t post glazed images >:(“ im going to continue to dig in my heels out of spite. two can play at that game and I have an edge that Musk doesn’t and that’s a supportive psychotherapist.

I’m pretty sure I’ll survive this shit just like I survived everything else, and if we’re lucky, considering all the debt he’s accrued, he won’t.

[fala-alfredo-pasta]

Going further with the Eren + Nagito comparison, what if Nagito has another "revelation" of sorts. Wondering to himself, was it ever truly hope that he yearned so much for? Or was it freedom? A sense of autonomy and control over his life. Not a life dictated by the whims of his luck cycle, by the diseases limiting his body, and of course by some bitch mind-raping him into a despair addiction.

And this extends to how he treats his luck cycle. Finally reaching the conclusion that no, it has never been a fair balance and it has always just been Ultimate Bad Luck. Deciding that the "good luck" is just a bullshit illusion to get his hopes up and then be crushed again. So he goes out of his way to spite the cycle. Passing over and deliberately sabotaging every single bit of "good luck" that comes his way from there on.

"Fuck off, I'm not falling for that shit anymore. Go ahead, toss me all the bad luck you want. See if I care."

It would probably feel weirdly uncomfortable for the rest of Class 77. Because like...yeah, he's finally shut up about hope and luck and all that. But it also feels kind of wrong. Like the world has turned upside down. And a number of them probably realize that they actually do miss that sense of irreverent optimism. Which in turn would likely make Nagito even more irritable and lash out at attempts to cheer him up.

"If I recall correctly, all the time you'd say stuff like 'I wish that moron would just shut the hell up about hope'. And yet...now you're upset that I've taken your advice? Make your damn mind up."

The idea of believing in hope "in a healthy way" sounds good on paper. But like...I think it would take a very long character arc to come around to that idea. As far as Nagito is concerned (and let's face it he's not exactly wrong here), hope or fate or whatever spited him from the moment he was born. It doesn't smile upon him the way it does people like Makoto.

"No. Fuck that. I'm never going back to that lie. Looking back now...I was a slave long before I ever had a chain around my neck. It doesn't matter that I'm gonna die a miserable death. Nothing's gonna change that. What matters is whether or not I die free."

This would be quite the intriguing concept to explore indeed though as you mentioned it would be a long work-in-progress for Nagito to open himself up again to believing in hope from this point.

Here's hoping that things don't end as tragically for him as they did Eren--though I suppose some argue that Eren did die "free" to an extent. Though really did he ever truly escape? I mean he died a Titan and there was really no way at all for him to be able to remotely have a normal happy life with how deeply involved he was with, well, everything. To that effect, at least Nagito in way has a shot of finding some sort of contentment in life. Yeah, he'll never be truly "free" from his luck the same as Eren will never be free of being a titan, but Nagito has time. As ironic as that may sound for someone with terminal illness, if there is a constant about Nagito's luck is that it does first and foremost ensure his survival (whether it's painful or not). Along with the fact that they really aren't any obligations or responsibilities he's tied (not in the way Eren had), Nagito is at least free to spend his recovery period well...recovering and allowing for introspection to happen. And, because of that, I do think at some point he'll be able to see some sort of reason to genuinely smile again and be happy despite his luck.

I don't think he necessarily needs to be hopeful for the future--because that could feel like you're setting yourself up for disappointment. Instead I think Nagito will do better simply allowing himself to find enjoyment and be happy in the present. He won't fool himself by claiming that everything in the future will be okay, but he won't let his bad luck continue to control him by sapping away all his happiness and making him an empty husk. After all, the freedom of feeling and expressing all the emotions he has, the good and the bad, isn't that really what he's striving for? I can't imagine a bigger "fuck you" to that chain of bad luck he was born with than living and enjoying life despite it.

He won't make plans but he'll enjoy the moments as they come.

[mustanggg]

A/N This one kinda got out of control. There are a lot of time jumps. I wanted to try something different. This took a while. I hope it makes sense and is okay x

🥵dominate reader 🥵dominate Rick Grimes 🥵spanking 🥵breath play

Survivor: someone who continues to live afterward in spite of coming close to death.

I’m a survivor. Long before the world fell to ashes and the dead rose.

The dead rising, world as we know it collapsing and those left abandoning their humanity to showcase their brutality has been all I’ve ever known.

I wasn’t born into a loving family. I never had two parents or a pet.

All I ever knew was my father. Whose words were never gentle and hands never loving. He was a monster but he taught me to survive.

To embrace pain and push my body beyond its limits.

In this new world. I would survive. Against the walking dead and what’s left of humanity.

**** ****

I was barely conscious, on the run from a pack of wild men who used the end of the world as their pawn to abuse women.

There originally was 6 of them banded together, ganging up on me. Fortunately for me only 3 remain to continue their hunt.

Still, being malnourished and extremely dehydrated put me at a disadvantage. So I ran to live another day. To bunk down an gain strength. Then.

The hunter becomes the hunted.

I wasn’t going to let them live. If I successfully escape some other poor girl would have the same fate, but worse.

Not far in the distance I could hear them. Taunting me with their excitement of what they’d administer to me once they caught me.

Holding my hand against my no doubt cracked ribs I tried to slow my breathing. It was only a matter of time.

Unsheathing my hand gun, I tightened my torso and grabbed my machete from my hip with my other hand.

Focusing more on dwindling the pain, I registered the eyes on me at the last second.

Instincts kicking in, I disregard my ribs and numerous injuries and spin around on the balls of my feet, gun aimed, to face the threat.

An unfamiliar man stood before me. Gun cocked and trained on my head.

My neck hairs rising had me glancing behind me, at the archer, bolt loaded, body stock still ready to pounce.

These men weren’t like the ones hunting me for their own vile needs. They were survivors. They’d faced the worst of humanity and came out victorious. Making getting out of this situation almost impossible in my injured state.

“Drop it,” the one with the gun warns me.

His eyes. Despite the precarious circumstances they drew me into a trance. The blue so striking I wanted to inspect closer. He was clearly toned underneath the shirt that clung to him. Curly hair matted to his forehead as he sweat under the sun.

Still, I refused to back down. Even as the voices of the men grew closer. They were gaining.

“Leave me,” I croaked, voice so parched it was painful to talk.

I noticed the way his muscles coiled tighter the nearer the pack got. He was trying to weigh who was the bigger threat.

His eyes flicked to the archer behind me.

Too late.

The three men came to a stop as they set their eyes on the stand down between us. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to try to take on these guys.

“Hiya there boys,” the one in the middle spoke confidently. Completely ignoring the imminent threat in front of him as he approached.

Before anyone could blink my gun was trained on him, steady, finger curled around the trigger.

“Thanks for catching ‘er for us and sorry for the trouble,” he babbled. “Youse can go long ya merry way now, we just want the girl.”

As the edges of my vision began to darken I fire a single round into the leaders head without hesitation. Using advantage of the shock I bring my arm back and let the machete fly towards another of them.

I never saw if I hit my mark as the pain rendered me unconscious.

All I heard before deafening silence was another shot being fired before I slumped against the tree. Unconscious.

**** ****

Gasping awake, I fight for my breathe. Instantly I survey and catalogue everything around me, nothing too small.

I was in a cell. Fuck.

An empty IV drip lay discarded on the chair near the exit.

My hands drop to my hips, in search for my weapons. They’re gone. Panic starts to kick in at the unfamiliar location, being defenceless.

I try to swing my legs over the side of the bed but bite my lip from the pain radiating up and down my torso.

Not even seconds later one of the men from the forest appears. Unlocking the cell door he steps in side, wary and on edge.

He’s smart. He can recognise another threat, even though I’m injured, he keeps his distance.

“Why were you running from those men?” He’s straight to the point, no beating around the bush.

I remain quiet, studying his body language.

“It’s in your best interest to talk,” he threatens, as though I really give a damn.

Rolling my eyes I sit up the best I can. Making sure I wasn’t completely vulnerable in front of this stranger. Still injured, but still ready to defend if needed.

He notices and he tenses, hand dropping down to rest of his gun.

“They didn’t have my best interests at heart. They were going to rape me then kill me,” I voice.

There. His demeanour shifts slightly. Relaxes ever so slightly, most would have missed it.

“Rick. Rick Grimes,” he announces, looking at you expectantly.

“Raven.”

“We have food and shelter here. A stronghold. You can heal. Join us. We need someone with your skills,” I scoff as he describes my abilities.

“And if I refuse?” I challenge.

“We blindfold you and dump you ways away from here. Choice is yours,” he concludes, ending the conversation as he walks out the door, locking it behind him.

When he’s out of sight I let my self exhale and relax. The idea of a place like this is tempting.

Yet people are a nuisance. A weakness. They’ll only get you killed.

Still, taking a break from surviving and instead living was something I couldn’t just pass up.

Decision made I tentatively laid back down to rest, wanting to heal as quick as possible.

**** ****

That was what I assume months ago.

Like everything left in this world, the prison never lasted. It fell at the hands of a psychopath.

Many were lost in the war. But there was no time to mourn. As everyone fought seperate battles to find their way back to each other.

I escaped with Rick and his boy, Carl.

I helped Carl keep his father alive. Scavenged for the both of them. Put my life on the line when Rick was unable.

I earned his trust. Providing and protecting his son earned me his respect.

Rick and I fought back to back. Covered one another. Leaned on each other.

I was becoming attached. Growing feelings for the bearded man. Something I thought was incapable of myself.

His blue eyes drew me in. They were like a siren, drawing me in to my death.

I shouldered some of his burdens as a leader, we depended on each other to keep everyone alive for another day.

We traveled together. Found the group and reunited everyone. He got to hold his daughter again. We all became a family. Looking for another place to plant roots. Together.

**** ****

It was night time. We were holed up in an abandoned house we came across. Everyone was asleep inside whilst I kept watch on the porch.

Absentmindedly flipping my new knife between my fingers, I turned slightly at the sound of the door opening.

Rick. Over time since the prison his hair has really grown, his beards long and unkept. Despite all his grey hairs he’s absolutely breathtaking to look at.

“Hey,” he greets as he plops down beside me. I bump my shoulder against his in greeting.

“Don’t know how long we got,” he whispers, shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

Sighing I grab his hand. His head jerks up in surprise. Squeezing I reassure him. “We’ll make it.”

Growling in front of us drew our attention. Only one. Drawing my arm back I flick my wrist, letting the knife fly to embed in the walkers forehead with a thunk.

“Rest,” I tell him as I turn towards him.

Rick gives one last squeeze before he stands and retreats back inside.

**** ****

We’ve been walking for days. We’re all exhausted, physically and emotionally. There’s not enough food to keep everyone going.

Clouds are rumbling above us. A storm in on the horizon. I always believed storms gave us another chance.

“Raven,” Rick suddenly calls me up to the front of the group. Instantly I feel his tension.

“Yeah?” I follow his gaze to the bottles of water, just sitting there. My parched through practically salivates at the sight.

From a friend

Instantly my body coils taut. I brushed off the feeling of being watched, bringing it down to dehydration.

Mine and Ricks eyes connect, I subtly shake my head. Don’t.

No words voiced but we’re instantly on the same page.

Then the sky gives way to the impending storm. All of a sudden it’s pouring. In a haste I tangle myself in my backpack trying to retrieve our empty water bottles.

Shaking his head, Rick steps up to me, helping detangle myself as he laughs. Successful, he stays close. A small smile on his lips.

Gaze warm. I feel a smile stretch across my lips as we stand close together in the rain.

Everything seems to come to a complete stop as Rick glances down to my lips and ever so slowly starts leaning down.

I lean up on my tip toes, heart beating like crazy when the boom of thunder breaks the moment.

“We need this shelter!” He yells over the onslaught on the rain.

“This way!” I bring up the rear as we navigate through the heavy downpour.

Coming upon a barn Rick assembles a team to take on with him. I pace.

I don’t like Rick going in without me at his back. But soon enough he beckons everyone inside.

Making sure everyone enters before me, Rick shuts the doors behind me. Standing by him I search him.

Seeing my wandering eyes he nods. He’s okay. Everyone’s okay. We all survived another day.

**** ****

Later that night we had a small fire going, trying to ward off the cold.

I was on edge. Despite the storm we were sitting ducks. I didn’t like how backed into a corner we were.

So I paced alongside the length of the door. Keeping watch whilst they slept.

Everyone except Daryl. We had the same instincts we never wanted. We’re cursed into the same life.

Looking over at him I nod. He jerks his head so I walk over to where the group rests.

I’m so lost in my thoughts about the danger of whoever has been stalking us it takes me a few moments to realise Daryl’s struggling to hold the barn doors closed against what sounds like an endless swarm.

Racing beside I push my back into the door. Using every bit my strength to push back against them.

This was life or death.

One by one everyone woke up and joined us in fending them off. We stood united. As a family. It’s when we stand together like this we rise undefeated.

**** ****

Groaning I roll open a second before my eyes spring open. I’d fallen asleep. That wasn’t the plan.

As I look around I notice everyone up and moving and Daryl stationed in view of the doors, keeping watch over us long after the threat resided.

“Guys, this is Aaron.”

Instantly I’m on my feet, weapons drawn before I can even think.

Rick forks out orders for everyone to secure the perimeter, leaving me in the barn with him and his family.

First glance Aaron is hardly a threat. He’s a timid little rabbit. Wouldn’t last long out there. Yet Rick wanted to take no chances when it came to our safety.

As Aaron tried explaining who he was and why he was following us I studied him.

He makes eye contact with me, pleading. I stand my ground and tilt my head at him. He flinched back at the sight of me absentmindedly flipping my knife between my fingers. I smile.

The shift in his movements. Eyes constantly darting. Never holding eye contact enough to challenge.

Internally I wince when Rick knocks him out and goes about tying him up.

He sends patrols to scout out the vehicles, looking for a lie. But he won’t find one.

As everyone leaves to their respective roles it’s just The Grimes and me.

Holstering my weapons I walk up beside Rick and bump his shoulder. He looks to me.

“He’s telling the truth,” I tell him what he already knows but doesn’t want to hear.

He just nods. Tension high at the possible threat. I sigh. Taking guard as I pace along the door again.

This world has beat Rick Grimes but it has changed him. Sometimes for the better, other times for the worst.

He’s trying hard to hang on but the more he pulls the more it seems to slip between his fingers and he’s too preoccupied to notice.

**** ****

Aarons story checks out. Vehicles are where he said.

I’m extremely displeased that when Rick split us up he puts me in a separate group. I didn’t like it.

We were following behind Rick and Aaron in the RV to the community he called Alexandria.

I was cramped in one of the seats. Mind going million miles a minute at everything that could go wrong.

When all of a sudden the brakes are slammed and I have to scramble to brace myself so I don’t go flying.

Glancing out the windscreen I feel my face pale as I see the herd but no sign of Rick. My first instinct is to leap out the door but Abraham throws the RV in reverse before I can react.

We park in an alley, setting the rendezvous point for Rick and the others when a flare lights up the sky.

My first thought is Rick is in trouble. Throwing all haste out the wind I’m out the door, knives in hand before anyone can stop me.

Except the archer. “Don’. We needa plan.” When I bare my teeth at him he plants himself, readying for a fight.

“You and I will pair up and we’ll scout it,” he negotiates. I didn’t know how I feel having him at my back but I decided to trust him to get to Rick quicker.

Nodding he makes a point of exaggeratedly relaxing his stance.

He barks out orders. Forming another group and telling them the grid he wants them to cover before meeting back here.

Daryl, although withdrawn is a leader. He has the respect of everyone yet he doesn’t see it. Being drilled into your head your worthless will blind you to your potential.

**** ****

Taking the lead, I surprise myself when I find myself trusting Daryl to watch my back.

Sticking to the shadows we both simultaneously still when we hear yelling. This idiot. Bolting into action I run towards the source, Daryl close behind me.

Rounding a corner we spot a make trapped underneath a car, hollering despite the mini herd surrounding him.

Nodding to Daryl I take up the close quarters as Daryl hangs back with his crossbow.

The first one comes at me and I instantly ram my knife into the side of its skull. As I’m pulling it out I strike another to the other side of me.

I approach another and dance to the left, changing directions to swing my knife up and into its head.

Together Daryl and I dispatch of the herd relatively quickly. I groan in disgust at the walker blood splattered all over me.

Time being of an essence I turn to the guy. Kneeling down I tell him to hush as I survey a way to get him out.

My efforts to lift the car are absolutely futile. Setting his crossbow down Daryl steps up beside me and grabs the bumper, lifting most of the weight.

Proving to be enough room, the stranger wriggles himself free. Bending down I help him up.

I have no idea how he managed to survive this long. He’s weak. Definitely not a fighter. Let alone a threat.

We retreat back to the RV. Abraham scouted out an empty building for us to bunker down in while we wait for Rick and others.

Patience is my weakness. Minutes feel like hours as I pace back and forward. Everyone’s found somewhere to lay down for the night. I can’t rest.

I need to know he’s okay.

My head snaps up as I hear the familiar whistle we use to communicate.

As the door opens I release the breath I never knew I was holding as Rick walks through the door, unharmed.

I don’t have time to think about my actions. I always plan and scrutinise but at this moment I just run towards him.

Launching myself into his arms I relax for the first time that night since we lost track of him. Ricks arms wrap around me as we embrace one another. Words weren’t needed to express our relief and concern for one another.

Pulling back, I look up at him, offering him a smile he returns. Those blue eyes again. They’re going to be the death of me.

My gaze skirts to his lips, right before we lean toward one another and finally taste the others lips.

Moving against his lips I melted into his arms. This felt right. Perfect. As we parted Rick smiled tenderly down at me and tucked a piece of hair behind my eye. I was content for the first time in my life.

Unexpectedly I found myself caring for Rick. I’ve always only trusted myself. But somewhere along the line after the fall of the prison I found myself trusting him with my life.

**** ****

Bright and early we clamber into the RV and once again begin the journey to Aaron’s gated community.

I was on edge at the endless possibilities and threats these people could bring to our group.

Everyone left nowadays did whatever it took to survive. We weren’t one of them, they’d easily sacrifice us if it means they lived to see the sun rise again.

But we had to try. Not everyone was built to survive this way. Some more than others needed the stability of the old world.

Rolling up to the gates of Alexandria we all pile out. I scanned our surroundings as a force of habit.

As the gate rolled open and we end trees everyone gathered to stare at the newcomers.

They were civilians. I couldn’t spot one decent fighter as they all cowered away from us.

Still I stood beside Rick with a straight spine and head held high, meeting and holding whoever’s gaze landed on me.

I could see our future here. We’d be safe. Together as one, fighting and mourning our loses we made it. We carried each other when we thought we couldn’t continue. We never once gave up one one another.

**** ****

It’s been a few months since we discovered Alexandria. Everyone’s settled down in the own houses.

I bunked with Rick and the kids. Over the past months we’ve grown a lot closer. Heated make out sessions as though we’re teenagers. We share a bed too.

Everyone’s content at the safety the community provides for them.

Yet I struggle from being cooped up all the time. I feel as though at the price of safety I sacrificed my freedom. And it’s not sitting well with me.

**** ****

Groaning at the intrusion of the light seeping through the window I roll over into Rick, trying to bury myself into chest to go back to sleep.

His chest rumbles as he kisses my hair. “Morning sweetheart,” he greets. I grunt, not wanting to acknowledge it’s time to get out of bed.

“Come on, we gotta get up,” he says as he throws the covers off him and detangles himself from me.

I moan in protest as I rub the sleep from my eyes. “I hate mornings,” Rick laughs as he dressed himself for the day.

Leaning over the side of the bed he pecks me on the lips. “Carls going over to Ron’s and Judith will be with Carol. You got the house to yourself. I’ll see ya later.”

As Rick walks downstairs I decide its probably time to get up.

Dressed, I pad downstairs. Everything’s so quiet. I hate the resounding silence.

Not wanting to be inside all day, I find my shoes and head to the gate.

Standing watch brings back normalcy I never thought I’d miss.

If not only gives me something to do but it means I can ensure the safety of the people I consider family behind these gates. It gives me a purpose.

**** ****

When someone came to relieve me, I climb down and decide to head back home. Hoping Rick will be there.

Seeing his boots on the porch, I smile to myself as I open the door and walk in. Silence.

Confused I walk around looking for Rick. Hearing the shower on upstairs i smirk to myself.

Climbing the stairs I begin unbuttoning my jeans to make the process quicker. Discarding them on the bedroom floor I quietly open the door to the bathroom.

I can see his shadow on the curtain as he washes his hair. Tentatively I step in behind him, reaching out to lightly trace his back he jolts.

“Shit,” I grin in victory.

Grabbing the soap I begin to lather his back. I make sure to wash him thoroughly and then demand him to spin around so I can wash his chest.

Catching a quick glance you notice he’s half hard. As one hand washes his chest the other reaches between us to pump him to full mass.

“Fuck,” he breathes as his eyes shut. I push him underneath the spray of water so the bubbles can be washed off, still slowly pumping him.

The groans slipping from his lips sends a jolt straight down to my pussy.

As the last of the bubbles wash down the drain I lean up to claim his lips. Moaning against him I lean around him to turn off the shower.

I bite into Ricks bottom lip, drawing blood. At his groan I slip my tongue into his mouth.

I fight him for dominance, and give him a good challenge but he ends up pinning my tongue down and exploring my mouth.

Breathless I seperate from him. Stepping out of the shower I beckon him to follow me, leading him into the bedroom.

When the back of my knees hit the bed he stalks closer. Blue eyes dark as he drinks in the sight of me naked.

Right before he goes to push me back, I slide out and push on his back to push him on the bed instead. As he flips onto his back I smile down at him victoriously.

Ricks own smile graces his lips, more wicked at the challenge for dominance.

Rick moves to the middle of the bed, body relaxed, yet I can read how his muscles are ready to overpower me.

Climbing onto the bed I throw my leg over him. Sitting right on his cock. At the feeling of me bare against him his eyes momentarily shut.

I quickly use the opportunity to snatch his wrists and pin them above his head. I know he can easily escape my grasp but I feel him leak precum at the thought of fighting you for dominance.

He hisses as I slide along his length. “Come on sweetheart. Ride me,” he taunts, wanting nothing more than the feeling of sinking inside you.

Smiling down at him my lips attach to his neck as I rut against him faster, moaning when his tip hits my clit.

“Mmm, how about I just make myself come like this,” I tease against his neck.

“You might come but you won’t be satisfied. We both know you want my cock stretching you,” he breathes.

Giggling against his neck I don’t respond but never once cease my actions of rubbing along him.

I squeal in surprise as Rick rips his hands free and flips me over, settling himself between my thighs.

Delivering a smack to my clit my body arches up as I cry out.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge sweetheart. By the time I’m finished with you, you ain’t going to be able to walk,” he promises as he grabs the back of my thighs and pushes my knees to your chest.

Open on display for him he groans at the sight. Lining himself up, he pushes inside tortuously slow. I moan at the feeling of every vein sliding in as he stretches me in the best way possible.

Buried to the hilt he stops. I look up at him, seeing that grin on his face I brace myself. Again he pulls out slowly, and as I’m about to beg him he slams back in hard. Knocking the breath out of my lungs.

“That’s it, squeeze my cock,” he groans through his thrusts and he continues to slide out and slam back inside to the hilt.

Each time he buries himself inside me he jabs that one spot inside that makes me clamp down onto him.

Eyes locked on mine, gauging my reaction I whine at the half crazed look in his eyes.

Hair sticking to his forehead. Teeth bared. Blue eyes darkened he’s a sight to behold. He’s pure animal. Focused only on desire.

Slamming inside me again he delivers another smack to my clit, making me scream out in torturous pleasure as I come on his cock.

He stays buried inside me as I convulse around him, letting groans slip. He slides on leg over his shoulder and spreads the other, bent at the knee of the bed.

“I love the way I control your body. Bend it to my desire,” he growls as he sets a brutal pace.

My eyes close the heightened feeling of him after my first orgasm. His thrusts as unrelenting as he brings me closer to my second orgasm.

“R-rick,” I gasp as I warn him. His hips slam into my mine at his punishing force, fingers sliding down to circle my clit.

It’s too much, his pace and the roughness of his pad on my sensitive bundle sends me over again. Just as the coil snaps Ricks hand wraps tightly around my throat, making me clamp down onto him.

But Rick doesn’t let me catch my breath. His thrusts continue, pushing my pleasure higher. When his hand relaxes on my throat air rushes back into my lungs. The sweet pleasure of air makes me release a greedy moan.

Bracing a hand against his chest as he leans over me I brace m my other on the bed. As I slide my leg from his shoulder I wrap one of my legs behind his, pushing against his chest and off his bed he’s ripped off me.

I scramble up the length of his body, holding his cock in my hand as I hover above him.

Growling he tries to thrust up into me but I just move away. Smirking down at him before I impale myself on him, both of us groaning simultaneously.

“Fuck I love how wet you are for me,” he growls as I begin to move on top of him.

His hands rest on my hips helping me bounce on him. Feeling him twitching inside my I slow. “Beg,” I demand.

Gritting his teeth he refused, trying to speed up my movements when I still all together.

Throwing his head back he growls in frustration. “Please sweetheart. Ride me. Make me cum. Please.”

Moaning at how desperate he sounds I move with a newfound frenzy, chasing both our orgasms.

He watches one of my hands trail down my stomach to rub my clit, cock twitching at the sight.

As I pinch my nub my other hand returns the favour and wraps around his throat, not cutting his supply yet, his hips stuttering up into me.

As I slam down one last time, I explode around him, thighs gripping his hips as my hand tightens on his throat, sending him into his own orgasm.

Coming down from my high I relax my hand on his throat and his hips jerk up into me one last time.

Groaning I lift off him and all but collapse beside him, breathing heavily.

“Shit, I don’t think I’ve.. came that hard before sweetheart,” he breathes as he interlaces our fingers.

@catt-leya 🤍

[prettyhighforawhiteguyblog]

Friends of ours lost their 22yo son to suicide recently. He was struggling, but kept the depth of it hidden. There are no words of comfort to give, only grieving alongside those who have lost one that they love.

A good friend pointed out that in the midst of this weeping, while it does not diminish the grief, perhaps something good might come out in that those who are similarly struggling with thoughts of suicide might get some perspective that their lives matter beyond the tiny world mental illness traps you in. Your life matters and is worth living.

Our brains are a precariously balanced mix of meat, electricity, and chemicals. Sometimes because of our experiences and/or biology our brains begin to lie to us. It withholds joy and pleasure. "It’s like trying to laugh at a joke that isn’t funny. Trying to smile for a photo you don’t want to be in. It’s like waking up in the morning and hating that you actually woke up. It feels like someone is just draining the energy out of you all the time, every moment you are awake." Doing anything requires immense willpower. Just plain old staying alive becomes a conscious choice made over and over again. You are just so tired and everything is just too much to deal with. The constant state of suffering leads one to try various ways to feel something positive, feel anything, or just escape the emptiness. It's why depressed people try so hard to bring joy to others and help others- they want to prevent others from suffering too and it allows them to feel some happiness vicariously.

The inevitable diminishing returns on the attempts to feel better, feel anything, or just escape eventually lead to the conclusion that there is only one way out of this hell. And depression shrinks our awareness of our own meaningfulness and inner world. The void is all we can perceive. The knowledge that we are loved, cared for, or important is lost. We can sincerely believe that our loss will not so drastically affect our loved ones and escape through death is a viable option.

These are all false of course. Falsehoods our sick brain tells us with honesty, because suicide is quite reasonable given what we are perceiving.

If you are feeling like you don't want to be here, wishing you would not wake up, desiring an accident, imagining about killing yourself, drugging yourself into oblivion, or seriously thinking about if or how you might kill yourself, you need to talk to someone. I got lucky. Someone who loves me more than I love myself saw me spiraling into self-destruction and made me get help and continues to support me in spite of myself. I spent years where my full-time job was not research or teaching, but just keeping myself alive. It's still my job now and then. But the difference now is that after many years of therapy and prescriptions I know that feeling is temporary and false.

I'm sorry it hurts so much right now. When you have some distance from these feelings (I hope that you will give yourself the chance to), I hope you can see that your life is worthwhile and important because you are.

But the only way out is through and that requires talking. I hope you have people nearby who love you you can talk to. If you do, talk to them. If you don't, this will be harder. Either way, you should also get into counseling. A good counselor will help you find ways to survive, build better mental pathways, & develop tools for processing emotions.

Brutal honesty- American mental health treatment system is shit and difficult to navigate. We have far too few professionals in many areas and online is often the only option. But you are a fighter. Look at you all alive and shit when depression has been trying to kill you 24-7. Live a little bit longer. You can do it. And if you are going to live a little bit longer, counseling can help you live it a little bit better.

[psychologeek]

Prompt 04.01.24 - Friendship (isn't magic, it's hard bitter work)

You know what I want to see?

I want to see Ra's Al-Ghul and Magneto friendship.

I want to see those men who saw too much and lived through the the losses of everyone (over and over again) interact.

I want to see Ra's who's tired of humankind and just all of this (*point out at the world*) that he's also stopped trying to change anything. Sort of "let them burn the world. I've seen it happen and I'll see it again" kind of tired. Ra's who's not an "evil for evil single minded terrorist" but a person who got tired of the world and humans and his main goal is to either keep all the knowledge (my hc) or try to prevent humans from destroying everything on this globe (he unfortunately has to share with them) and has a secret place for animals considered extinct.

Give me a Magneto who's lost and tired and abandoned hopes from humanity. Give me a Magneto who's rightfully disgusted from everything humans did and do and continue to come up with. Give me a Magneto that's only going through bc of spite and the desperate need to create a safer place for the next generation.

Give me a Magneto that every once in a while will go to visit the strange old man he met when he was younger, and spend days just. Finally screaming and being able to get some empathy from someone that also look at the world and goes "yup. It's crap."

Give me Ras that hoards knowledge like a dragon letting Magneto read one of the original writings of the Rambam (Maimonides). Or Ra's keeping some of the missing pieces of Keter Aram Tzova (the oldest Torah) And Magneto crying, because

(It's old, and part of his culture, and it survived. Through the fire and being burned down and half lost, it made it through.)

Give me a Magneto showing up at Nanda Parvat at 3am in the pouring rain and 3 kids with him, just like "hi, I thought you might have a place for them? It's not safe."

(one of them is visibly different. Very different. Like, Kurt or Hunk or Angel different. One is a baby, just gives the worst vibe, feels OFF (Eldritch way). The third is fully covered, and as Ra's give her his hand, she flinches.

"it's not safe," she cries with eyes wide with horror. "Don't touch me! I make people die!"

Ra's just shrugs.

"Good thing our pool can fix it."

She just blinks, and he turns around, telling them to enter and close the god damn door behind, "there's a drift!"

And he tell one of the servents to get dry clothes and make hot Sachlav for his guests.

Just... give a Ra's and Magneto friendship. Not romantic. Just two frustrated men, tired of this world, that keep an unlikely friendship despite all of their differences.

(Give me Ra's, still sitting by the chessboard they played, offering Erik to stay.

"You know why I can't," the younger smiles sadly.

"I'll keep asking," the old man warns. "It would be such a waste to lose you."

And the young man's eyes narrows, funding and sad. "I won't tell you to stop."

Give me a Ra's, seeing the young turn into old. Slowly watches as hair turns grey and face slightly change and trying not to think of the ticking clock.

"I could make you young again," he suggests, almost begging. "I could make live forever!"

The younger man put his Tea down.

"why the HELL would I want that!?"

Ra's freeze.

"The child I was died there, with my parents. The man I was died with Magda and our child. I watched my world burn, over and over again, leaving me in the ashes."

"I lived with the death for as long as I can remember," there's a distance look in his eyes. "Why would I see it as anything but an old friend?"

Just

Give me Ra's and Magneto friendship, with many arguments and countless disagreements and completely opposite opinions on many things, but they are still friends.

(+Bonus points if there's no white washing or Christening

++ If they have terrible arguments BUT THEY TALK ABOUT IT and still stay friends (/at least communicating)

+++ if they can live with "our opinions our differents"

++++ if they can put disagreements aside to co-op for important things.)

Just

Give me friendship and communication. Despite and through it all.

Thank you

[occasionaltirades]

Excerpts and Summaries of “From the Heart of Hell: Manuscripts of a Sonderkommando Prisoner“

Dear reader, I write these words in the moments of my greatest despair. I do not know, I do not believe that I will live to read these lines again, ‘after the storm’… It may be that this, these very lines I am writing, will be the only witnesses to what was my life. But I will be happy if my writings reach you, free citizen of the world. Perhaps a spark of my inner fire will ignite in you, and you will fulfill at least a part of our life’s desire: you shall avenge, avenge our deaths!

_______

Four years ago, I read an article. It was titled, “Becoming Anne Frank”, by Dara Horn, and appeared in the November 2018 issue of the Smithsonian Magazine, which is a fantastic publication that I highly recommend. You can find it in any library and subscriptions are very affordable. The older issues and articles (including the aforementioned) are also typically available online. Most people are familiar with Anne Frank and her diary, which was published by her surviving father and has been translated into 70 languages and sold more than 30 million copies. However, this post will not be about Anne Frank, because this article piqued my interest with the following paragraph:

The line most often quoted from Frank’s diary— “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart”—is often called “inspiring,” by which we mean that it flatters us. It makes us feel forgiven for those lapses of our civilization that allow for piles of murdered girls—and if those words came from a murdered girl, well, then, we must be absolved, because they must be true.

It posits that part of the popularity of the book is that it predates the time when Anne’s family was presumably sold out, and by people who probably received a reward of approximately $1.40 per Jew. It continues:

Readers know that the author was a victim of genocide, but that does not mean they are reading a work about genocide. If that were her subject, it is unlikely that those writings would have been universally embraced.

The article mentions other writers, but the one that has compelled me is Zalmen Gradowski. He was a writer that they correctly bet I had never heard of, and whose work I was luckily able to obtain, but only by ordering it from the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, paying for postage from Poland, and hoping it wouldn’t get lost in a lengthy transit. A far cry from a trip to a bookstore or library, where you could hopefully still easily procure a copy of one of the books that many of us may be familiar with from our time in school. In addition to the quotations at the top, Gradowski wrote the following:

This is the real reason why I write – that my condemned life may attain some meaning, that my hellish days and hopeless tomorrows may find some purpose in the future.

Having read these words, I wished to share with you some of what he wrote so that they may reach more people. So that his words may be immortalized in more minds. So that you too can bear some witness to what he says is, “merely a small part of the hell of Birkenau-Auschwitz. It is for you to imagine the reality[…]” “[so] that you will be able to form an image of how the children of our people perished.”

First, let me warn you that the following will not be pleasant. Zalmen Gradowski was forced to work in the Sonderkommando, made to escort prisoners and process bodies. He did not survive, dying in a courageous but unsuccessful prisoner revolt. He wrote on what he could and buried his writings in cans in the camp. His writings were retrieved by a surviving friend, but were damaged, and there are gaps in the text where parts were lost or unreadable. As such, most of what follows will be direct quotations, but may include some guessed words on the part of the compiler or myself. In some places [--] will denote a gap in the text. In parts where I have chosen to skip forward, the ellipses will also be in brackets. This is another reason I wished to post this; the book can be as physically difficult to read as it is emotionally, and I want people to be able to experience at least some of it. For both his sake, and for all our sake in this new year. If you’re interested in that Smithsonian article, here is a link:

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/becoming-anne-frank-180970542/

___________________ Zalmen spent just shy of two years in the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp. He and his family had been considering emigrating to Palestine before war broke out, but after the outbreak of war, Poland was quickly occupied and he, his wife, parents, and two brothers and three sisters were all trapped. During the initial occupation, Zalmen did what he could to help his fellow Jews as the head of the medical and health department of the ghetto's Judenrat ("self-administrating" groups coercively formed by the Nazis to administer the closed-off Jewish populations). He continued to try and help as a member of a health group when they were initially moved to a transit camp where they were held without electricity or heating, and epidemics naturally raged. On December 8, 1942, they were moved to Birkenau where the SS carried out a selection wherein his wife, his mother, sisters, as well as his father and a brother-in-law were immediately murdered. Due to his physical condition, he was selected as a member of the Sonderkommando on December 9, in order to replace the 400 Sonderkommando that had been murdered that same day in the gas chamber of Crematorium I. Being a member of this group allowed him (and others) some ability to smuggle goods such as food to other prisoners, and to bribe guards with personal effects left behind by those murdered in order to lessen the suffering of those guarded. It is, however, also the reason he bore witness to so much hell and was able to record it for us. He worried that the world would not believe what was happening in camps like Auschwitz. That it would be dismissed as "horror propaganda" (which is precisely what the German state claimed it to be). He provides the following reason for his writing:

I write so that at least a tiny fraction of the truth may reach the world[...] This is the only goal; this is the sole purpose of my life. I live here with the thought, with the hope that my writings may reach you, and that at least a part of what I and all of us still alive here strive for, the final will of the murdered sisters and brothers of my people, may be realized in this life. ___________________ Come here to me, you free citizen of the world, who have had the good fortune not to know the rule of the cruel [--] two legged beasts, and I will tell you by what sophisticated, sadistic methods they have murdered millions of human beings from the defenceless, suffering Jewish people, protected by none. [...] If you do not return from your journey, it will be because your human heart was too weak to bear the strain of the gruesome, bestial deeds which your eyes beheld. [...] For you will have fled the world of men to seek comfort among the wildest, most savage beasts, rather than live among cultured demons.

From a section on transport to the concentration camp:

See, my friend, how they march in line as if turned to stone. No weeping, not a cry from a child is heard. Do you know why? Because all weeping by a child is stifled by a blow, both to the mother and the child. Such was the order given by the young wild animals [(Nazi guards)], such was their will. Their bestial instincts have been given free rein, and they are looking only for victims to sate their murderous souls, thirsting for warm Jewish blood. This mass of human beings must comply with their dreadful orders, since their lives are in their hands and their bodies could at any moment be corpses lying in red rivers of blood, with no one to bring them to eternal rest. See, my friend, how the mothers hug their children to stifle their weeping. They tuck their little heads under their shawls, so that the sobbing of the baby, freezing to death, will not be heard.

Here you see a woman standing with a baby in her arms. Her husband is standing next to her. They are staring out at the world passing by them, and instinctively keep glancing down at their lovely little baby. They are plagued by deep anxiety. They are still young, full of life, and the world they see through the windows is calling to them. They have someone to live for, someone to be there for, someone to work and labour for. They have just brought their first child into the world, and thereby woven themselves into the web of eternity, become partners in the building and development of the world. And at their very first steps in the world, they have been stopped and told to leave, to depart from the place they had begun to build their nest.

It is not themselves that they are thinking about. [...] For them, the child is the greatest happiness, the greatest comfort, the shared ideal of their lives. But for those cruel criminals, it is a useless plaything, without value or the right to exist.

After the train from the transport camp has begun moving. Remember that the camps were claimed to be "work camps":

The sound of the whistle rouses the people from their rigid immobility. The train has wrenched itself from [--] of death and is moving on. Mothers kiss their children, women their husbands. Tears of joy are flowing. Everyone has revived and drawn new breath. Hope for new life begins to form. [...] The belief is strengthening that all the rumours are false, all the terrible prophesies are baseless, built upon a single incident, dreadful in itself but not of a mass character.

The adults, who are suffering no less than the children, console themselves with the thought that the authorities will surely provide them with food and water at the next station. They will not deport a people intended as a labour force and let them die of hunger and thirst.

We get off the train. Now, my friend, see what happens. See who has come to welcome us. Soldiers in helmets, with large whips in their hands and big angry dogs at their sides. These are the open arms waiting to receive us [--]. No one understands why there is such a heavy guard. Why such a threatening reception? Why? What are we, that armed forces and wild dogs are needed to deal with us. We have come here to work, calm and peaceful people. So why all these precautions? Wait, and you will understand.

After being sorted into groups, apparently by age, sex, and prior occupation for the pretense of work. Zalmen himself was selected as one of the able-bodied:

The stronger ones, the small group supposedly selected as the best labour force, comfort themselves that transporting the women and children, and the weak and old men, in trucks is a mark of [humanitarian] feeling. Perhaps the authorities wish to spare them the burden of a march on foot after such an exhausting journey.

[...] They came with their wives and children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, and now they are all alone, without anyone. [...] They were together everywhere. Left the ghetto together, marched from the camp together, travelled on the locked train together. And now, at their final destination, when they have at least reached the dreadful and frightening point of culmination, they have been separated.

After arriving and being tattooed with an identification number:

From that moment on, you have lost your identity. You are no longer the man who once existed. Today you are a meaningless, worthless, walking number. [--] A hundred such numbers are created and taken to their new homes. [...] We stumble across the clayey ground and reach our new graves in fear and exhaustion. We have scarcely the time to look at our new home and breathe its air, when we are clubbed over the heads. Split skulls and battered faces are pouring with blood. Such is the welcome extended to the new arrivals. We are confused and shocked. [...] They explain briefly that this is the [bouquet] welcoming them to life in the camp.

Who knows how those vile criminals, to whatever species they belong, are now treating his weak, sick mother and dear, beloved sister? Who knows in what grave his father and brother have fallen, and how they are being treated? All stand helpless, anxious, despairing, alone, suffering and broken.

In a heavily damaged passage, Zalmen describes the daily march to work, and every man's eyes looking to the barbed wire of the women's camp. Searching for a relative, wife, sister, child. That maybe a ray of hope still glimmers. "You cannot make yourself believe that they have gone forever."

Outside our block too, a dead number is lying. We approach and have a look. Only this morning he was at work and now he lies motionless. No one cares. No one even sighs. Poor man, if you were with your parents now, their child, what commotion would surround you! Your mother would be lying beside you, weeping and sobbing. Your father would be pacing back and forth, unable to sit still, crying like a baby. Your brothers and sisters would be sitting around you, weeping bitterly and grieving for you. Your friends and [--] would come, and each would [--] the house would be full of sorrow [--] carried away by the terrible misfortune. [--] brothers and sisters [--] like stones in the camp. And when a stone sinks [--] no great misfortune. Grief has [--] them [--].

Zalmen writes about how some individuals still carried out the weekly prayers and songs of praise for God, and the struggle many felt on the topic of faith. As with everything else, he wrote much more, but here is an excerpt regarding the disillusioned bitterly watching the ever-faithful pray and sing, while in their daily lives they watched one tragedy and atrocity after the other:

[They] could inspire no feeling of gratitude, nor move us to sing praises to the Creator of the Universe who had allowed a barbarian nation to murder and annihilate millions of innocent people, men, women and children whose only crime was having been born Jewish; for recognizing the omnipotence of that same G-d to whom they now prayed for having brought monotheism to humanity. And because of this they have now become victims. And they should keep singing his praises? What for? To sing a song of praise before this sea of their own blood? To pray to him who refuses to hear the cries and screams of innocent children?

A recurring theme, but one for which there are no "succinct" passages is that of the despair of separation. The breaking up of families and not knowing the fate of loved ones. The despair of mothers who would have gladly died in their children's stead, but knowing that "the devil wants her too, along with her child, as a sacrifice". It is difficult to convey the sorrow in these pages. Gradowski saw the mass graves, the bodies, and the cremations. The hell of the Sonderkommando was bearing witness to it and knowing the fate that awaited them. It did afford them some capacity to help ease the suffering of fellow prisoners, but also meant quite literally processing the murdered. In a series of chapters close to the end, Zalmen describes the work they were forced to do. Watching as truckloads of women and children were brought to the gas chambers of Auschwitz-Birkenau. They were stripped and forced to stand naked, waiting for "gates of hell to open and give them free passage to the grave.". He describes girls reunited with their mothers kissing and rejoicing at their reunion despite the knowledge that they will soon be leading them to death. He describes the pain of seeing all these people, full of life, who will "in a few hours, be frozen in death. Their mouths will be silent forever. The sparkling eyes, the bewitching charm, will stare fixedly in one direction - searching through dead eternity".

He laments how this multitude will soon be bodies lying in the mud. Their teeth ripped out for metals, rings and jewelry removed. The pale bodies who were just moments earlier their kin will be dragged across the cement and thrown "like a foul carcass" onto elevators to the crematoria. Within minutes hundreds of lives are reduced to ash. Soon, all of these lives will be confined to wheelbarrows, destined to be dumped into unmarked graves.

No trace will be left of those who stand here now; all these people who once filled entire cities, who once had a place in the world, will be effaced, torn out by the roots as if they had never been born.

Sickeningly, he mentions that on this occasion, representatives of the Nazi party had come for the day's "celebration". High-ranking officers whose faces they had never seen in the 16 months he'd been imprisoned coming to watch these women marched into the gas chambers. At this point in 1944, Germany was losing their war. Somehow this slaughter of innocents was supposed to convince them that this was the real battle, and that this extermination was what mattered as their soldiers fell on all fronts.

Further groups are herded into the gas chambers, more than two thousand people, and he describes how soldiers coldly and calmly dumped the poison in through "eyes" at the top of the chamber and walked away "Proud, brave and content, having accomplished the great task for their nation, their fatherland. They have come one step closer to victory".

Finally, Zalmen describes how, after the gas had been administered, they were to open the doors of these great tombs, from which would blow a "wave of atrocious death". The only sound was a barely audible trickling of fluids flowing from bodies. In a "vast, naked sea", body parts protruded, and heads appeared as if floating in this abyss. They are to pull apart these bodies, that are "twisted into each other like a ball of yarn, as if the devil has deliberately played a diabolical game with them before their death and set them in this pose".

Two frozen eyes stare at you, as if to ask: what will you do with me, brother? More than once you recognize an acquaintance with whom you had spent time before he entered the grave.

At the end, he describes the burning.

The hellish fire extends its flames like open arms and snatched up the corpses like precious treasure. The hair catches fire first. The skin swells up in blisters that burst within a few seconds. The hands and feet start to writhe-the veins tighten and move the limbs. Now the entire corpse ignites, the skin has burst, the fat flows, and you hear the sizzle of burning fire.[...] The head burns the longest. Small blue flames flicker in its sockets-the eyes are consumed with the brain deep down and in the mouth the tongue still burns. The entire process lasts twenty minutes - and a body, a world is reduced to ashes.

In one final letter in September of 1944, Zalmen Gradowski described the location of some of the ash pits, and how much had been dumped into the river. He told the finder where to find his other writings. He died less than one month later, probably on October 7, 1944, in a Sonderkommando revolt after almost two years in the camps. Auschwitz-Birkenau would be liberated by the Red Army three and a half months later, on January 27, 1945.

One message that rings through everything is of the barbarism to which people will resort, looking to blame others for a problem. Complex explanations for ills are ignored entirely in favor of a scapegoat. Further, to paraphrase Gradowski, the greater the civilization, the greater its barbarism. It was an organized, efficient society which gave rise to this atrocity, and it is within organized and "civilized" societies that we see an ever-increasing number of people downplaying or denying them. Societies wherein we have more and more people subscribing brazenly to the ideology of the perpetrators. Please, read and learn as much as you can. Humans are uniquely able to learn, almost directly, from those who came before us. Take in their memory and their lessons and carry them into the future.

[girlactionfigure]

Separated from his family, he searched for his two daughters.

He was like many others, after Auschwitz was liberated on January 27, 1945 - He had hopes that his family might have survived . . .

Under Adolf Hitler's leadership, the Nazi regime had killed an estimated 6 million Jewish people and millions of other victims whom he and his followers deemed Untermenschen ("sub-humans") and socially undesirable, including 2 million Romani people, 250,000 mentally and physically disabled people, and 9,000 homosexual men.

He was hoping he would find his wife and two daughters. Five years earlier, when he and his family had realized Hitler's racially motivated ideology was promoting hatred, bigotry, racism and prejudice, he tried to get his family out of Germany, but he had run afoul of restrictive American immigration policies designed to protect national security and guard against an influx of foreigners.

He had written his American friend, "I am forced to look out for emigration and as far as I can see U.S.A. is the only country we could go to. Perhaps you remember that we have two girls. It is for the sake of the children mainly that we have to care for. Our own fate is of less importance."

America had, however, changed its attitude toward immigrants, especially refugees, who were fleeing war torn countries.

He would eventually find out that his wife was dead. She had died of starvation in one of the concentration camps. He still had hopes that his daughters may have survived, but those hopes were soon shattered as well.

He returned to the hiding place, in which he and his family hid for two years, now empty, only filled with sad memories. A trusted friend of the family met him and gave him some papers, which turned out to be the diaries of his daughter. She had died at the age of 15 at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in Germany.

He remembered that his daughter was so full of hope, she had wanted to be a writer, she wanted her diaries to be published after the war. At first he was hesitant, but his daughter always dreamed of improving the world, and he realized that his daughter's words could help.

She had written in that diary, "It’s difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. It's a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart."

Otto Frank would publish his daughter's diary so others would never forget. The title of the publication became known as "The Diary of a Young Girl" or Anne Frank's Diary.

~~~~~

Friday, January 27 is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

The Peace Page has shared many stories of Anne Frank, her family, and life during that terrible time. This is an updated story with new insights. The Jon S. Randal Peace Page focuses on past and present stories seldom told of lives forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. The stories are gathered from writers, journalists, and historians to share awareness and foster understanding. You can find more stories in the Peace Page archives. We encourage you to learn more about the individuals mentioned here and to support the writers, educators, and historians whose words we present.

~~~~~

“In his message for the International Day, UN Secretary-General António Guterres notes that the Holocaust was the culmination of thousands of years of antisemitic hate, aided by the decision of so many to do nothing to stop the Nazis.”

“It was the deafening silence – both at home and abroad – that emboldened them”.

“This, he continues, was despite Nazi Germany’s hate speech and disinformation campaigns, contempt for human rights and the rule of law, the glorification of violence and tales of racial supremacy, and disdain for democracy and diversity.

“In the face of growing economic discontent and political instability, escalating white supremacist terrorism, and surging hate and religious bigotry – we must be more outspoken than ever,” added the UN chief, drawing a parallel between the Holocaust and the present day.”

One of the exhibitions on displacement illustrates the stereotyping, misinformation, and conspiracy theories used by the Nazis, to vilify Jews, Roma, migrants, LGBTQIA+, or other groups.

~~~~~

In an NBC News report:

"The story of teenage diarist Anne Frank is known across the world. But a new survey suggests a “disturbing” lack of awareness about the Holocaust in the Netherlands, where she and her family hid for years before being discovered and deported to a Nazi concentration camp.

A Dutch Holocaust survivor and Jewish cultural leaders have expressed dismay at the survey, which was released Wednesday and suggests that more than half of the residents were not aware of the deportation and murder of Jews from the country during World War II.

The survey, conducted and released by the New York-based nonprofit Claims Conference ahead of International Holocaust Memorial Day on Friday, found that 53% of the respondents couldn’t identify the Netherlands as a country where the events of the Holocaust happened — rising to 60% among millennial and Gen Z respondents, meaning those under 40.

Historians estimate more than 70% of the Netherlands’ prewar Jewish population was killed during the Holocaust, more than 100,000 in total. Frank hid in a secret room in Amsterdam with her family from 1942 to 1944 before she died at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp weeks before its liberation.

Despite widely available evidence of the systematic slaughter of 6 million Jews, 12% of those surveyed told the researchers either that the Holocaust was a myth or that the number of deaths was greatly exaggerated — the highest figure for any of the six nations surveyed in recent years. For the Netherlands, this rises to 23% of people under 40.

~~~~~

In an article by Melinda Houston of The Sydney Morning Herald, she asks, “How many US citizens know their country refused a visa to the family of Anne Frank – a refusal that forced them into hiding in Amsterdam and ultimately resulted in their deaths?”

Writing about Ken Burns documentary, “The US and the Holocaust”, Houston states, “That’s the shocking fact that opens this typically sober, lyrical and exquisitely balanced documentary from Ken Burns.”

In the documentary, Burns presents information which Houston presents, saying, “In the 1890s, the US was indeed the promised land and its doors were wide open to immigrants. It was also a time of genocide of Native Americans. And the flourishing of slavery.”

~~~~~

In the new book, “After The Annex: Anne Frank, Auschwitz and Beyond”, author Bas von Benda-Beckmann “pieces together the chilling final months of the Jewish teenager and her family,” according to Chris Dean For Mailonline.

“He reveals harrowing stories about a friend’s attempts to throw food parcels over a barbed-wire fence to a starving and freezing Anne, as well as the punishing work she was given splitting open old batteries with a chisel and hammer.”

Anne, who would be 93 if she was alive today, and her family hid from Nazi persecution in the annex behind a bookcase in their Amsterdam home for two years before being caught.

~~~~~

According to the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism, Antisemitic hate crimes have been rising in recent years, and could surpass 2021 numbers — a possible record year.

PBS Newshour also reports that The Anti-Defamation League, which tracks anti-Semitic behavior nationwide, found 2,717 incidents in 2021. That's a 34 percent rise from the year before and averages out to more than seven anti-Semitic incidents per day.

~~~~~

According to The Post and Courier, “we should remember that too many ordinary people did little or nothing to try to stop the Holocaust at the time. Yes, there were heroes such as Raoul Wallenberg and Oskar Schindler, but far too many others were aware of what was happening and remained bystanders.”

“We cannot rely on heroic individuals to be the difference,” says Doyle Stevick, University of South Carolina education professor and director of the school’s Anne Frank Center. “We need to build communities of upstanders.”

“To remember is not a passive, intellectual activity. It’s an active commitment to live the values that would have allowed every Anne Frank to live to her full potential. That’s the summons that we all should heed when we remember January 27.”

“Lessons about the Holocaust go beyond a significant chapter of World War II, beyond the 6 million victims killed by a totalitarian regime. They extend to the vital and ongoing importance of our coming together and understanding one another, wherever we happen to be.”

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

[badger-writes]

I dunno, in spite of everything, I still think Booker Dewitt is kind of a fascinating character in concept.

(analysis under the cut, for those that don’t want to put up with a wall of text)

A lot of it gets held back and obfuscated in the narrative for the sake of the last minute twist, but in the broad view it has some thoughts to provoke about his lifepath and his circumstances beyond its connections to the plot.

For one thing, Booker has some Native American ancestry - from where or which tribe is never specified, but we know he’s able to speak Teton Sioux fluently, which suggests he was most likely Oceti Sakowin Lakota. But physically, he appears Caucasian. This means that, in Columbia, he’s able to pass through the racism that infests its society without much trouble; in fact, most of the barriers to his progress are erected by Comstock, through the myth of the False Shepherd (ironic, considering Comstock is himself Booker). But on the surface he wasn’t so lucky.

Booker joined the army at an extremely early age (making Corporal at 16, which seems... improbable). This was his first encounter with the philosophy of white supremacy, when his sergeant openly questioned his ancestry in front of the rest of the 7th Cavalry. This was such a thorn in his flesh that at Wounded Knee he went out of his way to distinguish himself as the worst of a bad bunch, and it remained a sore point such that Comstock is still ranting about it in private decades later. From his venting, we come to understand why Booker did what he did that day: in Comstock’s own deluded rationalizing, “only blood can redeem blood”.

White supremacy creates an in-group and an out-group. Booker’s sergeant went out of his way to put Booker in that out-group, and his atrocities at Wounded Knee were his attempt to break back into the in-group. This much seems clear. But then Booker had to reckon with what he’d done, what he’d allowed himself to be for the sake of the endorsement of the supremacist system. That he’d been duped. That he was spiritually, morally “unclean”.

Thus, the baptism.

There are, I think, two reactions that are understandable, perhaps even expected, to being involved in a massacre on the scale of Wounded Knee. The first is to double down and immerse yourself completely in the system of white Christian American-flavored oppression that you sold your soul to gain the respect of; this path produces Comstock, and for him it brings him endless praise and prestige - enough to accomplish becoming a literal Prophet. The second is to reject that system, reject the implicit pardon offered for the crimes you were duped by its agents into committing; this path produces Booker. On the face of it, a simple binary choice.

Except - Booker doesn’t reject the system, not completely. He just stops caring that he’s being duped. In convincing himself that he’s a failed human being, that violence is the only thing he has to offer the world, in allowing his guilt to consume him in the way it has -- he precludes the possibility of looking inward and pulling himself out of the doom spiral that is his life. He rejects the symbolic baptism but embraces whiskey, gambling, and strikebreaking. He becomes a willing tool of the system that he despises even as it buries him in debt and misery.

To formally join the exploiting class is to become Comstock. To let it continue to exploit you is to become Booker. The cycle of oppression survives by making and breaking people in such ways, to perpetuate its existence even to the point of its own disintegration; we see it in action in Rapture as well. So how can you hope to break it?

And the answer Binfinite gives us in this regard, consistent with the rest of the series, is: with love.

Tenenbaum loved Jack enough to save him, and he in turn saved the Little Sisters. Eleanor loved Delta, and Delta saved her. Elizabeth loves Booker, with all his complications and imperfections - and in wiping Comstock from existence at the end of the game, Booker saves Anna. But he also saves himself.

Because love is more than seeing the people around you as more than tools to be exploited; that’s the mistake that people like Ryan and Fontaine and Lamb and Comstock keep making, and by and large it’s only half the equation. Love is also seeing your own soul as worth redeeming, if you have the courage and conviction to reject your sins and put in the work of improving yourself. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, is the intended message of Jesus’s preaching - not the whitewashing absolution that Comstock and Booker thought it was. 

Which is why the baptism is given such symbolic weight; only by rejecting both the system of sin and its hold over himself can Booker free himself and his daughter from the leashes it places on them.

Binfinite is far from a perfect script, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s messy and confused in the sort of way that only a rushed final draft at the tail end of production time can be, and it stumbles into a lot of unfortunate implications in trying to grapple with things like state-enforced racism and class warfare. But I do think there’s a worthy message at the core of Booker’s character, even if the execution fell far shorter than I would have perhaps liked to see. 

[transxfiles]

i see you've been train to busaned, how was it?

THIS WAS HIDDEN IN MY ASK BOX IDK HOW I MISSED IT BFEORE.. IM ASSUMING THIS IS FROM WHEN I FIRST WATCHED TRAIN TO BUSAN AND I NEED YOU TO KNOW. I AM TRULY FUNDAMENTALLY CHANGED AS A PERSON.. like not only was it a PHENOMENAL zombie film and i won't think about the zombie subgenre the same way again but also its message about what it means to be human which really is a core idea that should be at the center of every zombie film wasj ust so so so beautifula nd had me sobbing at the end and i love that we get an ending that in spite of everything ends wiht hope and i cannot stop thinking about it just in general... and seok-woo learning what it really means to be a good father and figuring out whats important to him when the world starts to fall apart and su-an's unrelenting kindness in the face of the end of humanity and the fact that her father can be so cruel or maybe not even cruel necessarily but just acting out of self-preservation and she is the light in his world and she keeps telling him that the only way out is through kindness and he's afraid to see what that could mean in a way and just in general the way the film shows how destruction and violence only lead to more destruction and how deceiving others is ultimately pointless and how kindness and love are really the only way to make it through tragedy and how you cannot survive an ordeal like this without a reason to continue living and the reason is love and other people.... and as a zombie film too the mechanics it introduces are fantastic, the entire idea of it being set on a train and the world outside the train versus the world inside being so drastically different and i love the creature design where the zombies don't attack unless they see someone it's so interesting and from an internal narrative point it's just so cool, this means the virus is actually pretty easy to contain and it means that wearing camo gear might actually help against zombies which again is just an interesting thought and when i tell you i GASPED when the small group of survivors on the train realized that they could travel through the cars of infected when the train was going through tunnels because of the low visibility THAT WAS SO COOL!! like what a neat idea!! what a fucking amazing design to put in your monsters!!!

and the way the movie is written it's just so beautiful... i love the boy's baseball team and i love the two old women on the train, the sisters, and i love seong-kyeong and her husband and i love how every person in the film feels so real and i LOVE the conductor and how he is determined to do his job as best as he can even as the world falls apart around him, and he keeps his train on the tracks as long as possible and he does everything he can to save everyone he can and AAAA ahg im probably not making a whole lot of sense right now but this movie is really just SO so good. i think it's probably the best zombie movie i've seen and it's one of my favorite pieces of zombie media ever. it really gets to the heart of what zombies as a concept are supposed to be about and it delivers on all fronts. from beginning to end i couldn't take my eyes away from this film it was incredible.

[thisblogisblank]

ALR

AR! LORE FINALLY DONE

I will warn you this is just. A giant fuckin wall of text so if you don't wanna read that I don't blame you lmao

    In the beginning, the monster world was completely empty, and then, through a sort of cosmic big bang, the Celestials were born, with the ability to create life through “Celestial Energy”, which is. Essentially the Spark Of Life in this AU. And so, they all went off and created islands, and monsters, and critters, and everything else under the sun; the strongest of whom was Galvana, who created the 5 natural islands and all of the monsters on them. And for many, many years, they all lived in harmony in the Celestial Lair, their castle far above the monster world. That was, until the tragic death, or, at the very least, disappearance of the Celestial of Mech, Vhamp. 

    After the death(?) of Vhamp, Galvana (who was his partner), kinda uh. Went batshit insane?? She became incredibly aggressive and lashed out at the other Celestials, arguing for the sake of arguing and even getting into physical confrontations with them. Eventually this became too much for everyone else, and they kicked her out of the Lair, hoping that some time alone would let her blow off some steam. 

    Unfortunately, this decision was poorly timed, because directly after she was kicked out, monster history was changed forever; a team of human researchers found out how to enter their universe, and Galavana, acting purely out of selfishness and spite, decided to take advantage of their naivety. She formulated a plan to go to war with the humans and usurp their planet for herself, so that she could continue expanding the monster population. But first and foremost, she’d befriend them, so she could learn everything about them. 

    This is where the Wubboxes came in. 

    The first two Wubboxes, Common and Rare, were designed to be walking tanks, essentially. Imbued with insane amounts of the element of electricity, they were insanely powerful, but were relatively fragile compared to their younger epic brethren (who I’ll get to later lmao). They were sent out as carrier pigeons for Galvana, learning everything they could about the humans, and then bringing the info back to her, all while keeping up their friendly appearances. Unfortunately for Galvana, however, one of them actually got attached to the humans. 

    Rare was, and still is, an extremely empathetic creature, getting attached to anything and everything that gave him the time of day. And so, with the researchers being extremely nice to both him and his brother, he was.. A little more than hesitant about Galvana’s plan, and when it finally came to fruition and the “war” (it was really just a couple military units, small-scale but tragic nonetheless) began, he fought back, arguing that she shouldn’t be doing it for.. Obvious reasons. Galavana, afraid that one of her creations fighting against her would not only cause other monsters to dissent, but that he could be a force to be reckoned with on the humans’ side, she decided to just straight up murder him right there. In front of his brother, Common. 

    That went about as well as you’d expect. 

    So Common fuckin murders Galvana, Rare just barely survives by the skin of his teeth (but is left permanently damaged as a result), the monsters find out about Galvana’s plan (she lied to them about the war, saying that the humans had instigated it when they hadn’t), and the humans retreat back to their universe, completely cutting ties with the monsters, but not carrying things further, luckily. 

    Word eventually carries to the Celestials, who were completely oblivious to the literal mass murder happening on the Natural Islands, and they helped rebuild their society. Shortly, everything was like it was before, like nothing ever happened. 

    Several years later, the first ever monster handler by the name of Professor Wardin E. Spurrit rediscovered the monster world, and left behind many journals documenting his journeys and discoveries. He later disappeared, and was presumed dead, his final words being a cryptic message, telling any readers not to eat the food or drink the water, because “it’s not for us”.. Creepy. 

    However, his discoveries kicked off a love for the monster world, and made monster handling its own branch of science, however small it was. In the modern day, two new handlers embarked on their own adventure into the monster world - Monster Handler Todd and Monster Handler Estelle, respectively - in order to finish what Professor Spurrit began. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

    And that’s where we are now!!! If you have any questions for me please don’t hesitate to ask! Call me Matt because I would love to give you extremely long, tedious, and verbose answers on anything and everything lmao. Introductions to the Wubboxes should be coming soon, I’ve just gotta finish designing them all and writing down their descriptions, and after them should be the Celestials!!!!! Enjoy this for now tho, lol. 

[tothedevilsshow]

continued from ( xxx ) @caracarnn

she doesn't want to believe him. even though what he says seems to claw through her, tear at her. she wants to hate him. she wants to shake him. she wants to hit at his chest and tell him that she hates him. but she can't. looking at him now she only swells with her love for her. so she all but throws herself against him, falling into him as if it's the easiest thing to do. she clings to him, hoping against hope that he won't push her away. she didn't think she could survive that.

"rand-- please don't do this." she begs. she knows that must effect him somehow. he had loved her before. and she knows that in spite of everything that happened that he must still love her. she knew that even in his absence she loved him. she had been so consumed with the thought of finding him, saving him. even when people said that it might be too late she had been unable to give up on him.

clinging to his jacket she looks up at him. her cheeks stained with tears, her eyes filling with them once again. "you know that i love you no matter what." and is that enough? is that really what he needs to hear? she can only hope that it is enough, that it's what will snap something inside of him and make him come back to her. but it feels far too small.

[tact-and-impulse]

4000th post

Continuing the milestone tradition of recommendations!

The Mitarais’ House is on Fire: Thirteen years after her mother takes the blame for their house burning down, Anzu disguises herself as a housekeeper and infiltrates the home of her father’s new wife, a family friend who she believes is responsible for the arson. In her own words, “We had a great deal taken by this woman. I’m taking it back. I’m taking everything back.” But she quickly realizes that as she delves deeper, there are more secrets waiting. And as closely as she watches her target, she’s closely watched in return... This story is absolutely crackling. I love the revenge drama, the smart twists, and the depiction of public vs private life. And I froth at the mouth for a particular dynamic. Now licensed in English and NETFLIX SHOW COMING SOON

Kieli: I read the manga years ago and the light novels have been on my backlog for a while, but I’m glad I finally got around to it. The title is the name of the heroine, a lonely and blasphemous teenager who can see ghosts. Following an encounter with an Undying, an immortalized young man who fought in a bloody war 80 years prior, and his antique radio possessed by one of his victims, they travel the world. For better or worse, considering Undying are being hunted down for their regenerative cores and there are rumors of new experiments. The ending is bittersweet and I choose to read it as a hopeful one; the whole series is certainly memorable and very underrated.

The Jinx’s Lover: I read this one a long time ago and considered recommending it in its early days but I caught up on it again and it’s so good. As a young girl, clairvoyant Seulbi runs from the abusive hold of a wealthy conglomerate for a day and into the arms of kind but poor Sugwang, who soon finds himself shockingly lucky. When the company retrieves her, that luck turns into misfortune for 7 years...until he meets her again in her second escape attempt. It’s pretty funny, and I think it’s good for Kdrama fans!

The Alchemist Who Survived Now Dreams of a Quiet City Life: A light novel series, now completely translated in English! Mariela is the titular alchemist who placed herself in suspended animation during a disaster, only to awaken...200 years later. Unlike in the past, alchemists are extremely rare and in high demand due to the dangers of the nearby Labyrinth, a monster-infested structure that’s proving to be the worst in history. The male lead is a slave she rescues, a former adventurer humbled by the loss of his supernatural eye and is now devoted to her. He saves the labels from wine bottles they drink together, that’s real love!!!

My Blissful Marriage: A light novel as well as a manga about an arranged marriage in a low fantasy Meiji era setting. Miyo is the daughter of a clan with supernatural powers, but when discovered to be utterly mundane, she’s treated no better than a slave by her family. Cue her engagement to an ill-tempered officer rumored to drive away any woman in his presence. Of course, as the days unfold and they learn more about each other, they grow closer. Now licensed in English!

Kimi no Koe: A fairly new Taisho era manga. A young entrepreneur with a telepathic ability uses his skills to work his way up society, including a marriage to an affluent family’s daughter...only to find out that he can’t discern her thoughts at all. And she’s mute. It’s primarily from the guy’s perspective, and he’s kind of a bastard, but a loveable one.

Tsuka no Ma no Ichika: A college student in remission from an unnamed disease reunites with her favorite professor, who’s now terminally ill. A love story, in spite of their impending mortality. It’s nothing but pain. I do wish they would’ve progressed a little further, but it’s a poignant and earnest work about making the most of time you have left.

Sesame Salt and Pudding: Trying to get out of being summoned home, a drunken 22-year-old machinery operator marries one of the older customers in her favorite bar. I mean...it’s a dumb decision, but the heroine is the charming kind of dumb, so she’s actually not as annoying as a lot of characters I’ve seen. The male lead is mellow and sardonic and highkey a dirty old man, but at least, that part of him is honest! They’re cute together, the translation is excellent, and I got hooked.

Marriage of Convenience: This is how you pull off a reincarnation manhwa. A heroine who doesn’t immediately flip personalities and has realistic character development, while still retaining her core traits. A male lead who recognizes his own inadequacies, while still being a badass and an utter simp. The marriage in question starts off with a power imbalance, and the progression to a union of equals is just delicious. The side characters are also very loveable, with funny expressions in the background, and overall, it’s a great binge read.

I’m a Terminal Cancer Patient But I’m Fine: In my line of work, I think it’s good to get perspective. This is a humorous yet honest memoir, written by a mangaka who was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. The explanations are thorough and accurate, interjected with advice and of course, to listen to the medical professionals. The author is also a survivor of childhood physical abuse, so I really admire her resilience and I’m glad she has a good support system, especially from her husband. Although...can some of the hot doctors make it over here...asking for a friend...