#imagine calling people entitled for wanting to create another part of a one shot or something you created

[chopper-witch]

Hey if anyone ever wants to make another part of something I write or continue something I abandon or create a fic based on/using mine as the background/template/whatever, please do. Art is meant to be shared and fan fiction as an art form is especially community based and expansive.

[maybe-your-left]

ASK FRIDAY - CREATE A SCENARIO: roommates trope with Kylo

Due to some last minute room swapping and late registering Reader and Kylo end up in the same dorm but they're mad about it and hate each other (cue intense sexual tension)

Dorm room, Snowed in, evening time like 6

The heater/power has just gone out and Kylo knows a few ways to get warm...only if Readers up for it...

been working on this for FOREVER ANON. 

I loved it! 

Crushed

TW: NSFW, dirty talk, dom/sub vibes, exhibitionism, kinda fluff, Kylos not that nice and is an entitled man.

Oh yeah, you fuckin’ slut. 

Yes-Yes-Yes! 

‘M gonna cum all over your fucking tits.

You slapped the wall next to your bed, hard. 

“Can you guys keep it down! It’s 1 in the morning!” 

Muffled voices came through the paper-thin wall, sounding like bodies moving to the floor. Good, you thought, at least he will get rug burn from the shitty carpet, might keep him from fucking everything that moves. 

A hard knock on the wall pulled you from that thought. 

“Go read your fucking Bible! I’m trying to get my dick wet!” 

“Please!” 

“Why don’t you go get fucked!?” 

Some giggled came through next, followed by more muffled whispering. You whined loudly, trying to ignore the sounds of him fucking whatever bimbo your dormmate had in his lair. Shoving your face into your pillow, muffling your tears and wails. 

You turned on your TV, drowning out the final act of his performance. Fingers poised over your keyboard to file another noise complaint with the RA… not like they ever helped you. The last time they intervened they left with a black eye and broken nose, shrugging for you to sort it out yourselves. 

A door slammed shut, you let out a sigh of relief. 

At least he wasn’t a cuddler. 

You climbed out of bed, tip-toeing to your door to take a peek of whatever slut found her way into his room this evening. The special lady was a new cinderella every fucking week, he didn’t even try to know their names. You heard him admit it once in class to his friends, saying he called them all ‘baby’ so he wouldn’t have to learn. 

You peeked out the door, blinking from the harsh fluorescent lighting of your dingy dorm halls. The walls were a screaming white, yellowing from years of shoddy cleaning. You tried to clean your room when you first came to school, but it was too disgusting. 

A non-smoking dorm, ha. Everyone smoked, especially your neighbor. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed creeper?” 

You jumped at his voice, exhaling harshly through your nose. You steeled your features, caught red-handed looking for his latest prey. Crossing your arms defensively, not that there was anything to hide. You were in your ratty pj’s, they were on sale at Old Navy a few years ago and you never threw them away even though they barely fit anymore. 

“If you’re so interested in being a cuck,” he grinned at you, flashing his crooked teeth, “I would love to have you over for an encore, I’m sure you’d love to watch me in action.” 

“Buzz off, Ren.” 

“Ooo, angry tonight,” he smirked, now stepping out of his door frame. You choked a little at his appearance, no shirt on, basketball shorts barely hanging off his hips. Dangerously low, seriously, if he took one wrong move they would be on the floor. His chest was covered in fresh scratch marks, no doubt from his latest victim, a sheen of sweat glistening under the lights. 

Fuck, he was good-looking. 

But he was terrible. 

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, daring you to stare back at him. 

You gulped, caught again. You were better than that, you were just tired from being kept up since ten with his version of ‘love-making’. 

“My eyes are up here cupcake,” he stepped forward. Pushing you back into your doorframe, almost inside your sanctuary. “If you ever decide you want to break your vow of chastity, I’m right next door.” 

“Step away from me, Kylo.” 

He cocked his brow, “I love when you’re mean, come on. Let’s see if kitty has claws.” 

You bared your teeth, fists balling under your underarms, “Not even if you were the last man on Earth.” 

He shrugged, backing away from you. 

“Deal, bitch.” 

You moved to shut your door on him, “Go away.” 

“See you in class, bright and early.” 

------ 

When you imagined leaving for college, it was different. 

Saying goodbye to your parents, packing your car with whatever small valuables you owned. Determined to make a name for yourself all the way across the country, no friends or family, truly on your own. You imagined everything would be different, the dorm would be filled with new and friendly faces. 

RA’s greeting you as you parked outside, giving you a tour and maybe a group lunch with all your floormates. Getting to know each other, maybe even going to some new-student orientation event they planned for the newbies. 

Classes were smooth, acing all your major requirements. Professors were kind and ready to help you at any moment, letting your artistic vision flow through your body every morning with your 8 AM yoga class. 

But no. 

Instead, you registered late. 

Your classes all at the worst times, bright and early. 

Second rate dorm, COED even… smelly dudes between your single bedroom which would be better defined as a broom closet. Burping and fucking on both sides of you while you tried to study. Your major requirement classes were boring and filled with pretentious art students who thought they were the next Picasso. 

Professors didn’t care if you lived or died, only focusing on the bell schedule because they couldn’t control what the freshmen did in their classes. 

Your options for clubs were limited, either join a sport or a cult. 

And worst of all. 

Kylo Ren. 

He was your neighbor, signed up late just like you. You actually arrived at the same time, he pushed you down on your ass in the lobby so he could be checked in first. Calling you a clumsy bitch, only for you both to be handed keys to the same floor. Right next to each other, sharing a flimsy wall. 

On top of that, he was an art major like you. 

And since he registered late, he was in almost every class. 

Even yoga! 

He took your mat the first day, leaving you in tears in the hallway. He apologized afterward, handing it back to you before storming off to be with his beefy upper-class friends. Any moment he could, Ren would humiliate you. Trying to push your buttons, whistling at you when you had to cross the hallway to the showers. Tripping you when you had your hands full, making fun of you for hanging out with your sparse group of friends. 

And when he found out you were annoyed with him making noise, he latched onto it. 

One week he decided to recite the entire Phantom of the Opera, just because you mentioned in class that you loved that play. 

He did every part, even the musical scores, you could’ve sworn he did it with a megaphone on the wall, just to spite you. 

Your parents told you ‘he just likes you, he’s a boy.’ 

No! 

That’s not how people express feelings, at least not healthy people. 

Your alarm clock blared on your nightstand, you didn’t sleep so it didn’t bother you. Letting out a heavy sigh of defeat, Ren ruined another night for you, a night you’d never get back. Of precious, precious sleep that you desperately deserved. 

Slipping on some plum leggings and a sports bra. No one gave a fuck about your outfit in your early morning class, as long as you went with clothes on. You popped on your headphones, trying to drone out the noise of Ren’s music through the wall. He liked to blast some god-awful music every morning. 

Today, it was an old Black Veil Brides album! 

You made it out of the dining hall, snatching a muffin for breakfast. Smiling at some guys you knew, waving at your friend Rose as you stormed off to the gym. The cold chill of Winter biting at your nose, it was too cold to not wear a full outfit. But there was no time, with Ren keeping you up all night and classes back to back, you didn’t have time to fuck around with dressing up. 

Ren ran in after you, laughing with his friends. Big nose all red from the frost, his hair looked frozen to his scalp, probably showered beforehand. You rolled out your mat, trying to stretch while he bragged about the pussy he got last night. Making a big show of your complaining, saying you were desperate to fuck him based on your whining. 

You rolled your eyes when he planted next to you, “Good morning, you ran out in a hurry.” 

“I didn’t want to be late,” you sneered, not giving him the time of day, still stretching your back into child's-pose. 

“How are we supposed to walk together if you run away from me, cupcake?” 

You scoffed, shooting him an icy glare. Despite him grinning at you like the happiest man on Earth, god, you needed to stop giving him a reaction. That would shut him up if you didn’t give him the attention he is clearly lacking from his parental figures. 

“Good morning class,” your teacher greeted you calmly, “I hope you’re all doing well. As you all know, this next week is finals week, I’m offering makeup classes to those of you who need to make up some credit hours. We are also hosting some meditation if you need time to relax between classes.” 

Next to you, Ren leaned towards your mat, setting his hand right behind your back. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know he was hovering. Ready to devour you like a piece of meat.

“Hey,” he chuckled. 

You stayed quiet, pushing back into his arm so he would move. Ren stayed put, purring in your ear, “Did you sleep well?” 

“Move off my mat, Ren.” 

He smirked down at you, “You seem stressed, do you want me to help by fucking your brains out.” 

You shot off your mat, effectively knocking him onto his back. Laughing loudly in a relatively silent room of students trying to center themselves. He grinned from the floor, hands up in the air in defense, “I’m just offering to help you, Jesus!” 

“Just,” you pointed in his face, hair falling out of your ponytail. Everyone was staring at you, even your instructor. Shocked you were yelling, you barely spoke in class, at the scariest person in your class. 

“Just, leave me alone.” 

------

Ren avoided you for the rest of the week, mostly. 

Still had his nightly fuck-more subdued though, you had on noise-canceling headphones to try and focus on studying. There were still so many classes to get to, and you wouldn’t be finished until the day before Winter break… you were desperate to get this over with. 

You missed your family, the plane ticket itself cost you a whole month of meals. 

Of course, you would do fine in your classes, it was just the motivation to get there. Every morning you glared at Ren when he greeted you in yoga, still standing next to you like a menacing shadow. 

This morning was no different, only you skipped class to study in the library. Bundled up in your winter coat, long black scarf, hair in a lazy braid, and thermal leggings on. The wind had picked up last night, bringing on an ice storm that wasn’t expected until late next week. You walked on treacherous sidewalks, dodging all the other students who were seeking the warmth of the library. 

You settled inside, sprawling your books and laptop on an old desk. Grabbing out a few sketch pads so you could finish up some pieces that were due in a couple hours. Most of your finals in art were ‘unconventional’ which meant the professor wanted to see what you were motivated to work on during the year. 

For yours, you had decided to draw the people you saw on campus. 

Studying their faces, mannerisms, languages while they were in an organic environment. It was a great piece, and one of your professors was very interested in showcasing it in a show. You were proud, it wasn’t large but it was important for you and you wanted it to be perfect before turning it in. 

Your pastels were spread out, fingertips smudged and stained from charcoal, a few lines on your face and brow from forgetting about the streaks. There was this one person you couldn’t finish, it was one of your friends from last week. She was laughing and holding a drink, the expression wide and full of emotion but it was hard for you to capture without her being there. 

But you steeled yourself, you weren’t leaving this spot until you finished her. 

“You smudged that dude's face,” a low voice rumbled behind you. A finger pointing down at the top left corner, “Stop-don’t touch it.” 

You moved to swat the hand away, not wanting some random guy to ruin your piece with their grubby fingers. Recentering yourself, he wasn’t smudged, he was just in the corner so it looked like it wasn’t finished… what did he know, anyway? 

“You didn’t draw me?” 

Now you stopped, why you didn’t recognize the timbre of his voice was ridiculous. 

You let out a long sigh, “Please, don’t touch the canvas, Kylo. It’s not ready, yet.” 

The chair that housed your backpack slid out next to you, your things tossed on the ground carelessly before Ren sat. You scooted away from him, he smelled like he just showered. Judging by his wet hair you were probably right… “What are you doing?” 

He shrugged, fiddling with one of your notebooks. Flipping through pages carelessly, “I don’t know-you weren’t in yoga so.” 

“So,” you gave him a weird look, “You stalked me to the library?” 

“There’s no reason to go to yoga if I can’t bother you,” he flashed a smile, dropping it slightly when he saw you weren’t playing back with him. 

Silence fell over you both, the only noises the heat kicking in around the scuffling of boots and shoes to face the weather again. 

“I like your piece,” he gestured to your work, “For drawing, right?” 

You nodded stiffly, not enjoying his friendly tone. Like he wasn’t your demon neighbor who made it his job to annoy you and had for the past four months of your life. Ren shifted again, now leaning on the table with his cheek resting on his forearm. Looking at you with wide eyes, you never took the time to look at his face. 

He had very large eyes that betrayed his emotions. Swimming with flecks of auburn, gold, and some streaks of green, blinking slowly as he studied your canvas. You looked away from him, trying to ignore the urge to draw them, how his long lashes rivaled your own. How his skin was freckled with beauty marks, creases from frowning lined his forehead and nose. You could even make out his stubble, some pieces he must’ve missed the last time he shaved. 

You went back to drawing, no longer focusing on it. Just trying to understand what was happening, your tormentor was a foot away from you. Breathing calmly like a cat laying in a patch of sun. Hunched over the edge, torso too long to rest like a normally proportioned human being, had he always been this big? 

“Wanna get coffee before class?” 

“Huh?” 

You blinked slowly, not registering that he spoke to you. 

Ren leaned off, letting out a big yawn and scratching the back of his neck. 

Yes, definitely a cat. 

“Do you want to get coffee,” he stared blankly, “Before we head to English?” 

You looked down at your mess, then back up at him. Shaking your head softly, voice quiet as a mouse, “No-thank you.” 

He exhaled harshly, “I’m not gonna burn you with it, it’s just coffee.” 

“No, I’m fine,” you said firmer, “I wanna work on this some more.” 

Ren stayed still, probably trying to think of a way to get you to agree with him. You had known him long enough to know he doesn’t like people disagreeing with him. Didn’t have to be a college graduate to see that the man had issues with control, hence terrorizing you all semester. You didn’t want to offer him an olive branch, because he was just doing it as a joke. Probably, waiting until you were calm around him to do something cruel. 

You went back to drawing, listening to him get up and leave you. Mumbling something under his breath about ‘trying to be nice’ before walking out. You shook off the awkwardness, not willing to break down and let him do something nice for you, just because he didn’t ruin your final piece didn’t mean he wouldn’t do something in the future. 

The day was still young. 

------

Oddly enough, Ren didn’t bother you that evening. 

Not even a door slam! 

You almost thought he was dead, but you saw him in the hallway when you were walking to the bathroom. Wrapped in your robe, caddy in hand, he didn’t whistle or try to touch your ass like he normally did. Just a stale smile before closing himself back in his room. 

Not to waste the precious quiet, you went to work packing your bags for your trip tomorrow. Deciding to do a quick load of laundry, your hall was almost empty, so no one would be down there while you waited. 

Piling up your hamper, you threw your pj's and slippers on. Remembering to grab a blanket and your laptop so you could hang out down there while you waited. 

Your friends back home were all excited to see you, ready to hear all about your time away. The boys you met, friends you made, classes, all that. So excited to get home and see your cat, Gremlin, he was all alone without you. Your mom sent you pictures earlier of him curled in your blankets, saying that he knew you were coming home soon. 

Maybe next Fall you could get an apartment, you didn’t want to leave him for another year. 

A washing machine door slammed shut next to you, causing you to jump from your perch atop your own. Faced with Ren, who was doing his laundry in his pjs, or his version of pjs. Giving you another tight-lipped smile before leaning against the far wall. Yawning loudly before sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. 

You ignored him, turning back to your laptop that was playing a crime documentary. Texting some friends to keep your mind from wandering to Ren and why he was in such a mood. 

“Are you leaving tomorrow?” Ren called from his wall. 

You pretended to not hear him, refocusing on the documentary, there was something very interesting happening and you weren’t about to miss how they found the killer's shoe prints in the mud just because Ren was trying to talk to you. 

Then something was thrown at you, and it smelled awful. 

“Oh-my-god!” 

You shot off the washing machine, throwing down the offending garment. Ren was laughing loudly, “Chill out! It was just an old shirt!” 

“How old was it?!” 

He smiled at you from the ground, propping an elbow on his kneecap. One leg stretched out on the tile, you tried to regain a sense of calm, he was just messing with you again. Just take some deep breaths… in-out-in

“Are you leaving tomorrow, after our final?” 

You let out your deep breath, sitting back on the washer. “Yeah,” you paused your show since mister meanie wanted to have a tea party. “I have to get to the airport right after.” 

He hummed, “Same.” 

The washer beeped loudly, echoing in the otherwise empty room. Ren watched you hop off, fixing your shorts which definitely rode up too much. Trying to not flash him your underwear as you bent to move your clothes to a dryer. You cursed when a sock fell from your pile, great.  

“How come we’ve never fucked?” 

Now all your clothes were on the floor. 

Along with Ren, who was staring at you like you were an art exhibit. 

You dragged your clothes back to the washer. There was no way you were finishing now that they touched the dirty floor, no one cleaned down here and just because it looked clean didn’t mean-

A whistle, “You good over there?” 

“Yup.” 

“Okay,” you heard him stretch, popping his joints as he lifted off the floor. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he closed in. Almost touching you, no escape, “As I was saying, how come you’ve never let me steal your virginity?” 

You scoffed, “I am not a virgin.” 

Ren pressed into you, pushing you against the washer now. Grinding his hips into your own, you squirmed, trying to dispel every fantasy flooding your brain. Every night you spent listening to him through the wall, imagining just once that it was you. If he weren’t such a monster, you would have gladly laid on your back and let him do whatever he wanted. 

“Nothing?” 

You took a deep breath, placing both palms on the top of the washer. Biting your lip as you silently pleaded for him to let you go, but also continue. You could smell his cologne from this close, how it complimented him so well. Mixing in with his dark aura, you wanted nothing more than to spin around and…

Soon you were doing just that, but not on your own violation. 

Ren had his hands grasping your hips, thumbs slipping under the fabric of your t-shirt to caress your soft skin. Lips capturing your own, you froze in his hold. Unsure of what to do, a part of you wanted to scream and smack him, but the other part loved the smell of his toothpaste. 

He relaxed when you relaxed, your lips still awkwardly locked together. Not opening and allowing for more, but not moving away either. You stared at him, startled to see him looking back at you. Pulling back slightly, you watched his face chase yours. Bringing your lips together a few more times, kissing at the seam. 

You felt his tongue flick for entry, trying to pry your mouth open so he could explore. When you didn’t move he finally huffed in annoyance, “I know it’s your first kiss, but you’re supposed to open your mouth.” 

You groaned, bringing both hands to cradle his cheeks. There was no way he was going to make fun of you, he initiated this so. 

Ren made a muffled noise when you pressed your lips back together. Probably of shock and surprise, because, no. This was not your first kiss, not even your fourth or fifth kiss. Working your tongue skillfully into his mouth, you moaned softly at his taste. Just like you imagined… not that you put much stock into this but… it was wonderful. 

Bringing your fingers to the nape of his neck, tugging on his dark brown hair. Just like you always wanted to, whenever he walked past you with it tied in a bun you dreamt of tearing through it. Ren returned your affection in kind, his left hand moving to the small of your back. Fingers dancing under the waistband of your pajama bottoms. 

You heard him swear when he felt the lace underneath, nestled between your cheeks. Ren slid a hand over the globes of your ass, moving his hips in time with his tongue. Tasting every inch of your mouth, even growling in approval when you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip. 

Petting and groping each other against the washing machines, the sound of you swapping spit barely heard over the rumble of your clothes. Ren had gotten sick of grinding against your hip bone, pulling away from you for a moment. Shushing your pathetic whimpers, he hooked the hand not cupping your ass behind your left knee. 

Hiking it over his hip, opening your legs up. Allowing him to assault your center with his straining erection, oh you could picture it now. How easy it would be to just let him slip inside you. 

Right here, in the laundry room. 

*Beep* 

You pulled back roughly, barely able to unsuction your lips from Rens' own. A string of spit connecting your kiss-bitten lips, he looked at you with pleading eyes. Grinding himself against you harder, pulling a few soft mewls from your throat. 

“I need to switch my clothes,” you croaked.

He nodded, shakily setting your limb back on the floor and backing away. You watched through your own lust-filled state as he trembled. Walking back to his far wall, a hand cupping his cock through his sweats. Your throat clicked as you took in a much-needed breath, doing what you said you would. 

Setting them in the dryer, all the more aware of his eyes watching your every move. 

Not sparing him a glance when you sat back on the washer. 

Turning on your laptop once again to watch your crime documentary. 

Ignoring the throbbing between your legs, his deep breaths, and your shaking limbs. 

------

The TV’s at the airport all said the same thing, “Record snowfall this winter, right before the holidays! Experts say that we will be lucky to keep power until it passes. Our friends on the west coast are enjoying a white Christmas, while we’re stuck in the North Pole.” 

All flights have been grounded until further notice. 

Stuck. 

You could barely make it back to your dorm without crashing. 

Bursting into tears several times when you realized you wouldn’t be home until it was over. Wouldn't be able to safely leave your dorm room until it passed, leaving you utterly alone. 

You had emailed your RA letting him know your bad luck, he let the staff know you’d be there so they would have food and water running still. 

But other than that, this was your holiday. 

You slipped on the walk up to your room, sobbing loudly in the halls as you clutched your luggage. No going home, no seeing your friends or family, no Christmas dinner, no personal shower, no Gremlin to sleep on your face. 

Collapsing on your bed, curling yourself in the multitude of pillows and blankets that adorned it. The room had shitty heating, the entire building had shitty heating. The entire month of December you’d been freezing, and no amount of personal heaters could fix this kind of cold. 

You drifted off to sleep after crying for a few hours, letting your parents know what was happening. Setting alerts for earlier flights, anything you could do to get home. You were so tired in fact, that you slept through a power outage. Leaving the entire building to shut down, no backup generators. 

And no heat. 

It wasn’t until you felt yourself being lifted that you woke up to the commotion. 

Squirming in the kidnappers' arms, limbs aching from freezing for a time in your bedroom. The window must’ve cracked open because it was much colder than when you arrived. Your attacker didn’t let you go, growling in your ear to be still. 

Dragging you out of the building, towards a car you didn’t notice when you pulled in. With the snow swirling all around, it was a miracle they could see their own vehicle. You were thrown in the front seat, followed by your luggage tossed in the back. You stayed still, every time you moved it hurt, hypothermia. Common in the New England storms if you were foolish enough to be outside… 

You about passed out when the driver's side door opened, Ren climbed in. Looking just as frozen as you, slamming the door shut and mumbling something as he started his car. You could’ve cried when the engine turned, heat blasting between the both of you. 

“Hands,” his teeth chattered, holding his own out. He nodded for you to do the same, grasping your pink fingers between his own and blowing on them. “Power went out,” Ren took a shallow breath, “I was leaving and I saw your car. You were almost frozen to your bed, the window broke.” 

“Th-thank you-u-u.” 

Ren cringed at your fingers, slowly gaining back their normal color. “I tried to grab everything I could, like your backpack and luggage. But we can’t stay there, we’ll fucking freeze.” 

You nodded, tugging your hands away to curl into your chest. Thankful that Ren had enough sense to grab blankets, stuffing them in your lap from the backseat. You thought about grabbing your phone, but you could barely make a fist so it would do you no good. 

“My plane g-g-got ground-d-ed.” 

Ren shivered, nodding sharply, “Mine too, my mom got me a hotel room not far from here to stay until the storm passes. So, I’m taking us there.” 

“Okay.” 

You didn’t say anything else, not wanting to distract him from the treacherous roads. Thank god he had a Jeep, or else you would’ve died. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead, less than that when you were on the highway out of the city. 

Ren kept mumbling things like it’s okay, I’m sorry, I know it's cold, whenever you shivered and took in sharp breaths. You must’ve been out for a while, to get this bad. A quick look at the clock in his car said you’d been asleep for three hours, who knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t noticed your car… 

He helped you out, more carried you, towards the check-in desk. Too worried you would pass out in the car if he left you for too long, the front desk lady was quick and sweet. Making sure to send up extra blankets and pillows to your suite. Ren had you walk up with him, so he wouldn’t have to carry you and the luggage on separate trips. 

You clutched his hand like a child, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. But he was so warm, it’s all you could think about. All you wanted was to be warm, nodding blindly to whatever Ren said to do. 

Plug your phone in, check. 

Let him talk to your mom, check. 

Draw a bath for you, check. 

Climb in the bath with you, double-check. 

It wasn’t until you were defrosted in the clawfoot tub that you realized you were naked with him. 

Rens chest against your back, holding you like his life depended on it. Judging by his shaking, you both were probably suffering from acute hypothermia. You had been silent for so long your voice spooked him a little, “Thank you.” 

He hummed into your hair, which was sitting on top of your head in a messy bun. “Are you okay?” 

You nodded slowly, “Can we go lay down?” 

“Yeah,” Ren hastily got out of the tub, draining it and wrapping you in plush towels. You were still too cold to blush from your nakedness, not how you pictured this going. You imagined you would finally give into him on some drunken party night, barely remembering his reaction to seeing you nude. 

But now he had seen you half-frozen, forced to cradle you back to life. 

------

You squinted from your cocoon, greeted by a dimly lit room. 

One spare lamp on a dingy-looking nightstand, well it wasn’t terrible. It was better than your nightstand in your dorm room… where was your dorm room anyway? 

Something vibrated behind you, followed by a heavyweight sprawling against your back. 

You held your breath, you were in a hotel. 

With a stranger. 

“Shit,” you whispered. 

Okay, you could wiggle out of here. You took a moment to study the room, there was the lamp from before, and some curtains on a metal rod in the far corner. If you managed to get out without being detected you could knock out the assailant. 

“You smell so good.” 

More weight settled on you, now you were trapped. This bear was closing in, who knows what happened while you were asleep! All you could remember was falling asleep at your dorm after the upsetting trip to the airport, then being dragged away. 

Your fingers burning when you tried to use them, being shoved in a car… 

Kylo. 

“Kylo?!” 

“Mhm.” 

You threw your arms up, successfully throwing him off you and the covers. Your limbs screaming at the sudden movement, you were still suffering from the cold. Next to you, curled in a ball, totally catlike, was Ren. 

A sleepy smile gracing his lips, hands curled under his cheek, and legs moving towards his chest, Like a child under a blanket. You gasped when you saw he was naked, “Fuck!” 

You were too. 

“What the fuck, Ren!?” 

“Stop yelling,” you watched his hand bat his nose like an animal, “Come back, you were warm.” 

You huffed, flailing off the bed in search of your bags. 

Memories flooding back to you, he took you here after saving your life. 

The bath. 

Ugh, bad time to remember your kiss the night before. 

Ren sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and blinking slowly. You flushed red when you looked between his legs, shit. How does he walk around with that? Is that why he has bad posture? You choked on your spit when he spread his legs out. 

Sprawling completely on the mattress like he wasn’t in a room with a stranger. 

“Snow hasn’t stopped,” Ren yawned, snapping a hand and pointing between his legs, “Come back.” 

“I’m not doing anything until you have clothes on.” 

He rolled his eyes, now looking you up and down. Focusing on your bare tits, swinging around with your erratic movements. You watched him lick his lips, wagging his eyebrows, “Come on, don’t you want to sit back on the bed?”

You shook your head, crouching down to your bag. Trying to not flash him more of your goods, but that didn’t work. Not with him leaning to the side of the bed to make a show of him peeping on you. 

A wolfish grin splitting his face, “You have a nice ass.” 

“Can you stop,” you huffed, tugging on some sweats you found. 

Ren made a pouting noise when you stood, pushing his bottom lip out while you threaded your arms through a t-shirt. You shivered a little-it was still freezing in the room. Probably from the weather, it sounded like it got worse… hopefully this place would keep power. 

You looked back at the bed, Ren was still manspreading. One of his large paws crawling towards his cock, watching you with the same smirk. He let out a soft sigh when he touched himself, eyes momentarily shutting in bliss. 

“Do you have to do that with me here?” 

He cracked an eye open, “Do you have to be that far away?” 

You scoffed, moving to the corner of the room. Shivering since you were near the window, you plopped down in the cheap armchair. Ignoring the sounds of his fist gliding along his cock, you tucked your feet under your body. Humming a tune to ignore the arousal growing between your legs, there was no way you were caving to him. 

What kind of man does that with a complete stranger present!? 

More importantly, why was it turning you on? 

“Come here,” he whistled, you spared a glance at him. Blushing profusely at the sight, his cock was now fully erect. Standing tall and proud, tip flushed almost purple from want. You quickly looked away, trying to swallow down the drool that gathered in your mouth. 

What would happen if you gave in? 

Not like it would hurt you… he looked so delicious. 

“If I come over there, what's gonna happen,” you whispered, determined to stay put.

With a deep breath, the mattress groaned under his weight, probably leaning back to get comfortable. He seemed to love you being there, watching him, or trying not to. Ren made a small non-committal scoff, “Whatever you want to happen, baby.” 

“Don’t call me that, you know my name.” 

“Meow.” 

Your head snapped towards him, met with his grin. “Come on-you really want me to do this by myself?” he waved his cock, fist tight around the base. You rolled your eyes, training your eyes to focus on the least attractive part about him. 

You were coming up empty, all you could stare at was his cock. 

The prominent vein along the underside thrumming in time with his heartbeat. You could practically feel it along your tongue, rigid and stiff. Slowly, you stood from the chair, met with a soft whine from Ren. Eying your hungrily as you sauntered over, you planted a knee in the mattress. 

Between his legs, which were spread obscenely wide, he licked his lips in anticipation. 

“If I help you, are you going to be nicer to me?” 

He nodded, chest taking in sharp breaths. You slowly leaned back on your heels, stripping your top off, despite him seeing you naked earlier. Surprised when he bit his bottom lip, watching you play with your tits, rolling them in the palm of your hand. Just to make him squirm a bit, “I’ll be nicer, whatever you want.” 

“I’m really cold still,” you spoke softly, making sure to lean in close enough to graze his lips with your own before pulling away, “Can you help warm me up?” 

“Yes,” Ren's hands shot out, kneading your flesh a few times. Debating to grasp your tits or the small of your waist, like a kid in a candy store. So many options, but you didn’t want to wait. If you were doing this, it would be about you.

“Eat me out.” 

He stilled, cocking a brow, “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” you exhaled on his neck, being sure to drag your kitty claws along his chest. Briefly grazing his nipples, savoring the way he gasped. “Eat me out, if you make me cum, I’ll let you fuck me. Like the desperate slut you are.” 

Ren scowled for a moment, nudging your face from his neck. Eyes dancing across your face before capturing your lips, moaning softly in your mouth, “I can make you cum so hard you’ll never want another man again.” 

You placed a soft kiss, rolling onto your back dramatically. Splaying your legs wide, “If that's true, why do you fuck a different girl every week?” 

He growled at you, actually growled. 

Hands no longer soft in their quest to memorize your skin, instead Ren pinned your legs hard enough for them to pop. Making you squeal from the stretch, “How fast do you think I can make you cum? Hm?” 

Before you could answer, he dove in. 

Lips wrapping around your clit and suckling fast, tongue flicking out every few seconds. You were already bucking up to meet him, but his firm hold kept you flush. While his tongue began to lap thick stripes along the seam of your pussy. Briefly hooking the tip into your entrance, both of you moaning when he tasted your wetness. 

“Shit-Kylo!” 

“Mm,” his voice vibrated against your clit, continuing his assault until you choked on your spit. You buried your fingers in his hair, keeping him in that right spot. “I’m so fucking close,” you cried out, pleading his name over and over and over. 

“You know,” he popped off, smacking his lips that were glistening with your cum, “I’d rather you cum on my cock.” 

“Wait-” 

Ren flipped you onto your chest, yanking your hips into the air. You barely had time to take a breath before he shoved his cock inside you. His breath hitched as he sank to the hilt, you groaned at the stretch. Now this, this you could get used to.

He pulled out slowly, you heard him swear under his breath. Leaving just the tip of his cock inside and ramming his hips into yours. Pulling a loud scream from your lungs, Ren chuckled at that. Pumping his cock at a rough pace, “Shh-you’re going to upset our neighbors.” 

You huffed, cheap shot, angling your hips a little so his cock would rub up against your front wall. Moaning when he picked up the pace, skin slapping skin. Ren leaned over your form, planting a hand on the headboard to keep it from knocking. You weakly lifted your head, clenching at the sight of his knuckles turning white. 

All you could do was sit and take it, revealing in the bliss you’d denied yourself for four months. 

-------

Ren dropped you both off at the airport two days later. 

You spent three days together, fucking each other's brains out. 

Choking on his cock while he was brushing his teeth, eating you out while you read through your newsfeed. Bouncing on his cock while he fed you breakfast, you didn’t need to change clothes the entire vacation. 

But you wanted to go home and were thankful for the storm ending so you could head home. It was a little awkward, Ren wasn’t very excited about the snow stopping. It felt like he was trying to stall you leaving but reluctantly listened to your desire to fly home. 

“Got everything?” he mumbled, hitching his backpack over his shoulder. The two of you were waiting in the TSA line, about to part ways to head home. You nodded, giving him a tight smile before stepping up on your own. 

Ignoring the feeling of his eyes on the back of your head. 

Both of you stood awkwardly after making it through, “Well-my gates over here,” you pointed behind you. Ren hummed in acknowledgment, kicking at the ground instead of looking at you. 

“Thanks for letting me crash with you,” you tried again, still nothing. 

You groaned, spinning on your heel. Back to being an asshole, you were kicking yourself for thinking he would be nicer. All he wanted was some pussy, and you willingly gave into him when you should’ve remained strong. 

Your parents picked you up back at home, lots of tears and laughs were shared. Thankful that you made it home without freezing, your mom was grateful for your friend who saved your life. She wanted to call him and tell him how much she appreciated it but you shrugged it off, he was just being nice. He wasn’t your boyfriend or anything, you left out the part that he was the neighbor you always complained about. 

Collapsing on your bed felt surreal like you would wake up and be back in the hotel room at any moment. It was odd not sleeping next to him, you had grown accustomed to his clingy arms. Circling you in the middle of the night when he thought you were dead asleep, smelling your hair before tucking you into his naked chest. 

You tossed and turned all night, groaning when you were woken by your siblings to get up the next morning. Barely sleeping a wink, you resolved to take a nap later to try and not spoil your trip back home. 

At breakfast, your mom yelled at you from the kitchen. 

“Hey hon, someone’s calling you!” 

“Just answer it,” you groaned through a mouthful of cereal. Briefly hearing your mother answer in a typical chipper tone, stalling mid-sentence before she yelled again, “It’s someone named Kyle?” 

Shit, you shot to the kitchen. 

Snatching the phone and escaping to the living room where no one was hiding. 

“Kylo?” 

Hey, didn’t think you’d answer.

“How’d you get my number?” 

Took it while you were napping the other day, I knew you wouldn’t give it to me willingly.

You rolled your eyes, “Alright creeper, what’s up?” 

Just wanted to talk or whatever, felt weird not to. 

Silence. 

Are you gonna let me buy you coffee when we are back?

“You were being serious about that?” 

A scoff. 

Yeah-or we could just fuck again if that’s all you want from this. 

“Coffee sounds good.” 

Cool. Cool. 

It’s a date. 

-------

TAGGING: @finn-ray-nal-beads @onlykyloscenes @candycanes19 @historyandfandoms50 @caelum-phyriina-vermillon @ghoulian13 @mrs-kylo-ren @millenialcatlady @relationshipwithmybed @dancingmicrobes @wayward-rose  @contesa-lui-alucard @daydreamsofren @insufferablelust @ohdamnadamm @mariesackler @caillea @safarigirlsp @jalexunderthestars @shesakillerkween @glassythoughts @zimmermansbrat @not-the-teen-witch @jynzandtonic @roanniom @celestiasin @glassbxttless @cornmousequeen @driversmutbucket @blowthatpieceofjunk

[blackfemmecharacterdependency]

17. A Song About Simon

Word Count: 4369. I don’t think that there’s any triggers in here besides the fact that Grace is still in the institution (which will be maybe another chapter or two, depending on how writing goes), and her and Hazel’s issues from previous chapters. I just want to announce here, like I’ve already told fandom familiars... I do not hold any of you to trying to read this story or any story that I may write. I do appreciate if someone reads, but I also understand that everything is not for everybody, I’m not for everybody, and my work isn’t either. At no time do I feel entitled to your reading and nobody should feel pressured to try to read anything that I write. I will love to hear from y’all and know that you enjoy reading, but if you can’t or don’t, that is your right, Folks. This is an ugly story with ugly content and hard topics, but even if it wasn’t, you still wouldn’t have to read, review, or reblog. I just want to make that clear for those of you in my space. Thanks for your time.

Previous

Whenever she first arrived, she was scared to get the help that she knew she needed. She always thought about how her parents had shot down the idea of it whenever her old driver was concerned. How they seemed to feel like it would mean that the work that they put into her as parents would be ruined if she needed mental help. Then, she would think about her 16th birthday, when her mother said that maybe he was right… the way it felt like her mother was saying that at that moment, she knew that Grace was a waste. “You’ll regret it…” her voice echoed in Grace’s mind. “If only someone had warned you…” The last day that she saw her. 

Months had passed. Her parents didn’t even visit. Someone still controlled her social media. Because videos of her singing at the facility and captions insisting that she was getting the help she needed would show up. Grace didn’t know who was responsible for that, at the time, but all of the comments were disabled on all of her accounts. She didn’t want to imagine what people would have to say about her trying to recover.

Eventually, she warmed up to her doctor and the staff. She warmed up to her treatment, to the fact that she had to get better before anybody would let her go anywhere. Her goals became forgiving Simon, accepting responsibility for the things that she did and potentially reaching out to him to suggest that he try to get help as well. She knew that the first and last ones would be the hardest for her, so focusing more on self growth and accountability became her brand of help, at the moment. At least, she went through the motions.

Some days were better than others. Sometimes, she got onto the computer in the library and searched his name. He seemed like he was doing fine, in terminology, but he didn’t look great. That was a lie. He looked great. He was a little more muscular and his hair had grown out. He looked like maybe he had tattoos, though she couldn’t see what. But, he didn’t look happy. Good, she told herself. Even if she wondered in the back of her mind if that was an accurate observation, wishful thinking or unconditional love causing her to worry. Sometimes, she checked his social media pages to see what he was talking about. 

She watched him receive badges, be crowned prom king, be valedictorian, travel to go to MIT… He really seemed like nothing was bothering him. He had thrown her to the wolves and just smoothly carried on… She would always be mad all over again, that he didn’t even care. It wasn’t even everything that he did to her! It was… but more importantly, it was the fact that he was able to do it and live like it was nothing to him. 

But, that usually made for a very progressive therapy day, and a productive music session. She’d asked her caregiver about the posts on her social media. That was who she eventually found out was responsible for curating the content during her stay in here. “What about my rights?” Grace wondered. She had been creating a lot lately and whenever something got posted, she didn’t know the copyright status or anything legal pertaining to her very personal art! 

“Your team takes care of all of the details like that. I basically just post and properly word updates about your healing process and progress. Your team decides which posts to make public or private. (I always post them privately, and sometimes someone comes in later to make things public).”

“It just doesn’t seem fair. I’m being my most authentic self, trying to be my best self and things that I use to get there are now being subjected to my mother and her team of handlers for me.”

“I can’t speak on feelings about it, but as of right now, you are still a minor and still in our care. That means that your welfare and decisions are decided by your parents, who are your legal guardians and us, who you’re a ward of. Whenever you turn 18, if you are mentally capable enough, you will be able to have more control over that type of thing.”

“I’m 18 pretty soon! But… mentally capable… I mean… I feel like I’m mentally capable enough to discuss my legal rights to my art, but I don’t know if I’m capable of like… rejoining society…”

“Well, whenever you do turn 18, we’ll talk about how you’re feeling and assess what you’re capable of. In the meantime, you can always tell me if there’s something that you just want to keep for you, and I promise, I won’t post it. But, your music and the fact that you’re creating in here is inspiring a lot of young people struggling with mental illness and it is warming people up to you since the scandal that led to you being here.”

“I… don’t care about those people right now. I just… want to heal and create.” 

“Fair enough.”

Stingray Lyrics

You were burrowed in the sand.

I didn't know that you were there.

I reached out my hand, 

only to connect with someone…

But you weren't prepared for my touch.

You didn't know that I would never hurt you.

I dug in a little too much,

And in your startled state you made me regret it.

Like a stingray, you were so cute.

Just living life, just doing you.

But I had to reach for something else, I HAD to have you for myself and it stung me.

Getting too close to you really stung me.

She scribbled the words down, humming the melody. She wasn’t sure if Simon was out there somewhere being bothered to even think about her, but if he was, she wanted him to have to see or hear things about himself.

There wasn’t sheet music in here, but she could use her notebook and sort of guess where the lines would be. She had requested sheet music weeks ago! She was trying to teach Hazel how to read music, too. They usually were able to spend time together twice a week. Technically, they weren’t assigned to the same areas, but one of the caretakers would always make an exception and help them to see each other, because they just seemed to be really good for each other. Neither of them had any other friends there. 

They weren’t antisocial, but they just only really clicked with each other, and Hazel had not been thinking she was a turtle nearly as much since she met Grace, and Grace’s almost entire first year there had been monotonous and for the most part stagnant until she met Hazel. Hazel seemed to make her want to be better, want to move forward on something other than the pendulum of attacking herself and defending herself for things she did and didn’t do. Hazel helped her to really seem to grasp empathy. 

.

They were stretching, silently, getting ready for the dance lessons that Grace would give her near the playground, during activity time. Grace was really quiet, with Hazel was singing to herself. Suddenly, she wondered, “Grace, did either of your parents sing to you when you were a child?”

Grace scoffed and shook her head, “No. Neither of my parents did any of the TV parent stuff. My dad was a lawyer, politician, and ambassador. My mom was a high paid performer turned model turned socialite, the daughter of someone just like my father. Most of their parenting was instilling a certain image on me, or having a nanny take me away if I didn’t quite fit the bill in time enough for guests or appearances.”

“What’s ‘appearances?’”

“It’s like when you have to go somewhere just to be seen. For my dad’s job, there were political or business meet and greets, sometimes charity functions, auctions and stuff like that, and at times it was simply an extremely elegant dinner party or some dignitary’s kid’s birthday event. My last birthday party was…” She frowned, thinking about how that night ended. The beginning of the end in her mind. She looked at the charm bracelet that she had managed to still never take off, despite everything. 

“Was what?” Hazel wondered.

“Too much. It was too much. I’ve always lived pretty extravagantly, but I think whenever I leave here, I might like to get an isolated place and sort of just live there with maybe a pet or something. I’m never going to have guests over for dinner parties or house any ambassadors.”

“Can I come over?” Hazel wondered, timidly.

“Yes! Of course, if your parents let you…”

“I’m never gonna have parents.”

“Hazel!” Grace called. The younger girl just shrugged her shoulders. Grace sputtered air out of her lips and shrugged too. “Well, who needs them, anyway?” 

Hazel threw her a look. “I do, Grace. I need them. I’m 6.”

Grace frowned. “I know. I’m sorry. You’re right. I have a really bad habit of saying whatever I think is gonna make people I care about feel better. It's one of the things that I need to work on. Of course you need parents. Every child needs parents… which is why I’ve gotta believe that you’ll get some! And whenever you do, they’ll hopefully let us be friends. We have a very big age gap, so I don’t know how comfortable they’ll be with you just coming over.” Hazel looked like she was thinking about something as she stared ahead, but she was still standing, so Grace figured she wasn’t a turtle right now. “Ready to learn our new hip hop routine?” Now, she blinked and looked at Grace with enthusiasm, nodding vigorously.

.

Making time to put together figures was hard, but Simon had all of his figures with him whenever he moved from his family house shortly after the clash with the void. The fame that he had risen to over his scandalous book deal and all of the allegations against it had gotten him a very comfortable situation. He was wealthy, in his own right, and schools that he might have needed Mr. Monroe to get into previously were no longer something to be dangled in front of his face. He actually missed the Monroes. Mrs. Monroe less than her husband, but both of them. They really weren’t as bad as she made them out to be. He believed that much. But… they belonged to her. He could have them on his side for a while, but not after all of this. He hated not having Mr. Monroe to bounce things off of. He’d sacrificed a mentor to get rid of the void. 

He had tried not to pull them into it, but eventually, the narrative began that her parents were using him, as well. That he was something to taper their wild-child and as soon as he stood up for himself was financially cut off. Mr. Monroe had been very public about the fact that unfortunately, they knew nothing of their daughter’s extreme condition until she viciously attacked her mother. Simon would have paid money to see that cat-fight. Simon felt bad for them, having lost their daughter to the void, so he withdrew accusations of the crimes, though several of them couldn’t be taken back, as the victims wanted to sue personally. But, the Monroes fared fine, after all of the settlements or wins. Simon wondered whatever happened to the charm bracelet, but he pushed that from his mind. 

He still carried the name The Apex, though many companies used that or had it in their name, so he couldn’t trademark it, but the general of his Apex was that if you were tagging The Apex, Simon Says was also there.

He took his book opportunity as his big chance to move forward with his other works. They didn’t sell as well, but he could say at 17 that he was a bestselling author for Free From Grace, and that by 18, he had published several books from throughout his adolescence and had a huge trilogy deal that he intended to have released by the time he was 20. 

Senior year in high school was a blast. He was worshiped and kids who had only held allegiance to him via the void either came around or were fun to alienate as nulls. Shana rose to popularity and the two of them continued their banter, a little will they won’t they brewing, as far as he was concerned. She got rid of her weave and replaced them with braids for going natural. Apparently, she was going to be going to an HBCU and she wanted to finally wear her hair “the way it was intended,” when she got there. It made her look ever more like Grace to him, despite the fact that Grace had never worn braids, only locs, and the full out afro she had whenever she left. 

Maybe he was just weakening again… missing her… “Hey, Shana - we should attend the prom together,” he said, as they sat across from each other at their desks in the newsroom.

She looked up at him with only her eyes, not lifting her head from her work, but he could still see the disdain in her eyebrows. “For what reason would I ever even consider something like that?” 

He laughed and leaned back in his seat. “We’re the apex of the student body.” She groaned at the word that she was BEYOND sick of hearing. “You’re the most popular girl in school now, and while not my equal, the best of what we have. We both know that you and I will be class favorites and prom king and queen. Might as well make an entire thing out of it.”

She raised her head now and he was confused by her expression, because it was still clearly disdainful. “Simon. I don’t care if I was going to win a cash prize of a million dollars. I would never even so much as think about attending anything with you. Thanks for asking.” She shook her head in disbelief and continued working.

“Why not? Did you not hear the reasons this works out perfectly?”

“I heard the reasons that you think I’m a status symbol that for whatever reason would actually want to be seen with you. They weren’t reasons that I would overlook who you are as a person and how I feel about you as such to put on some sort of publicity show for a bunch of kids that I’m never going to see again, because if I ever come to a class reunion, it would be to see if Grace showed up and how she’s doing.”

“Nothing that you said makes any sense. Me as a person? I…”

“You’re a bad person,” she said. He laughed, then stopped. Oh, she’s serious? “Simon… I, along with the entire student body watched you destroy a girl that we knew you were once like this with.” She crossed her fingers. “We watched you lie on her, make her out to be worse than she was, and bring her so low that she’s in an institution!”

“You hated Grace, and now you’ve taken her place as the boss bitch.”

“Grace and I did not get along. We argued. We dissed each other. We competed. We hurt each other. We were mean and nasty to each other, and even I can see that what you did to her was fucked up.”

“You didn’t try to stop me.”

“That’s not my business. But what IS my business is the company I keep. It would never be somebody who would turn on even his day 1. Nobody even would have cared about you if it wasn’t for Grace and I still to this day think that you’re the one who shared that video of you two. Your lost and found again laptop story was always corny to me.”

“You seemed to get a kick out of it at the time.”

“Yeah, of humiliation! She got a kick out of it whenever my father was arrested for white collar crime! Fucking with each other was our dynamic! But you were supposed to be the girl’s friend, and you didn’t just fuck with her, you fucked her up. Everybody thinks it’s so funny? They’re only amused because they’re scared that you might fuck them up too. If you did it to her, there’s no telling what you’d do. You’ve got people thinking that the old rumors are true..” He furrowed his eyebrows and glared at her. The old rumors. That he killed his sister. They were true, but it was an accident. “In short, I don’t care about any of your reasons. You asked me to prom. I decline. End of discussion.”

“So… you don’t like me anymore because I stood up to Grace, something you did all of the time. We’re on the same side now!”

She stared at him and for a moment, he saw fear. That wasn’t something that Shana showed very much. She cleared her throat and wondered, “When… When did it ever cross your mind that I would EVER like you, Simon? You have been a jerk the entire time that I’ve known you. When Grace and I were rivals, you were disgusting to me. You’ve called me out of my name, tried to tear me down about my looks and my family. Where in the world would you ever get an idea that I could possibly like you, even as just a person that I know of?”

“Because of our banter…”

“Arguing.”

“All of the flirting…”

“Clearly happened in your mind, but did not happen in mine.”

“The way that you always blush whenever we talk! I know what it looks like when somebody your skin tone blushes. I knew Grace like the back of my hand.”

“And you tossed her in the trash like nothing. I don’t like you. I have never liked you, and I have never BLUSHED when we talk. What you should know, as the young genius that everybody tries to make you out to be, because this is science related, biology, if you will… Is that what you’re describing as blushing, is actually heat rushing to one’s face. My heartbeat accelerates, I may even sweat a little as I get hot and my blood rushes. That’s not because I have a crush on you. It’s because you are one of the most infuriating people to have a conversation with. Because in addition to being a rude jackass, you are a delusional egotist. Every conversation I have with you makes me want to punch you in the face. And I know that if I do, they’ll toss my ass out of here and that will mess up me following my mother’s footsteps as a Spelman College Delta Sigma Theta! You, Simon Laurent have never been worth anything to me, certainly not my future. I’m sorry for Grace that she didn’t know that, but my parents raised me with the utmost love and confidence. I don’t need anybody like you to upgrade me, and I love myself too much to even entertain you as a friend. And my father, who you love to try to weaponize against me, after serving his time is still worth at least five times as much as yours…”

Simon threw over things from her desk and she jumped. His eyes went wide. He surprised himself with that outburst. Shana was moved for a moment, when she thought he was about to attack her, but when he didn’t, she got up. “Please pick up this mess, Simon. I will not mind reporting you for it.” She left the newsroom for a breather. Simon rushed to pick everything up before anybody else came in and wondered what happened, but a lot of Shana’s words cut him for a moment. She’s lying. Girls lie, he reminded himself as he picked things up from the floor. But, he wasn’t going to beg her to go out with him. She declined. Okay, whatever. He’d have been doing her a favor.

Sometimes, he thought about her words, though. Blushing because she was infuriated by him… That made sense after a while, especially when he conflated her with the void, who he knew never loved him. He and Shana were prom king and queen, but she declined dancing with him and said on the microphone, “We all know this is Grace Monroe’s sloppy seconds.” There was an uproar of laughter in his mind. 

Actually, only a few people laughed. Some looked shocked and horrified that Shana would make fun of who they believed to be an abuse survivor. Shana shrugged her shoulders like Kanye and doubled down, “You all know good and well that Grace never harmed a split ended hair on this boy’s head! She was as obsessed with him as he was with her. You’re all wild to go along with that narrative. You would never believe all that mess about a white girl..” The dean snatched the microphone from her and gave her some warning that the other students couldn’t hear. Simon was livid. He waited for her outside.

“Shana,” he said. Shana yelped in fear whenever she saw him at her car, then reached into her clutch for a weapon. She didn’t have much, but she did have a nail file. Whenever he came near her, she stuck him in the neck with it and he groaned. She set off her car alarm trying to get inside of the car before deactivating it and Simon just smiled at her as she did. Shana was driving and crying and that was the last time that Simon saw her. 

He was questioned about assaulting her in the parking lot, but informed them that he only wanted to talk to her about what she had said in front of everyone and that she actually assaulted him. Now… once, people might believe, and people might even have believed that Shana was entirely capable of it. But, most of the kids and staff knew that Shana was a mean girl, but never violent. The only physical exchanges she had were the ones with Grace Monroe and now Simon Laurent. She finished out the end of school how Grace had finished her junior year. Simon finished it out with people beginning to doubt some of his stories about Grace. But, that didn’t matter! 

He hated that school, those rich kids, the system that worked for them but made him work for it. He was on his way to becoming better than all of that. He still wanted to make time for his art - writing, photography, creating figures and scenes… but he had gotten really into the robotics program whenever he was in engineering and decided that was what he was going to focus his education on. MIT was his first choice and he had been accepted by the end of junior year. He got his small living space as close as he could, since he prepared on spending the bulk of his time enrolled. He knew that he was destined for greatness. 

But, sometimes, his social media would think he needed to see something, like today, when he opened a video of Grace, playing a piano at wherever the undisclosed facility she had been at was, singing something captioned as “Stingray,” and looking… beautiful. He watched it more times than he would ever admit. 

He opened his own treasure chest and pulled out images of her, them… things that he had made and just didn’t have the strength to destroy when he purged the void. He picked up a photo from the pumpkin patch, when they were 14. She had her tongue stuck out at him and he was blushing. It was one of his favorite photos of them. 

“You should take every photo of me, from now on!” She said, looking at her ones on her page that had gotten her the deal. “You always seem to make me look my absolute best in every photo you take of me. Like, you have a real eye for it.”

“I have an eye for you,” he corrected. “Two…” He blushed a lot. He hadn’t meant to say THAT.

“You’ve got eyes for me, Simon?” she teased, making him blush more and his heart rate speed up. And in the midst of him trying to collect himself, she grabbed on to him, pulled him into a hug and took another of her many selfies. She groaned, “I just can’t make any photos look as good as you can… but you’re adorable in this,” she said and showed it to him. “I’m putting this on my Christmas cards this year.” 

She didn’t lie about that. He tossed it back into the box and picked up the torn out foreword that she had written for his fantasy novel. He went through the entire box before locking it back up and throwing it into the trunk of his car. One day, he was going to find the strength to throw it in a river or burn it, or something. It’s just that… she was his entire world… for half of his life…

“And you tossed her in the trash like nothing,” he heard Shana’s voice say… or was it Grace’s voice? He was starting to forget it. Like… of course he knew what it sounded like, but his head couldn’t place it in the chorus of girls’ voices that haunted him: his sister, his mother, the void, Shana… Shana was interchangeable with the void. His brain kept trying to tie them together and perhaps that was why her words affected him. Or maybe it was because they sounded so true, when he knew that they couldn’t be. The Void betrayed him. He counterattacked. “Getting too close to you really stung me.” He heard her singing. Simon bit his lip, picked up his phone and took a deep breath before liking the Stingray post.

Next

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Girl’s Best Friend (Peter Parker x OC) - Part 13

Synopsis: Diamonds are man’s best friend- or dogs are girls’ best friends, wait… how does the saying go again?

Warnings: Family issues; Peter has a crush and it’s complicated; mention of assault; good dogs; College AU; aged up! characters; TONY STARK IS ALIVE AND WE ALL LIVE IN A HAPPY PLACE CALLED DENIAL

Word count: 3.5k

Part 12 <<< >>> Part 14

MASTERLIST

               There was a big stage, with spotlights and thousands of people standing there, watching on. The TV crews of every big channel had their cameras turned towards the silhouette of the mayor, waving at the cheering crowd who had braved the cold to be a part of this.

               Peter’s eyes were darted on Emmeline, who stood straight as an ‘i’ between her parents, a stiff smile plastered on her face – he could only imagine how much her cheek muscles hurt. At first, she had stood a little behind and to the left of her mother, but she had been dragged to the forefront, looking panicked. Peter could tell it wasn’t her usual place, but her mother’s way of ensuring that she would be on her best behavior after the stunts she already pulled tonight. He was sure that his mere presence here was an insult to half to other guests, yet he didn’t mind.

                Snow began to fall but nobody seemed to care, if anything, it added to the general vibe. Why did no one but him see the blatant discomfort of the young girl on stage? Why did no one see what he saw? He’d have liked to shoot out a web and take her away, he’d have liked to be brave and join her on stage even if it would cause the ire of mister mayor.

                But he didn’t. And no one else saw. Everybody listened to the speech, rubbing their hands together for warmth or holding their cup of mulled wine, eyes shining with the reflection of a thousand fairy lights hanging from streetlamp to streetlamp. No one saw, and neither did Peter, who was so focused on Emmeline that he missed it.

                He missed the first gunshot.

                Suddenly pulled out of his reverie, he sent panicked looks all around, watching the crowd kneel and people scramble around to try and get out of the sea of people.

                Peter was standing on the left side of the stage, by the stairs leading “backstage”. He had promised Emmeline that he would stay there and wait for her; he saw her fall on her knees, protecting her head and crawling back to get out of shooting range but she didn’t know where the shooter was, nor did Peter, because he could hardly tear his gaze away from her. Everything was still in slow motion.

                Gunshots still echoed in the square, sending the crowd into hysterics, coming from everywhere. There must be more than one shooter.

                It wasn’t the first time in his life that he had to choose between being Peter Parker and Spider-Man. Peter Parker was who Emmeline wanted; she was looking for him, searching his eyes but also too scared to move from her little hiding spot behind the lectern. Spider-Man was who she needed, what everybody present needed.

                When Emmeline finally gathered her courage and decided to make a run for it to try and join Peter and get out of here, she found no one standing by the stairs leading off stage. She barely had the time to process that before feeling herself being yanked backwards and hitting the lectern again, now unable to move. What…?

“You stay here, princess,” a familiar voice ordered her.

                Emmeline twisted her neck to look upwards and found none other than Spider-Man perched on top of the lectern. He had webbed her down so she wouldn’t move. Another gun shot and this time, shards of wood from the lectern were blown off, forcing Emmeline to whip her head around to avoid them. Her right cheek flamed up and she didn’t dare look up to check on the super hero.

                The noise around her didn’t help either, the general panic created a mob mentality and everyone started freaking out beyond all sense and measure, probably making things a thousand times worse for the police and Spider-Man. Gunshots everywhere, screams, cries and the low rumble of footsteps from people running across the stage and right past her.

                Breathing was difficult, Emmeline folded her legs under her, adopting the fetal position to avoid being ran over. She buried her head in her knees and pressed her eyes shut, willing the situation to deescalate quickly, praying that wherever Peter was, he was safe.

                Where were her parents? She dared open her eyes again but saw no one lingering on the stage, and she couldn’t see what was happening around her because she was still webbed to the back of the lectern. They left her. She shouldn’t have been surprised but she was shocked still. They left her.

                Everybody had left her, except Spider-Man, who always seemed to be around when she was in trouble.

                Once again, Emmeline was yanked away from her place of safety and she found herself in the airs, holding tightly onto the body against hers, eyes still shut.

“Here you go, you’re on the ground, you can let go now,” Spider-Man told her, gently removing her arms from around him. “Stay behind the police line.”

“Wait!” Emmeline shouted after him before he flew off again, slipping right past the line of policemen to followed Spider-Man and grab his arm. “I was here with someone. I need to find him!”

“You need to stay safe and out of the way,” he replied, obviously annoyed that she would put herself in danger and not stay with the rest of the people. “You need to go back there, I have a job to do.”

“I’m not leaving without him!” she insisted, stubbornly following after him. “I know him, he wouldn’t have left me, he must still be in the-“

“I said go back, Emmeline!” Spider-Man shouted. He was growing frustrated: Emmeline refused to obey and go to safety and he still had shooters to deal with. Bullets still flew around, there were still people lying on the ground, covering their ears and closing their eyes as if that was going to dissuade the shooters from killing them. “I’m serious!”

“And I’m-“ She didn’t get to finish her sentence. Spider-Man’s body collided with hers and she barley managed to keep them upright, helping him on his feet and feeling something sticky against her hand.

“Fuck,” he swore. Time was up. “He’s fine, don’t worry about your friend.” She frowned a little, confused. There was something off in the way he said it. “He was swept away with the crowd and evacuated by the police.”

“But-“ This didn’t make any sense. “You- you’re hurt,” she now noticed, looking down at her hand covered in blood.

“It’s nothing.”

                He was always flying off towards danger again, leaving Emmeline close enough to the police line to go back by herself.

                Of course, expecting her to do as she was told was wishful thinking. She followed right after him. She couldn’t just let him go off when he had taken a bullet God knows where; and she didn’t believe for a second that Peter had been swept away with the crowd. He wouldn’t leave her. He would have given her a sign of life by now.

“Peter!” she shouted in desperation, pushing people and being pushed around by people who ran away like headless chicken, tripping on their own feet and bumping into inanimate objects in their rush to escape the square. “Peter! Peter are you-“

                She was cut off when she something flew past her at an astounding speed, blowing her hair right out of her updo. She recognized it immediately, noting the red and gold shine of Iron Man’s armor and feeling a wave of overwhelming relief wash over her. It didn’t last long.

                Something next to her blew up again, sending more shards of wood into her. This time she could move and shielded her face with her arm, but the blast threw her off balance and she landed on the ground a few feet away, almost immediately getting kicked in the side by someone who was no doubt running for their life.

                This couldn’t be happening. Where were her parents? Where was Peter? Oh God, if anything happened to him…

                The now familiar sensation of vertigo that came with being lifted into the air signaled her that Spider-Man had once again came to her rescue.

“Emmeline, you can’t stay here,” he told her when he brought her back behind the line of policemen. “Peter is safe, trust me. Now you stop making my life more difficult than it is, and stay here. Gotta go,” Spider-Man told her before joining the effort and helping Iron Man.

                She couldn’t see what was happening from where she stood now; policemen kept pushing her backwards, forcing her to step back and away from the flying bullets. She resisted at first, compelled to make sure Spider-Man was okay. He was still bleeding; she knew it from the stain of blood on her coat.

                However, she was once again pulled backwards by someone, and it was starting to irritate her that people felt entitled to push and pull and shove her around like a ragdoll.

“What are you doing, you retard?!” the sharp voice of Dexter pestered her. He didn’t bother to be gentle and simply yanked her towards him and out of the police’s way. Emmeline shook him off of her and scowled at him. “Lost your little boyfriend?” he sniggered, not missing an opportunity to be an ass, even in the middle of a shooting. “That delinquent shattered my jaw! What kind of lowlife are you hanging out with? Wasn’t it enough to get chased down by some psycho years ago? You want more?”

“Shattered?” she scoffed, letting out a snort. “Yeah, right. As if.”

                She would know if Peter had punched him this hard, right? His hand would have hurt a lot more, and who knew how much strength you needed to put in a punch to shatter a jaw on purpose?

“You don’t believe me? You think he’s your prince charming, is that it?” he asked, already reaching out to her again. “Then why are you alone?”

“Get away from me, you disgusting piece of shit! You abandoned me! Peter would never do that!” I hope I’m right. “We got separated. Now step back, and never, ever touch me again or I swear to God, I will file a restraining order against you.”

                Dexter, smirk still twisting his lips in a sick grin, raised both hands in surrender, taking a couple steps back.

“Whatever, bitch. You were a lousy fuck anyway.” As if to give leverage to his statement, he flipped her off one last time before walking away to join his gang of rich kids friends.

                She waited until he was out of her sight to start looking for Peter but she quickly understood that it was a fool’s errand. This was New York City, on the busiest day of the year, at a late night political rally disguised as a Christmas celebration. It was too dark to distinguish faces in the crowd, people were running around, and away from the shooting. The passersby were curious and gathered outside the safety perimeter, policemen pushed people back, gunshots were still being heard and blasts of light came from the other side of the line of trees, a clear evidence that the fight was still going strong.

                Emmeline would never find Peter and she was feeling herself getting cold, freezing to the bone in fact. The aftershock was hitting her. Staying here wouldn’t do any good. In a last attempt to reach Peter, she called his number but fell on his voicemail.

“Damn you, Parker,” she cursed, putting away her phone. She didn’t mean it, but she was out of options and it frustrated her. She didn’t want to leave him here if he was still around, but what else was she supposed to do.

“Miss?” someone said from behind her, tapping on her shoulder to get her attention. It was a paramedic. “Please follow me, your cheek needs to the tended to.”

                She had forgotten about the stinging pain in the side of her face, but as soon as the man mentioned it, came the sharp reminder. She was no doubt riddled with shards. He guided her out of the crowd and towards the ambulance where other people were being patched up and she surrendered herself to the medics, determined to go home after that, and try to contact Peter again.

  *

                  The second she closed the door to her apartment behind her, Emmeline crumpled to the floor, bursting into tears and turning into a sniffling mess, which in turn quickly attracted Bella’s attention and concern. The young pit nuzzled Emmeline’s arm until she managed to push her head under her arm to lick the girl’s face.

                She was used to having full on conversations with her dog, but not tonight. Emmeline couldn’t talk tonight, she couldn’t stop sniveling and crying, and so she let Bella try to console her the only way she knew how to: by licking the sadness out of her.

                An age passed before she found the strength to stand up and go to her room on wobbly legs, followed closely by Bella who seemed rather determined not to leave her side. Emmeline shivered from the close, her teeth rattling, her hands shaking. It was warm in her apartment, the thermostat was set on the usual temperature, she shouldn’t be cold.

                She peeled off all the layers of clothes, feeling nasty, absolutely disgusting. She shed her dress and threw it in a corner as if the thing reeked, as if she didn’t love it when she chose it, hoping that Peter would like it too. Her heels met the same fate, as well as everything else she wore. Instead of her usual ostentatious and elegant clothes, Emmeline dug out a pair of mom jeans and a fleece lines sweater. She put on two pairs of socks too.

                Peter still didn’t pick up, his phone didn’t even ring, she got straight to his voicemail every time she called. She called Ned, out of desperation, begging him to give her Peter’s off campus address.

“Sure, why’d you need it for?” he asked, not having heard of the shooting yet. Emmeline didn’t have the heart to tell him now and ruin his holidays or alarm him when she didn’t even know if Peter was alright or not.

“I just need to see him and he won’t pick up.” It wasn’t a lie, it was just a slight understatement of the truth. “I’m guessing he’s not spending Christmas alone in his dorm.”

“Oh no, he usually doesn’t stay at all when he doesn’t have class. He only stayed for you,” Ned blurted out, only to realize he maybe shouldn’t have disclosed that information. “I mean- for your project. He didn’t want to have to go back and forth between Queens and-“

“I didn’t know...” Emmeline breathed out, shaking her head to herself. “I get it though. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you spilled the beans.”

                A sigh of relief answered her.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

                Bella went absolutely insane without any warning, and Emmeline nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a knock on her window, almost causing her a heart attack.

“I have to go Ned,” she told him.

“I’ll text you the address. Merry Christmas, Em!”

                She only just managed to return the courtesy and ended the phone call. When she looked at her screen, she saw that it was past midnight already. She had stepped onto that stage over two hours ago, though it felt like longer.

                Bella barked like the devil was standing outside her window, but when she flipped on the balcony lamp, she saw Spider-Man. Her knees gave in but she caught herself before hitting the floor. Even with his mask on, she could see the worry on his face. Pulling herself together, Emmeline opened the sliding window.

“What the hell was that, Em?” he immediately began to scream, holding his arms open in incomprehension. “You can’t go around running into the face of danger like it’s nothing! Fuck that! You couldn’t have gotten killed, you know that?! I can’t look after you all the time, as much as I’d like to be able to,” he raged on, his expression of anger visible through his mask.

                Emmeline just stood there, shaking slightly.

“It was irresponsible and thoughtless and stupid! It was stupid as shit Emmeline! Do you know how worried I was?! I’m gonna go gray from this, and it’s all your fault! Holy fucking shit! I can’t even believe you followed me in there, there were people shooting real bullets, and you just ran after me!”

                He couldn’t stop the flow of words coming out of his mouth, he had been worried out of his mind! He wasn’t one to curse usually, but the profanities just came out. But eventually, his anger subsided a little and his tone lowered.

“It was so reckless. Swear to never do that again! I’m dead serious, you can’t pull stunts like that anymore. Putting your life in danger won’t save anyone, it’ll just make the people you love go mad with worry and make my job more difficult. Shooting 101: run away from the bullets. If I see you do that shit one more time, I’ll-“

                He was cut off when she pulled him inside her apartment by the wrist, throwing her arms around his neck and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh- okay…” she heard him say against her head before returning the hug and rubbing her back in a soothing gesture. He realized just how shaken up she was now, and maybe yelling at her wasn’t the right course of action but he had been so worried, he just couldn’t help himself. He had to find a way to make her understand that she couldn’t do things like that. “It’s nice to be invited inside for once,” he joked, trying to make her smile – and she did, before resuming her crying. “Hey, hey, it’s okay now. You’re fine, I’m fine. We got the bad guys, no need to worry now. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

                Bella had calmed down as soon as she recognized their visitor when he stopped yelling at her owner and was now sitting by their feet, wagging her tail, tongue out.

“Why does it feel like you’re constantly saving me from one thing or another?” Emmeline mumbled, trying to recompose herself. “You were hurt because of me. I saw the blood.”

“Not an impression,” he laughed. “I actually do that. And don’t worry about that, I heal fast.”

“You know what I mean!” she countered, pulling back and wiping away her tears. It felt good, she needed to let it out. She was just sorry it had to be on the local super hero’s super suit. “Did you put a tracker on me? Figured trouble was wherever I was?”

“I did not, but there’s an idea.”

“Don’t you dare.”

                He laughed, his shoulder shaking slightly, and she found she couldn’t stay serious and soon joined him.

“I can’t stay, but I wanted to make sure you were alright. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look like a hot mess and I’ve never seen you so dressed down even in pajamas, but you look like you’ll make it through the night,” he teased her, letting his arms fall each side of his body. His eyes lingered on the bandage on her cheek but it didn’t look too bad. He was there when that bullet blasted away a chunk of wood near her face.

“What happened to the shooters?” She wanted to know, for her peace of mind.

“Two killed, three arrested. The police say it was a political act,” he told her, a bit bitterly. There was a long moment of silence. “Don’t you want to know if your parents are fine?”

                Emmeline’s smile dropped and her face shut off before his eyes. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that they weren’t her real parents and that they never really acted like parents anyway, but he had thought that she would ask about them.

                She recalled the moment she realized they had run off, letting her alone on that stage in the middle of a shooting whose targets they most definitely were. She gulped down and brought her lips in a thin line, arms crossed over her chest.

“I don’t have parents.”

                The sentence hung heavy between them, and Peter was starting to rethink his brilliant idea to swing by on his way to aunt May’s. He needed to go back; she must be worried out of her mind. He had told her where he was going tonight and knew she would be watching the live on TV.

“Go now,” she said, stepping back and looking away. “I also have something to do.”

                Just then, her phone buzzed and Peter wondered who it might be. He didn’t ask, it was none of Spider-Man’s business. Without another word, just a friendly nod, he was out again, and Emmeline stood by the open window, still freezing cold.

“Merry Christmas,” she said to no one in particular.

                Then she closed the window and got moving.

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Reblog to save a writer

Taglist: @of-virtuoso @the-freefeather @justanothercynicalgenzkid 

@complete-trash-101​ @yarkmydude

[sammysdewysensitiveeyes]

Part 3 of my meandering “Maximus and Fabian team-up to kidnap Luna” fanfic, based on the brilliant ideas of @thecorteztwins.  I’m afraid I didn’t manage to get them naked in front of a crowd, but they do have another kind of clothing mishap.

Apologies for Fabian’s vague homophobia, and for the ableist insults that some of the characters throw at Max. 

There were two things wrong in this situation as far as Fabian could tell.  

           One – Fabian and Maximus were in a department store with Luna, the child they had kidnapped, just twenty minutes after said kidnapping.  Maximus was making no attempt to blend in, and their change from coveralls into casual clothing presented a flimsy disguise at best.

           Two – Fabian and Maximus were in a department store with Luna, spending Fabian’s money.

           Luna, whom Fabian had previously known as such a sweet, quiet, well-behaved child, had pouted and whined and threatened tears if she were not plied with gifts.  Obviously her time among the royals of Attilan had entirely spoiled her, despite their extremely neglectful parenting styles.  So now they were spending valuable time that they really did not have, waiting for an eleven year-old girl to decide between T-shirts emblazoned with different pastel ponies.  And because Prince Maximus of Attilan was used to having all the finer things in life but never having to pay for them, it fell to Fabian to fund their little shopping trip.  Of course. Fabian’s family was descended from royalty as well, but he didn’t walk around with impractically empty pockets.  

           It wasn’t that Fabian didn’t have the money. He had moved his family’s considerable wealth into various untouchable accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland, so that the police would not seize his assets over his little hobbies. He was doing it for his sister as well – Anne-Marie was too enraptured by the Acolytes’ cause to think about money, so Fabian, as the responsible and loving brother, had accounts set aside to take care of her.  (Well, one account.  A sizable amount.  It was all she needed, really, he’d manage the rest.)

           “This is not going to work,” Fabian hissed as Maximus took his arm and pulled him in disgustingly close.  He was not at all happy having the Inhuman who specialized in mind control, and who somehow always smelled like engine grease getting so touchy-feely.  He knew Max’s powers could also work from a distance, but still.  “We should just say that I’m her father, and you’re her uncle.”

           “I am her uncle, what’s the fun in that?  C’mon Cortez, role-play.  Get into the spirit of things.”

           “They’ll never believe,” Fabian insisted.  “I don’t look gay!”

           “I wasn’t aware that there was a specific look.” Maximus looked genuinely curious, not sarcastic, although it was often hard to tell.  “They don’t look any different in Attilan.  Are there physiological differences or is it just choices of fashion?”

           “It’s….it’s complicated,” Fabian said.  It wasn’t that Fabian had anything against gay men in particular.  He wasn’t like the petty-minded fools that bristled at the thought of another man finding them attractive.  It was only right and proper that gay men find Fabian attractive, just like everyone else did.  Fabian was attractive.  There was something tragically romantic at the thought of all the men who must surely pine after Fabian, their desires forever unfulfilled. He wouldn’t hold it against them. But he couldn’t quite imagine himself in that role.  The thought of certain acts made him uncomfortable.  

           “It’s not so complicated in Attilan.  You just ask.  Until the Council assigns you a spouse, it doesn’t matter.  And it usually doesn’t matter so much afterwards, either, as long as you are discreet.”  Maximus had been the one who thought it would be ever so amusing to pose as Luna’s same-sex parents, because apparently there was no such thing in Attilan. Same-sex relationships were accepted, but procreation and child-rearing was decided entirely at the whim of a council that determined genetic compatibility.  It sounded barbaric to Fabian, who would surely be mobbed by women seeking his superior genetic material.  No amount of polite refusal would do, they would fight for his favor – he would be exhausted and utterly milked dry after even a single day in Attilan.

           A jerk on his ponytail pulled Fabian out of that extremely pleasant reverie.    

           “Do try to keep your wits about you, Cortez, we are still in the middle of a caper, here.  Though I suppose the vapid expression does make you look appropriately non-threatening.”

           Fabian gritted his teeth, but said nothing. Some people were so utterly crass and entitled, especially unstable Inhuman princes.  It would be worth it in the end, when their plan granted Fabian the power he deserved, and then he’d find a tall building to push Maximus off of. He’d let Luna live, he wasn’t a monster, after all.    

Meanwhile, Luna had abandoned the pastel pony shirts, and was pawing through T-shirts featuring a group of handsome Asian teens, with BTS floating above their heads.  Fabian had no idea what “BTS” was, but based on the group’s bland prettiness, he guessed it must be some insipid boy band.  They were allowing Luna to browse without keeping a grip on her – Maximus had suggested that some Very Bad things would happen to the sales clerk if she tried to run or even wandered out of their sight.  Said clerk breezed right up to them, cheerfully unaware that Maximus would mentally force her to bite her own tongue in half if Luna called for help.

           “Can I help you gentlemen find anything?”

           “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, dear lady,” Fabian drawled.  She was fairly attractive, for an older woman.  He resisted the urge to place an arm around her shoulders, but one hand strayed up to undo the top button on his shirt.  

           “We are just buying some clothing for our beloved daughter,”  said Maximus, putting an arm around Fabian’s own shoulders and squeezing up against him.  Fabian hoped his disgust did not show on his face.

           “Technically she’s my daughter,” Fabian blurted out. “Biologically, I mean.  I had her.  With a woman.  I’ve been with a woman before.”

           “I see,” said the saleswoman, lips pursed as if trying not to smile.

           “Yes, my partner supplied the genetic material for the surrogate to create our precious little seraph,” Maximus said, gesturing at Luna, who was still ravaging the BTS merchandise.  “We’re so happy to have her in our lives.”

           “Aww, that’ sweet,” the saleswoman cooed, possibly genuinely enchanted by them.  Also possibly turning on the charm because she worked on commission, and men rich enough to afford a surrogate were likely to drop a lot of money in the store.  

           “I’m the top,” Fabian announced suddenly, answering a question no one was asking.

           “Oh…okay.”

“I’m always the top.  And he absolutely loves the things I do to him, because I am extremely good at sex.  With my penis. Not any other way.”  The saleswoman just laughed nervously.

           “Well, naturally.”  Maximus folded his arms.  “I wouldn’t take an inferior lover.  Of course you always satisfy me in every way and do everything I ask.”

           “That’s right,” Fabian said, with just a hint of uncertainty.  He had a weird feeling that he was somehow losing this conversation.

           “Well, that’s…um….I’m glad you’re so happy together,” said the saleswoman as Luna came running up with an armful of shirts. “But maybe we should pause this conversation.  Little pitchers have big ears, you know.”

           “What does that have to do with anythi –“  

           Maximus’s question was cut off when the far wall of the store suddenly blew apart.  The saleswoman shrieked and wrapped her arms around Luna protectively as they were showered with debris.  Blinking through the dust in the air, Fabian could see the Wrecking Crew emerge through the hole in the wall.  Which would mean….oh, this wasn’t good at all.

           “See, I told you I saw them go in here,” said Piledriver, gesturing at Fabian and Maximus.

           “What are you doing here?” Maximus demanded. “You’re meant to be smashing up Times Square, and keeping the Avengers’ attention for at least another –“ Maximus checked his watch.  “12 minutes and 38 seconds.”  

           “The check bounced, Prince Deadbeat,” said Wrecker. “Pay up, or we’ll take it out of your hides.”  

           “Yeah, or you’re gonna be Prince Deadmeat,” added Bulldozer.  Thunderball groaned and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

Maximus whipped his head around to glare at Fabian.  Fabian tried to glare back, but wound up giving a half-hearted shrug.  Perhaps falsifying the account number had been an extremely minor, insignificant mistake on his part, but how was he to know that the Crew would be checking their bank accounts before the job was even finished?  

           “Can’t you even complete the simplest of tasks, Cortez?”  Maximus snarled.  

           “What, you expect me to waste my fortune on morons like that?” Fabian shot back.  “We would have been away already if you hadn’t wasted valuable time indulging the girl!”  Yes, that was right.  It was all Maximus’s fault.  

           “It was only a small amount of your supposedly enormous fortune, you dullard, which I would have gladly reimbursed after I regained my rightful-“ Maximus was interrupted as Bulldozer charged towards them, head down.  Maximus ripped Luna out of the saleswoman’s arms and dove to the right, Fabian jumped to the left.  Carried by momentum, Bulldozer ran past them, jumping harmlessly over the saleswoman who had fallen to the floor.

           “Get out of here, lady,” he yelled as he swung back around, trying to decide whether to go for Maximus or Fabian.  “Our beef’s with them, not you.”  The saleswoman hesitated, looking at Luna, clearly wanting to pull her out of harm’s way.  Luna’s eyes flashed.

           “Run,” she commanded, and the clerk turned and fled.  

           “See, this is why I always say we should insist on direct transfer.  Checks are worthless, and frankly outdated.  Everything’s digital now,” Thunderball was saying, as he advanced towards.Fabian, swinging the wrecking ball that gave him his name.  

         “Or cash.  That’s even better,” said Piledriver, heading towards Maximus. “You can always depend on cash.” Fabian held up his hands in a placating gesture.  Much as he loathed the idea of groveling in front of these men, surely he could talk his way around these simpletons.  

           “Gentleman….I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. The bank must have made an error, which can be easily remedied –“  Fabian was cut off as the wrecking ball swung at his head.  As he ducked, he could see Bulldozer out of the corner of his eye, apparently deciding that Fabian was the better target.  Just his luck.  

           “We’re not stupid, Cortez.  You’re not going to scam us out of what’s rightfully ours.” Fabian tossed himself out of the way at just the right time, and this time the wrecking ball collided with Bulldozer’s head as he charged.

           “Ow! What the hell, Franklin?!”

           “Well, don’t run right into it!”  

           Fabian was a skilled fighter and master tactician. He had been in multiple battles alongside the Acolytes, often leading the charge himself.  He had never lacked for courage or skill.  And, as an experienced and highly intelligent fighter, Fabian knew the advantage of a strategic retreat.  As Thunderball and Bulldozer sorted themselves out, Fabian took the opportunity to sprint away and hide in a utility closet.  Let Maximus handle the brutes, then he’d take Luna and continue the mission (possibly in honor of the Inhuman prince’s memory, depending on how the fight went).

           As he ran, he saw that Maximus had used his powers to turn Piledriver against Wrecker, and the two were trading blows. So clearly Maximus could handle the situation, and there was nothing wrong with him withdrawing from the battle temporarily to rethink strategy.  The utility closet was cramped, pitch black and smelled of bleach, but they were less likely to find him here than one of the fitting rooms.  He just needed a moment to think.  His powers would not work on the Wrecking Crew – their strength and durability was based in Asgardian magic, not superior genetics like mutants (or, to a lesser extent, Inhumans).  The way these humans immediately squandered their gifts through petty crime just showed the natural superiority of mutants.  Humans couldn’t be trusted with powers.

           Obviously an alternative plan was necessary.  Perhaps a quick wire transfer would smooth over this little problem.  Or maybe Maximus would finally make himself useful and use his powers to subdue the whole group, which he frankly should have done in the first place.  It was also likely that the destruction at the mall would draw the Avengers, which would ruin their plans, but allow Fabian to slip away in the chaos.  He could hear the sounds of the fight continuing outside, with shouting and what sounded like heavy punches.  Off in the distance, glass shattered.  

           Then, suddenly the door to Fabian’s sanctuary was thrown open and Maximus ducked inside, rubbing his right hand and wincing with pain.  Alone, Fabian realized.

           “Where’s the girl?” He demanded.

           “The little brat bit me and ran off,” Maximus snapped.  “Too much like her mother, indeed!”

           “So you just left her out there with those thugs? She’s your niece, for God’s sake,” Fabian exclaimed, appalled at the Inhuman’s callousness and cowardice.

           “Luna is an intelligent, mature girl, and they are unlikely to hurt her.  I just needed a moment to think, and the crew is still fighting one of their own.   Thanks to me, and not you!  You abandoned us both!”

           “I was coming up with a plan!” Fabian hissed. He was no coward, his retreat into the utility closet was entirely different from what Maximus had done.

           “Well, what is your brilliant plan, then?  You’re the one who caused this problem in the first-“ A voice interrupted him, shouting through the store.

           “Heeeeeeeey, Ponytail and Prince Loon.  We’ve got the girl!  Come out and face us if you want her back alive.  Make some noise, girlie.”  There was a faint cry of pain, then Luna’s voice called out.

           “Uncle Max, help!  This isn’t fun anymore!”

           Maximus went rigid, and in the faint light, Fabian could see his face contorted with rage.  Fabian himself was outraged – he might use Luna as a pawn in his larger plans, but he wasn’t going to physically harm the girl.

           It was partially vanity that made them take a minute to throw on their respective suits.  Fighting in human casual-wear was so undignified.  It was also the fact that their costumes were made of a high-tech, extremely strong cloth that would not easily tear and partially protected them from injury.  Also, Fabian appreciated how his costume would show off every bit of his beautiful, sculpted body.  One should always look one’s best, no matter the situation.

           Crammed into the utility closet, they threw on their clothing in the dark, with muffled curses as feet were stepped on, and elbows jammed accidently (or not-so-accidentally) into sides.  After a few confusing moments of fabric and limbs going all sorts of strange places, they burst out to confront the Wrecking Crew again.  They did not expect the Wrecking Crew to laugh.

           Fabian glanced over at Maximus, who was trying to pull his long coat over Fabian’s own cape and shoulder pads.  The costume hung loose on the shorter, slighter Inhuman.  Which meant….Fabian reluctantly looked down (one of the very few times he was ever hesitant to look at his own body), and saw Maximus’s black and silver suit, stretched tight across his chest.  The shirt would not come down all the way, leaving a bare midriff that Fabian would normally enjoy showing off, if he wasn’t wearing the disgusting, unwashed suit of a greasy lunatic.  And he generally preferred baring his abs for the ladies, not ugly, brutish career criminals.

           Maximus glared over at him.  

           “Take those off, Cortez, you’re stretching them out!”

           “Oh, forgive me for actually having a body worthy of homo superior!  We can’t all be scrawny nerds that never exercise!”

           “Oh, do forgive me for spending my time in actual worthy pursuits instead of “bench-pressing” and “man-scaping” and “GTL” like on the Jersey Shore –“  Maximus gave an indignant squawk as Fabian ripped the cape off his shoulders and fastened it around his own.

           “Are you ladies done?  We’ve got business here!” yelled Wrecker.  He had Luna tucked under one arm, struggling and kicking at him with little effect.  “No need for things to get ugly.  You give us the money, we give you back the girl.”

           “Yeah, and can we wrap this up before the Avengers get here?  We dropped a cement truck on She-Hulk, but that’s barely gonna slow her down.  And she’s gonna be pissed,” said Bulldozer impatiently.  Fabian could sympathize – he couldn’t imagine trying to get cement out of his own luscious, flowing locks.

           “Fine, fine, no need for such base violence.  We’ll pay what we owe.  That’s what we intended in the first place,” Maximus said, with a meaningful glare at Fabian.

           “You’ll pay more than that,” said Wrecker.  “You tried to cheat us, so the price has gone up. We want triple the original amount.”

           “Let’s just get out of here,” said Thunderball. “We can take the girl to a safehouse and release her when they pay up.  We shouldn’t be hanging around the guy with mind control powers.” Piledriver, who had shaken off Maximus’s control when the Inhuman ran, nodded in agreement.

           “I’m still in charge here, Professor,” snapped Wrecker.  “We’re not getting any deeper into this than we have to.  We get the money now, give them the girl, and then disappear.  Let them deal with the rest of it.”

As they argued, Fabian was feeling along the outlines of the suit that was stretched too tight across his body.  Bits of metal were digging into him whenever he moved, odd lumps on the inside of the suit.  Prince Packrat must have all sorts of things stashed into hidden pockets – maybe one of them would be useful.  He pulled out a small round sphere, about the size of a ball bearing, that had been digging into his left armpit.  Maximus grinned when he saw it.

           “Flash bomb,” he whispered.  “Throw it and cover your eyes.”

           “Hey, what are you two smirking about?”  yelled Piledriver.  “We’ve got the girl, you’d better not –“

           Fabian tossed the sphere at their feet, and threw an arm across his eyes as the world suddenly got impossibly bright for an instant. He put the arm down, and saw that the Crew was momentarily blinded.  Beside him, Maximus’s eyes flashed blue, fists clenched as he used his power.

           “Toss her to me,” he commanded, and Wrecker suddenly hurled Luna across the room at them.  Fabian was the one who wound up catching her.  She appeared unharmed, but had both hands clasped across her eyes.

           “Uncle Max, I can’t see!  I wanna go home!” she wailed.

           “Be brave, child, the affects will fade soon. You’ll be fine,” Maximus insisted, still concentrating.  Bulldozer started to stumble forward towards the sounds of their voices, but was slowed by Wrecker’s crowbar.  Maximus had the man completely in thrall, and he began to swing indiscriminately, battering the other disoriented Crew members.

           “Can I trust you to carry her, Cortez, or will you be screwing that up as well?”  

           “None of this would have happened if not for this side trip!  We should have stuck to the plan!”  Fabian wondered what other delightful gadgets Maximus had in this ridiculous suit of his. He’d palm a few when they exchanged clothing again.  There were so many ways for him to kill the Inhuman after he’d outlived his usefulness, and that thought was the only thing that kept Fabian going through this farce of a team-up.

           “We’ll finish the plan!”  Maximus insisted.  “This is just a minor set-back.  But first…” The two of them looked at the Wrecking Crew, still blinking and trying to fight off their leader, then looked at each.

           “Strategic retreat?”

           “Indeed.”

           With Luna in his arms, Fabian followed Maximus as they ran for the exit.

[jjarcc]

Brokeback Mountain and Brandon Teena

i think for me, growing up where i grew up was both good and bad. i spent a large portion of my childhood lonely, i felt isolated from other people no matter if they where adults or children. where i live its what i’ll call “the most souther” part of the midwest, we have the poverty and ideology of small-town southern america even deep into the city, and so i often find myself relating more to LGBT characters from movies set in the south rather than the cities in the north/east.

for me, Brokeback mouton really spoke to my heart. the large about of terror both men had for loving each other, the way the wives reacted when they realized their husbands where in love with one another, the movie in its whole.

the movie goes deeper than two repressed gay men having a beer and fuck once a year, the movies dives deeper into showing us the fear these men had. jacks pain and longing to be with ennis, while ennis was so scared of the idea of loving him openly that his emotions where completely shut off and absent throughout their relationship.

when ennis was young, his father had showed him some horrible shit- a gay man from their town bloody, mutilated and dead. jack never knew of this, but i believe that was the root of Dennis’s fear. he didn’t want that to be jack; or himself.

he had probably known, and likely his father too, and thats why they decided to add that into the movie. that particular scene was one of the most striking and powerful for me.

jacks family, however emotionless they where, where not like ennis’s. however, he had a lot of internalized turmoil. the turmoil turning to great frustration as time went on.

over the 20 years in their relationship, there was a lot of lying, tension, and even agony. all because of what? their fear of judgement? or, their fear of the worst; death.

when jack was found dead and ennis found out, i felt my heart stop. i felt that pain in that moment, that crushing pain that ennis felt. all his fears had come true. in a frantic frenzy to find out what happened, he called his lovers widow, and she then (as i assume) knew why her husband was always so joyful to go on those fishing trips.

the whole movie is powerful- and painful. it shows our terror to be ourselves, and shows how we often are treated.

another movie that i find myself relating to the most would be Boys Don’t cry, which is a film about Brandon Teena, a trans man who was murdered based on his identity.

(TW for some of what i talk about coming after this, there will be specific TW for when violence is mentioned)

brandon teena was born in lincoln Nebraska, which i don’t live 3 hours away from, so this one scared my pants off.

he had had quite a troubled childhood; his father died 8 months before he was born, and he spent the first few years of his childhood living with his grandmother, then eventually his mother. (TW) when he was young, he was sexually abused by his uncle, and eventually sought counseling for this.

in 1993, after some legal trouble, he moved to falls city nebraska where he first started identifying as a man openly, and then met Lana Tisdel, and some convicts by the names of John Lotter and Marvin Nissen.

in late december 1993 brandon was arrested for forging checks, and Lana ended up paying his bail. he was thrown into a woman jail, and his girlfriend of course questioned him on it, to which he said he was a Hermaphrodite working towards a sex change, and they continued dating.

Brandon’s arrest was put in the papers, and so he was outted. now, heres the fucked up part; his murder.

now, i couldn’t make myself watch this far into the actual movie, so I’m going off of a wikipedia article now, but i know it was bad. so TW for this part.

this is copied from wikipedia but ill edit it some:

During a Christmas Eve party, Nissen and Lotter grabbed Teena and forced him to remove his pants, proving to Tisdel that Teena was anatomically female. Tisdel said nothing and looked only when they forced her. Lotter and Nissen later assaulted Teena, and forced him into a car. They drove to an area by a meat-packing plant in Richardson County, where they assaulted and gang raped him. They then returned to Nissen's home where Teena was ordered to take a shower. Teena escaped from Nissen's bathroom by climbing out the window, and went to Tisdel's house. He was convinced by Tisdel to file a police report, though Nissen and Lotter had warned Teena not to tell the police about the gang rape or they would "silence him permanently". Teena also went to the emergency room where a standard rape kit was assembled, but later lost. Sheriff Charles B. Laux questioned Teena about the rape; reportedly, he seemed especially interested in Teena's transsexuality, to the point that Teena found his questions rude and unnecessary, and refused to answer. Nissen and Lotter learned of the report, and they began to search for Teena. They did not find him, and three days later, the police questioned them. The sheriff declined to have them arrested due to lack of evidence.

Around 1:00 a.m. on December 31, 1993, Nissen and Lotter drove to Lambert's house and broke in. They found Lambert in bed and demanded to know where Teena was. Lambert refused to tell them. Nissen searched and found Teena under the bed. The men asked Lambert if there was anyone else in the house, and she replied that Phillip DeVine, who at the time was dating Tisdel's sister, was staying with her. They then shot and killed DeVine, Lambert and Teena in front of Lambert's toddler. Nissen later testified in court that he noticed that Teena was twitching, and asked Lotter for a knife, with which Nissen stabbed Teena in the chest, to ensure that he was dead. Nissen and Lotter then left, later being arrested and charged with murder.

one of the real kickers for me, is that brandon’s grave is written as “Daughter, Sister, And friend”.

Because Teena had neither commenced hormone replacement therapy nor had sex reassignment surgery, he has sometimes been identified as a lesbian by media reporters. However, some reported that Teena had stated that he planned to have sex reassignment surgery.

JoAnn Brandon sued Richardson County and Sheriff Laux for failing to prevent Brandon's death, as well as being an indirect cause. She won the case, which was heard in September 1999 in Falls City, and was awarded $80,000. District court judge Orville Coady reduced the amount by 85 percent based on the responsibility of Nissen and Lotter, and by one percent for Brandon's alleged contributory negligence. This led to a remaining judgment of responsibility against Richardson County and Laux of $17,360.97. In 2001, the Nebraska Supreme Court reversed the reductions of the earlier award reinstating the full $80,000 award for "mental suffering", plus $6,223.20 for funeral costs. In October 2001, the same judge awarded the plaintiff an additional $12,000: $5,000 for wrongful death, and $7,000 for the intentional infliction of emotional distress. Laux was also criticized after the murder for his attitude toward Teena – at one point, Laux referred to Brandon as "it". After the case was over, Laux served as commissioner of Richardson County and later as part of his community's council before retiring as a school bus driver. He has refused to this day to speak about his actions in the case and swore at one reporter who contacted him for a story on the murder's twentieth anniversary.

In 1999, Brandon became the subject of a biographical film entitled Boys Don't Cry, directed by Kimberly Peirce and starring Hilary Swank as Teena and Chloë Sevigny as Tisdel. For their performances, Swank won and Sevigny was nominated for an Academy Award. Tisdel sued the producers of the film for unauthorized use of her name and likeness before the film's release. She claimed the film depicted her as "lazy, white trash, and a skanky snake". Tisdel also claimed that the film falsely portrayed that she continued the relationship with Teena after she discovered that Teena was transgender. She eventually settled her lawsuit against the movie's distributor for an undisclosed sum.[14][15]

JoAnn Brandon publicly objected to the media referring to her child as "he" and "Brandon". Following Hilary Swank's Oscar acceptance speech, JoAnn Brandon took offence at Swank for thanking "Brandon Teena" and for referring to him as a man. "That set me off", said JoAnn Brandon. "She should not stand up there and thank my child. I get tired of people taking credit for what they don't know. However, in 2013, JoAnn told a reporter that she accepted Teena being referred to as transgender in the media. Although she was unhappy with the way Boys Don't Cry portrayed the situation, she said about the film, "It gave them [gay and transgender advocates] a platform to voice their opinions, and I'm glad of that. There were a lot of people who didn't understand what it was she (Teena) was going through. We've come a long way". When asked to how the murder affects her life today, JoAnn replied, "I wonder about how my life would be different if she was still here with me. She would be such a joy to have around. She was always such a happy kid. I imagine her being a happy adult. And if being happy meant Teena living as a man, I would be fine with that."

Brandon, an interactive web artwork created in 1998 by Shu Lea Cheang, was named for Brandon Teena. The artwork was commissioned by the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. Much of the site's content relates to Brandon's story.[36]

The British duo Pet Shop Boys released a song called "Girls Don't Cry" (a bonus track on U.K. issue of I'm with Stupid) about Teena in 2006. Vancouver-based pop-punk band JPNSGRLS released the song "Brandon", off their debut 2014 album Circulation, in memory of Brandon Teena.

boys dont cry was very hard for me to watch because i felt a sense of attachment to brandon, both in personality and feeling. i felt like i really understood, and it scared me.

both brockback mountain and Boys Dont Cry are amazing movies, if you can, check them out. they deserve all the appreciation they can get. 

[aint-ashes]

Let’s Talk About Eugene: Chapter 7 (Part A)

Hey, everyone! We finally made it. Season 7, Episode 11: Hostiles and Calamities. This is the FIRST PART (there are 10 scenes total, 5 per part, and each separated into its own section) of the chapter where I will decode and debunk all the reasons that did and did not go into Eugene becoming Negan. 

There are a lot of reasons, but I know this is the question that everyone wants answered (and the question that people make the most faulty assumptions about), so I’m going to give you three general reasons right off the bat. The rest will be unveiled through what we see in the episode.

So, let’s get to them: Why did Eugene become Negan?

1.    It’s Negan’s world.

And the rules are different. In the pre-Negan world, there were predictable consequences for any action one might take (even though unpredictable circumstances may have prompted it). For example, when Eugene chose to endanger his life by biting Dwight, it was a predictable consequence that he, himself, would be injured or killed. He was shot—a negative consequence, but nothing that he didn’t sign up for.

The law of Negan is not the same. The qualities that Eugene so values in others have no stock in Negan’s world. Bravery and sacrifice are not rewarded in the same predictable manner as they were before. For example, when Eugene sacrificed himself in the RV, it was a predictable consequence that he would be killed in the place of his friends. The actual consequence was a mockery of his bravery by the Saviors’ refusal to legitimize it. For another example: when Daryl defied Negan’s rules and punched him in the line-up Glenn, who was following the rules, was killed as a consequence. Bravery and sacrifice no longer pay off.

It’s not the way the world is supposed to work. It’s a world without agency, because Negan calls the shots between life and death. It’s a world where the only thing that keeps you alive is your individual value to him; if you care at all about your own survival, then there is no room to care about anyone else. And if you do? Well, caring for anyone in Negan’s world is to put them directly in the line of fire. You must either surrender your humanity or the lives of the people you love.

There is no place for goodness anymore. That’s why Abraham is gone. That’s why Glenn is gone. Because they were a threat to the rule of law in Negan’s world.

This is not the world that Eugene is familiar with, and he must be cautious in the choices he makes here. To be useful is the only path with a predictable consequence: survival. And here, with nothing left to lose but his own life, he will do anything to protect it.

2.    Eugene is trapped.

Let’s put it this way: what choice does Eugene have? When Negan himself walks into his room, holding Lucille up to his face, and offering him a choice between life or death (or, at the very least, safety or squalor), why wouldn’t he choose to become Negan?

To be honest, I’m not convinced that he would so eagerly and willingly ‘become’ Negan if he were prompted the big “who are you?” in front of his family in Alexandria. Eugene’s bravery has always stemmed from his desire to be worth something to the people he cares about—to protect them, and to stand in solidarity with them.

But he’s not with his family, and he’s not in Alexandria. He is held captive in the Sanctuary by Negan himself. He is trapped both physically and morally—what kind of person does it make him if he becomes a Savior? And does he even care? Eugene does not love nor respect anyone at the Sanctuary. There is no one there worth being brave for. All he has is himself, and because he no longer respects himself, even he is not worth being brave for. There is nothing about his identity worth protecting.

When asked the “who are you?” Daryl responded with his own name, because to remain who he is was to remain the strong, brave, and relied upon person that he was. To become Negan would strip him of this, and thus insult the memory of his deceased friends.

Eugene does not see himself as strong, brave, or relied upon. There is nothing, anymore, that Negan could strip him of that would make Eugene any less of a person. To pretend otherwise would be an insult to the memory of these same deceased friends.

As a consequence of his survivor’s guilt and his inability to protect the people he loves (and with a little push from Rosita), Eugene has by now accepted himself to be a coward. He is, as he was that night in the forest, afraid for his own life. And no matter how little worth that life may have, he cannot escape his fear of losing it. So here, in the heart of Negan’s world, he surrenders to it.

Eugene’s goal is to stay alive. He really doesn’t have any other choice.

3.    Becoming Negan frees him of responsibility. (Not really, but from Eugene’s perspective…)

I think it’s clear by now that Eugene’s two worst fears are dying and the people around him dying. And which fear takes precedence depends on a number of factors (at this point, at least). But it’s undeniable that Eugene loves, respects, and wants to protect the people in his family. (If you want proof, you’re in luck! I’ve written six chapters about it.)

Becoming Negan not only secures a pretty permanent living situation away from his family, but also creates an entire identity apart from them. Being away from his family relieves him of the power to save them, and therefore relieves him of the power to be unable to save them.

Eugene still does take some responsibility for the wellbeing of his family, but that’s for next chapter.

SCENE: ARRIVAL AT SANCTUARY/EUGENE’S BEDROOM

Echoes of these reasons will recur throughout the episode, and new ones will pop up as well. So, ‘Hostiles and Calamities’. Let’s go.

Eugene’s entrance into enemy territory is about as terrifying as it gets. He’s just been uprooted from his home, from his family, presumably forever. He was quite literally pushed out of the gates of Alexandria, thrown in the back of a truck, and his head bagged. There is no guarantee that he will ever come back, that he will ever see anyone from Alexandria again.

He knows he’s headed for the Sanctuary. Eugene saw Daryl, back in ‘Service’, after he’d been held captive for a week. Everything that happened to him was apparent in his face—bruised, bloody, dirty, malnourished, exhausted. Eugene saw that the Daryl Dixon, perhaps the toughest and most stubborn of the survivors, had been beaten into compliance. Into silence. And the whole ride to the Sanctuary, blind and surrounded by armed Saviors, Eugene must be imagining all the ways in which they will torture him, too. If their methods could do that to Daryl, god knows what it would do to him.

When Eugene actually gets there, all he can immediately take in about his surroundings is the overwhelming roar of hundreds of walkers. He is dragged from the truck, and when the bag is pulled from his head, the first thing he sees is Negan. Accompanied by a welcoming party of Saviors who are kind of laughing at him. And now that he can see it, it’s suddenly very real; Eugene is in grave danger.

I don’t think he could be brave here if he tried. It’s just too much, and he’s so vulnerable. His freedom was sacrificed the moment he confessed to making the bullet, but as he enters the compound and the door shuts behind him, that fate becomes sealed. Eugene panics.

As the Savior Laura leads Eugene through the labyrinth of hallways and stairs, Eugene breaks down into hysterics. He resorts to begging. This is certainly a result of the fact that he’s living his biggest fear, but also calls back on that very first reason: this is Negan’s world, and the consequence of his building the bullet has not yet been revealed to him. He’s left to hang in his imagination of what Negan has in store, and that’s it’s own kind of torture—so, when Laura leads him to his own private bedroom stocked with furniture, food, and books, he’s extremely cautious.

Right away, the conditions in which Negan places Eugene are vastly different than the conditions that Daryl lived in. This is because Negan sizes up his individual prisoners and calculates what treatment is needed to sway them into Saviorhood; and Daryl and Eugene are on opposite ends of this spectrum.

Daryl, who was resistant and hotheaded, needed to be broken into becoming Negan. So, he was humiliated, starved, emotionally and physically exhausted, and completely controlled—Negan decided when or if he slept, what and how often he ate, what he wore, etc.

Eugene, on the other hand, is already broken. He is in a perpetual state of fear and grief, trembling and crying. So, Negan sets him up in comfort. He gives him his own space and a lock on his door to make him feel safe. He has a change of clothes ready on the rack, food in the fridge, and automatic status that entitles him to anything he might want at the Sanctuary. Negan recognizes that what Eugene needs is to be mended. And if he can do that for him, if Negan can make this terrified man feel safe enough to be useful, then Eugene is as good as his.

That’s reason number four for why he will eventually ‘become’ Negan: Eugene is made to feel safe at the Sanctuary. This reason comes up again at the very end, so I’ll go into it more later.

Half of the Eugene content in this episode is him familiarizing himself with the Savior lifestyle. The other half is Eugene testing the waters of embracing said lifestyle. Eugene’s exploration of his bedroom and the conversation with Laura is the beginning of that first half.

The most important piece from this conversation is that Eugene learns about the point system—and his reaction is important. When Eugene asks for potato chips, Laura explains to him that “#42 makes them”. Eugene confirms that the number is part of a coding system—a status tag for workers. When told that #42 would be making the chips fresh, Eugene immediately declines.

He doesn’t want to make more work for anyone on his behalf. He doesn’t want to be a part of how the Saviors treat their workers—who are given numbers instead of names.

That’s who Eugene is. He’s not the person who allowed nine people to die for him on the way to D.C. And he’s not Negan. He’s right in the middle, the kind of person who refuses to make trouble for anyone else. The kind of person who thinks about how his choices affect others.

That’s who he really is, but as he’s said before: the key to survival is allowing oneself to be shaped by the assigned environment. The Sanctuary is one hell of an environment to adapt to, but survival is all he has left. He’ll do anything for it.

SCENE: LAURA TAKES EUGENE TO THE ‘MARKETPLACE’

Eugene has an immersive experience in the marketplace as his next step into Sanctuary life. This is where everyone who works for points dwells.

The workers at the Sanctuary live in squalor. Negan himself said it: “You [could]…work for points, but you’re gonna wish you were dead.” We’ve seen the hardships of the workers through Dwight, Sherry, and her sister, through Amber’s look of horror when offered a demotion from wife to worker, etc. Some of them look almost as bad as Daryl did, hunger and exhaustion-wise, and Eugene surely notes this as he takes in his surroundings.

“They eat shit. We eat good,” Laura tells him.

This is a world apart from where he came. In Rick’s group, there was no hierarchy, at least in terms of provisions. Within the family, nobody ate less because they were worth less—if that were the case, Eugene surely would have starved by now.  Even when he contributed nothing to the group, when he didn’t even know how to hold a knife or had never killed a walker, he was protected and provided for. And when the whole family was starving, he had as much wild dog in his stomach as leader Rick and distrusted Gabriel.

It’s different at the Sanctuary. It’s every man and woman for themselves (which harkens back to reason #1, again), and none of them seem to be winning the fight. When Eugene witnesses one young woman steal off of the table of another Savior, he appears scandalized and watches her as she disappears nervously into a crowd.

I can’t tell if he’s upset because she stole something, or because he realizes she’s desperate enough that she has to steal something, but my money would be on both. He has a dozen eggs and shelves full of vegetables in his own private fridge, plus unlimited access to anything in this marketplace, yet here, the people who keep the Sanctuary fed and running are starving. It’s a system he likely feels both guilty and glad to be apart from.

When Laura offers him a pickle, which he had asked for earlier in the episode, he turns it down. He’s standing by the same value that made him turn down the chips; and, after seeing the conditions of the workers, I’m sure he wants even less to be a part of taking anything from them.

But, Laura pushes the entire jar into his hands and says: “You want something, haircut, you take it.” This is forced adaptation. In this one action, Laura has forced his status on him—he didn’t ask for this ranking, but Laura insists that he act on it by taking the pickles for himself. This is how life at the Sanctuary works; and it’s your life, now, too.

The takeaway from this scene: the fact that Eugene is outraged by the minor theft (it appeared to be one item—food, I think, though I can’t tell for sure) will stand as a point of reference later in this episode. Again, this is a good indication of who Eugene truly is, as opposed to who he was forced to be, and later will try to become in this environment.

SCENE: DR. SMARTYPANTS

This episode has a pattern of letting Eugene get comfortable, then breaking out a Negan scene that scares him to death, rinse, and repeat. After his tour of the marketplace, Eugene meets with Negan for the first time since the bullet incident in Alexandria—and he is terrified.

Just the way Negan likes it. Although Negan’s goal is to put Eugene back together rather than break him, he starts off their conversation with a threat to let him know that he is not off the hook by a long shot after the day’s incident with Rosita:

“Well, Eugene…I know you remember Lucille. Now, you see this right here? You might have to get real close. That, my friend, is the bullet you made. Now, under normal circumstances, I’d be showing you that real close over and over again. But, Eugene, see, all I really want to know is if you are a smartypants. You know things?”

It’s the perfect setup. But Eugene, too terrified to speak without stuttering or finishing his sentences replies:

“I am indeed a smarty-pants. I taught myself to cast bullets. I found a machine shop with the necessary… I read a lot, and, um… although my memory is not considered eidetic, I don’t skim and I don’t scrimp. If knowledge is dropped, I do indeed pick it up.”

Negan laughs disappointedly and says: “Oh, you really are just some asshole.”

Danger! Danger! If Eugene becomes “just some asshole” to Negan, he becomes valueless. And the only predictable consequence in Negan’s world is that if you have no particular value to him, your odds of survival are significantly damaged. Also considering he’s pretty sure he was just threatened to be Lucilled, Eugene better think of something fast. Something impressive that will help him survive.

“No, I’m not. I have PhDs in biochemistry, as well as immunology and microbiology, and I’ve completed my doctorate, which makes me a doctor. Prior to the collapse, I was part of a 10-person team at the Human Genome Project working under Dr. T. Brooks Ellis to weaponize diseases to fight weaponized diseases. Fire with, you know, fire.”

Eugene is still scared, and it shows in his voice, but most of the stuttering and stumbling falls away completely as soon as he turns back to the script. This is a comfort zone that Eugene inhabited for a long time when traveling with Abraham and the others. It worked once before, and it works again—after the spiel, Negan is all ears for Eugene.

The lie serves as a hook; Eugene impresses Negan with a fake identity so that he’ll pay attention to who he really is, and what he can do. Negan’s attention, though intimidating, is a good thing—he’s on his way out of the red, as long as he can keep impressing him. In this way, the lie also gave Eugene enough of a security blanket to be able to think clearly when Negan decides to test him.

When Eugene suggests molten metal to fasten the walkers to the fence, he shows Negan that he is able to make use of his surroundings and offer solutions to problems that nobody else could solve. He passes the test.

And then, something really interesting happens. Negan asks: “Did Rick have you doing this sort of valuable stuff for him?”

And Eugene doesn’t answer.

Did Rick have him doing that sort of valuable stuff? Not really! Rick pretty much ignored Eugene and anything he had to offer, in favor of working with other warrior- and leader-type people in the family (Daryl, Michonne, Glenn, Maggie, Abraham, etc.). Eugene had to find his own way to be valuable, including discovering a way to manufacture ammo—but in the meantime, coped with being pretty much useless to the group.

It probably worked out for the better that he was overlooked, because it forced him to come into his own as a survivor. Finding his own path made him as much a better person as it made him a better fighter. But now that he’s lost who he is, and doesn’t consider fighting or protecting to be a viable method of contribution from him, he’s back to having nothing but his knowledge.

And unlike Rick, Negan values that. That’s another reason Eugene ‘becomes’ Negan. Reason #5: his role at the Sanctuary gives him purpose.

DISCLAIMER! 

I have to be careful here. It isn’t by any fault of Rick’s that Eugene feels more valuable at the Sanctuary than he did in Alexandria. Eugene’s top priority is different now: in Alexandria, the goal into which he poured all his energy was contributing for the group and keeping the others as well as himself safe. At the Sanctuary, Eugene’s only goal is to keep himself alive. There is much less opportunity for failure when only your own life is on the line; so, of course Eugene feels more successful in his goals at the Sanctuary.

Plus, Rick did come to value Eugene (for both his knowledge and his bravery) in 6x16, and was of course upset when Eugene was taken away. I don’t believe that Eugene holds it against Rick in any way that he didn’t use him for his knowledge. In fact, Eugene much preferred to be valued for his courage and sacrifice come season 6. He knew that, after what he’d done, he had to earn Rick’s respect and acknowledgement. He’s not bitter about it. 

Let me repeat: BECOMING NEGAN IS NOT A BACKLASH AGAINST RICK!

Nevertheless, it does give him some form of worth—even if it’s not the worth that he had come to want for himself. It’s the only worth he believes he can have.

And he walks away from his first encounter with Negan, alive and with the beginning of a promise that he will keep living. We get that little devious smile, which I’m sure we all wanted to take as a sign that he had just secured the perfect position from which he could tear the Saviors apart from the inside. Unfortunately, it’s more of a “ha-ha-I-tricked-you-into-not-killing-me” smile. But, eh, I’ll take it anyway.

SCENE: EUGENE MEETS THE WIVES

When Amber, Frankie, and Tanya visit Eugene, I’m sure he’s aware that it’s a test. But it’s also, I think, a way to make Eugene more comfortable at the Sanctuary—this goes back to him needing to be mended rather than broken into becoming a Savior. If he sees that the Sanctuary has kind people (bonus points if they’re beautiful), that it’s not just filled with malnourished workers and stand-offish soldiers that seem to always be walking around with guns and sadistic smiles, Eugene may be more inclined to stay.  Enter Amber (I’m not sure why), and Frankie and Tanya, who are friendly and charismatic, easy to talk to, very kind women.

It’s nice to have someone around who doesn’t call him “haircut” or wave a barbed bat in his face, but this video game night is also, nevertheless, a test in obedience; Negan has given Eugene a very strict and simple rule. All he has to do is follow it, and he simultaneously moves up in Negan’s book and gains a couple friends.

It’s important that the first thing we see in this scene is a close-up of the pickle jar. Pickles were something that Eugene specifically asked for, then decided against for moral reasons, but was forced to take anyway. So he might as well eat them, right? But the jar is still full. He hasn’t eaten even one of them. This will be another point of reference later, but for now it tells us that Eugene is still aligned with his real self; eating the pickles would make him feel guilty.

Throughout this scene, Eugene does a good job of passing Negan’s test. He avoids Frankie’s physical advances and masterfully redirects a question about the Human Genome Project, and somehow ends up able to show off his knowledge. It doesn’t get any better than that!

The most important part of this segment is when he and the wives go outside to play with science. Amber is not with this whole date-night concept; she’s here to drink and cry. When she tells Tanya “we’re just slaves,” she’s referring to her status as a wife to Negan.

Shortly after, Savior Keno comes out to check on the noise, and Eugene tenses up. After Keno is dismissed, Frankie tells Eugene to relax. “You’re one of us,” she says.

The lines “you’re one of us,” and “we’re just slaves” complement each other. Negan has Amber (and Tanya and Frankie) as wives so that they are at his disposal whenever and for whatever he wants. This comes in exchange for safety and excusal from the points system, which creates the illusion of a choice—marry me or starve.

Eugene’s position is not unlike theirs. He is living in the illusion of security, with a bedroom and status benefits. The ways in which Negan will use him are entirely different, but he is really only safe as long as Negan deems his performance useful and satisfactory. Eugene may think he’s given himself the upper hand in lying to Negan, but he’s still a slave, whether he sees it that way or not.

SCENE: TANYA AND FRANKIE ASK FOR THE PILLS

There is a parallel Dwight storyline in this episode that becomes really important to Eugene’s story, come this scene. When Dwight returns to his house and finds the letter from Sherry, he reads from her: “Being there isn’t better than being dead. It’s worse.”

Following that scene, Frankie and Tanya knock on Eugene’s door and ask him to assist Amber’s suicide. Now, since this ends up being a ploy, I can’t say whether Amber is actually suicidal or not—but from what I gather, she may be headed that direction. She very well could have expressed that she wanted to die, which spurred Frankie and Tanya to act on killing Negan instead; so, for the sake of getting inside Eugene’s head, I’m going to assume that Amber did express suicidal thoughts.

Eugene is immediately upset. He has seen the workers in the marketplace fighting for survival, stealing just to fill their stomachs, and yet Amber, who has guaranteed protection from Negan himself, wants to die just to escape it.

This is Eugene’s first look at something that becomes a recurrent theme at the Sanctuary: those who are best off survival-wise are those closest to Negan. And those closest to Negan are those least willing to survive. Eugene cannot fathom this; he fears nothing more than death, and will do anything to avoid it—he counts himself lucky that he’s passed into Negan’s inner circle. But now that he’s here, he is witnessing that even in Negan’s world there are parts of a person that aren’t worth giving up. Even at the cost of survival.

In fact, there are parts of a person that are worth dying to protect, whether that be freedom, or dignity, a semblance of your old self, or loyalty to your friends and family. Rosita once told Eugene that the people around him dying was worse than death itself—now, he’s learning that maybe there are other things worse than death, too. It’s not yet a truth for him, but a truth he’s seeing in others very similar to him.

The story will likely sway this way for Eugene in season 8, but I’ll save my theories for the end of Part B.

When told that Amber is suicidal, Eugene looks about to cry. Then, he scrambles for reasons that she shouldn’t kill herself. Now might seem like an awkward time to bring up that he still hasn’t eaten any of those pickles, but that and his immediate concern for Amber both go to show what Frankie tells him next:

“We can tell that you are a good man. There aren’t many of those left.”

No, there aren’t. There aren’t any good men left. The last of them died in that lineup while Eugene was quivering in fear for his own life. I know this is what he’s thinking when he looks away and says: “Truth of the matter is, I’m not good. I’m not lawful, neutral, or chaotic. None of the above.” I’m not like him. I’m not like them. I’m not who I thought I was.

This is the first time Eugene has said anything about who he is since “I’m a survivor”. He has never before come to the conclusion that he’s not a good person. Even back during the lie, he reasoned with himself that the benefits to his gullible companions would outweigh the costs to protect him.

But he is good. He can’t fight it. That’s why, when told that Amber will suffer without his help, he is as good as won over. While still deeply upset, Eugene is needed again. Not to save a life, but to save a person from her life. He is called upon to protect, and though Amber isn’t one of his family, he begins to nod when Frankie says:

“You are good, Eugene. You have to be.”

I know it sucks and it’s scary, but it’s time to be brave.

Not only does Eugene agree to help them, he agrees to help immediately. And in that moment, he’s not thinking of Negan or of himself. He’s not thinking of the consequences that may come of helping to end the life of one of Negan’s wives. He’s not thinking of how that would impact his own survival, should Negan ever find out.

He’s thinking of Amber, a girl he hardly knows, but whose agency and dignity, whose right to die in a way she deserves he is willing to put himself on the line to protect. And if that doesn’t show that he’s one of the last good men on earth, I don’t know what does.

Thus ends Part A, and Eugene’s wading into Sanctuary life. Part B will explore five more scenes in which Eugene goes all out and dives into Saviorhood. We’ll talk about his reasons for this dive and whether or not they’re contradictory to Saviorhood itself (teaser: they kind of are, lol), as well as more about why he ‘becomes’ Negan.

My goal is to have Part B posted before tomorrow night’s episode, because we’re getting lots of new Eugene content. Get hype and nervous! See you all tomorrow!

[ahouseoflies]

Best Films of 2017, Part III

Part I is right here. Part II is right here. Let’s keep it moving. PRETTY GOOD MOVIES 67. Kingsman: The Golden Circle (Matthew Vaughn)-  Exactly, eerily, as good as the first one. Make a hundred more of these stupid candies and wrap them individually in wax paper. 66. Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond (Chris Smith)-   As a movie about the effects of fame: 5 stars As a movie about the inherent lie of acting: 4 stars As a movie about making a movie: 2 stars As a well-structured documentary of its own: 1 star 65. The Wall (Doug Liman)- War movies often topple under the weight of their messages, but that's not The Wall's problem. To his credit, Liman is worried about making this a thriller first, even as he's showing off the competency of the soldier at its center. There's no music, and the camera plants you subjectively in Sergeant Issac's field of vision. (The John Cena character is named Shane Matthews, but he ain't even SEC). Even at 80-something minutes, however, the film feels long, telegraphing its way from one plot point to the next, and its dark ending comes off as a too-clever shrug. If your movie is about the war, then make it about the war. If it's using the war as a backdrop, then make it about something. 64. Fist Fight (Richie Keen)- Once you start thinking about its logic on any level, it falls apart. (The whole reason schools are bad is that they can't find good teachers, so why would they be so intent on firing the ones they have?) And it's full of fake problems. (Oh my God, he might not make it to his daughter's talent show in time!) But this worked for me overall. Some jokes fall flat, but there are so many that you can just wait for the next one to land, particularly if it's from the salty mouth of standout Jillian Bell. The script, full of meticulous callbacks, creates a full, satisfying arc for the protagonist as well. 63. Brad’s Status (Mike White)-  A confused movie that is an easy, sort of Italian watch in the way that it so literally spells out its emotions. Even five years ago, this tale of a middle class White man's entitled bellyaching would have been told straight. Now it exists only because it weaves into the narrative people who check the Stiller character's privilege. Because the character's jealousy is communicated so truly and fiercely, it almost seems as if Mike White wants to tell a story but knows he shouldn't. That sounds like faint praise, but it's a fascinating experience. 

62. Beach Rats (Eliza Hittman)- For about an hour, this felt like a movie I had seen before. "Oh, why can't I get it up? I, uh, must have had too many drugs. Definitely not because I'm gay 'cuz I'm not." It was, due to the underplayed performances and the careful composition, better than some versions of that movie, but not by much. Then, the last leg of the film gets mission-focused. Without giving anything away, rather than being just about heterosexual performance, it becomes about homosexual performance and heterosexual performance at the same time. The protagonist is challenging his straight friends within the rules of what they've determined and outside of them. Those layers pile on until the bravura final shot. I just wish it had hooked me sooner. 61. I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore (Macon Blair)-  I preferred the Encyclopedia Brown fumbling at the beginning to the violent consequences at the end, but I realize that's how amateur detective movies work. I probably would complain if the film didn't open up in scale. The story is fairly simple, which, coupled with an assured visual style that is open to mystery, suggests that Macon Blair might have a real future as a director. He's not trying to do too much. Lynskey is absolutely perfect by the way. 60.  Life (Daniel Espinosa)-  Cool enough at the beginning and the end to excuse a few logical missteps in the middle. Still, without giving anything away, I'm recalling a fork in the road in which the film could have gone the easy, dumb way, and it went the more difficult, realistic way. I hadn't seen Espinosa's other movies, but he shows an assured hand here, especially with the rapturous gore. I can't say the same about Ryan Reynolds, who sleepwalks through a role that might as well be called You Know, a Ryan Reynolds Type.   59. The Zookeeper’s Wife (Niki Caro)-  It goes pretty hard for PG-13, and there isn't much wrong with it--the passage of time gets haphazard in the second half maybe. But personally, I think I'm all good on Holocaust stories. 58. Landline (Gillian Robespierre)- It's basically a Woody Allen movie if Woody Allen had an affinity for rollerblades instead of bad jazz. Most of the laughs come from the '90s milieu; in fact, I'm not sure if this movie would even be a comedy without the setting. Despite some of those easy laughs (and some laborious ribbon-tying at the end), the screenplay does a few difficult things well. I'm thinking in particular of a scene in which Falco and Turturro have to confront and punish their daughter. We've already been told that she gets forced into the bad-cop role, and he skates above the fray as the favorite parent. But to actually see that dynamic in action during this scene, which begins with him whispering that the mother is coming, is kind of thrilling. The performances are good: Slate is dialed up to a higher pitch than she was in Obvious Child, and newcomer Abby Quinn comes through when asked to carry long stretches. At first, I wondered why John Turturro had signed up for such a nothing part, but as his arc blossoms in the film's second half to become a quiet MVP. He gets to remind us that no one else can play an unrealized sad sack quite like him. 57. The Unknown Girl (Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc Dardenne)-  I wish I had a unique take on this, but everyone else is right: It's a minor work from great filmmakers. There's some real psychology here--a woman in transition sublimates her upward mobility into a search for truth. And as a mystery, it works fine. But there's a tedium and a distance, despite the usual Dardenne tricks, that keeps it from hitting home. 56. The Glass Castle (Destin Cretton)-  There are too many characters in real life too, I guess. Far less focused than Short Term 12, The Glass Castle is an admirably sincere piece with some powerful sequences, but it gets way out of hand in the last twenty minutes. Recommendations for a movie that finishes with the point "It's okay to hate your dad"? 55. The Disaster Artist (James Franco)- James Franco reveals himself to be a workman-like director, a brilliant actor, and the best real-life brother of all time. Having a James Franco performance like this but giving top billing to Dave Franco is kind of like eating birthday cake but giving top billing to the plate. Playing a clown-fraud like Tommy Wiseau exposes an actor to artifice. Commit too much, and it's a stunt; commit too little, and it's a wink. I don't know exactly how he does it, but James Franco walks the tight-rope precisely. Dave Franco, playing a nineteen-year-old for some of this, is in over his head. If you've ever seen a well-done amateur Shakespeare adaptation, you know the electricity that comes from the company's freedom, when they realize they can do what they want with this supposedly sacrosanct work. So imagine how much fun professionals are in re-staging a work that is objectively terrible. At its worst, The Disaster Artist feels like a trifle. At its best, however, that feeling of putting-on-a-show is what comes across well.

54. Manifesto (Julian Rosenfeldt)- I knew this was various incarnations of Cate Blanchett--a homeless man, a conservative housewife, a broker--performing artistic manifestos. But I didn't know the most clever twist, which is that the manifestos are blended into one another, so that a line of Marx alternates with a line of Tzara with a line of Soupault. That dynamic approach brings to light how confrontational and immature all of these types of writings are, not to mention the collaborative spirit most of those writers had. Your mileage may vary based on your tolerance for intellectual bullshit, but I scratched my chin contentedly. The pairings of the manifestos to the settings are clever, and my favorite was probably a eulogist talking about dadaism at a literal funeral. As artificial as what I'm describing sounds (and yeah, by the eighth or ninth one, you'll check your watch), Blanchett finds an observational truth. The performative posture of a schoolteacher, the pause for fake laughs of a C.E.O., the paper shuffle of a news anchor: She remains the real thing. 53. Brawl in Cell Block 99 (S. Craig Zahler)-  Now that I have taken a shower to wash off the movie's bleak grodiness, I appreciate its solid plotting and grindhouse super-sizing. Like Bone Tomahawk, Zahler's previous film, Brawl in Cell Block 99 takes about an hour to get where it's going. (The inciting incident is technically at 1:08.) I assume the fat is there to develop the protagonist, but I think about twenty minutes could be shaved off. Zahler's rhythms might make for an excellent TV show, but something about that '70s exploitation poster makes me think we won't find out. 52. Columbus (Kogonada)- Columbus wrestles with the balance of information and inspiration. The Cassandra character prevents the Jin character--I'll ignore the gross name symbolism--from looking a date up on his phone because she wants to be able to recall it herself. Earlier than that, the Jin character tries to impress her with knowledge of a building, but she blows him off when he admits that he memorized it from a book he had read earlier in the week. Would that thought be somehow more pure if he had retained it over years? I think that type of calculus is what the film is concerned with, so it makes sense that it centers on architecture, an art of identity as much as it is a science of measurements, an expression as much as it is a utility. If the paragraph above makes it sound as if the movie is up its own ass, running on Sundance fumes through its meth subplot, then you'd be right. I had just enough patience to admire it as a promising debut. 51. The Book of Henry (Colin Trevorrow)- Colin Trevorrow's best film is always compelling--for different reasons in the compassionate first half than it is as it's careening off the rails in the final third. But it's always compelling. You can't complain about all studio movies being the same, then not appreciate something this fundamentally godless and bizarre. 50. Kong: Skull Island (Jordan Vogt-Roberts)- People rag on the DC Universe films for being too serious and dark, but there's no limit to how dark a movie can go as long as it's balancing that mood with something else. Vogt-Roberts gets that, and Kong: Skull Island is a cut above most of these entertainments because he has a deft handle on tone. The film can get scary because it's so silly and fun at other times. Plus, if you have Jackson, Reilly, and Goodman selling your lines, they can be as dumb as you want. Even if the other sequences never reach its level, the first helicopter setpiece is dope, in part because the actual fighting of the monsters is dynamic. Skull Island is pretty far from Brazil, but Kong's chokes, holds, and throws owe a lot to jiu-jitsu. It seems like a consistent piece of design at least. Can we talk about Tom "The Tight Sweater" Hiddleston though? Vogt-Roberts has no idea how to introduce him properly, but he is an absolute zero in the role that is supposed to be heroic. The script doesn't do him any favors--the American army is taking orders from this British mercenary because...--but he is a vacuum of charisma. He's not dangerous in any way, and his blah blah my dad died backstory is delivered with no conviction. I don't get it. 49. T2: Trainspotting (Danny Boyle)- It's a perfectly pleasant experience to see these characters twenty years later--Boyle has a few nostalgic tricks up his sleeve--but "pleasant" is a backhanded response to something as vibrant and essential as the original.There's a meta-reading of T2 that admits that everyone involved is struggling with the same issues as the characters, but even that is kind of like returning to your middle school and realizing that the basketball rims weren't actually that tall. And how do you mess up the music?

48. Brigsby Bear (Dave McCary)- There are some huge ideas on Brigsby Bear's mind. The weight of nostalgia versus genuine affection is there. Caring versus pitying is there. Then there's the idea that drives it: If you're the only person who appreciates a work, does that diminish it in some way? How important is collective experience to art?Those ideas are suggested by the screenplay by Kyle Mooney and Kevin Costello, but they aren't wrestled with directly. Especially in its structure, Brigsby Bear is more conventional than its mysterious introduction and Mooney's bonkers comedic sensibility would have suggested. 47. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (Martin McDonagh)- Three Billboards flew by for me, and I loved Sam Rockwell's iceberg of a performance. But I was held back by the same elements that hampered Martin McDonagh's other work. There's some profundity lurking in the Harrelson voice-over, and you can't tell me that you didn't get the chills from McDormand's raw scream as her son holds her back from putting out a fire.But it's over-written in the first half--"HOW RESPONSIBLE ARE WE FOR OTHER PEOPLE?" might as well be on a storefront on Main Street. And McDonagh, a real poet of the profane at his best, is so willing to go for the easy joke that he undoes a lot of his own subtlety. Even before the dreadful final five minutes, there's too much plot and too many characters.Perhaps it's an issue of expectations--this would have been a satisfying video store find back in the day, but I'm not sure something so out-of-control should be up for All the Awards.   46. Call Me by Your Name (Luca Guadignino)- For me, this is Guadignino's third straight film in which an emotional urgency underneath never quite equals the lush, meticulous, yet inert exterior wrapping. That being said, Chalamet's performance forces nothing, and the character is a uniquely novelistic creation: knowing everything, practicing mystery, but wearing his confusion on his sleeve. Despite an overall shapeless quality, the film brings everything home in the poignant moments near the end. One of those moments is a five-minute "it gets better" speech by Michael Stuhlbarg. By that point I think most of my audience was willing to go there, but I hesitated to buy it. You can't spend two hours being a movie about what isn't said, then switch over to a movie in which everything is laid out on the table. Then again, that's my exact Guadignino problem. 45. Battle of the Sexes (Jonathan Dayton, Valerie Faris)- Dayton and Faris show as little tennis as possible because they don't know how to make it look interesting. Carell sleepwalks through his role. There's a lot of "Here's plot point A" type dialogue. We're told about King's dedication to the game, but we aren't really shown it. Unfortunately, the whole thing is a Clinton-Trump allegory, and Dayton-Faris expected Clinton to win like everyone else did. But Battle of the Sexes still goes down smooth, mostly because of the tender love story between Billie Jean King and Marilyn Barnett. In fact, every time the film cut to something else, I wanted more of those women discovering each other. I'm a student of Movie Stardom, so I've given Emma Stone her due as a Movie Star. But this is the first time I forgot I was watching Emma Stone. The scene in which Billie Jean and Marilyn meet is an impressionistic, sensual haircut. Marilyn calls Billie Jean pretty, and based on the complicated reception of that compliment--a stumble but not a stammer--you can tell Billie Jean didn't get that much. As written, King is a strange mixture of inward flailing and outward tenacity, and Stone breaks hearts with it. It's not often that one performance can give a movie a reason to exist, but that's why they play the games. 44. King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword (Guy Ritchie)- It's hard to remember a film more uninterested in its own storytelling, and it's even harder to remember a time when I saw that as a strength. If nothing else, the permanent fast-forward button that Guy Ritchie holds feels like a fresh corrective against other self-serious origin legends. I say "origin," but this movie actually feels like a trilogy unto itself, with the excellent initial twenty-five minutes covering about thirty years at a breathtaking pace. The score, which incorporates human breath, makes that literal. Ritchie fashions King Arthur into a scrappy orphan story, so there's a bit of his underdog imprint, but he also sort of assumes that we know the basics of the King Arthur story and yada-yadas a lot. Merlin gets mentioned only by name, Excalibur never gets named, and Arthur literally cuts in line to pull it out of the stone. By the end some of the visuals look like Killer Instinct for the N64 with a code to turn CGI embers all the way up. But I prefer this to the three-hour version that the studio accountants no doubt expected to receive.

43. War for the Planet of the Apes (Matt Reeves)- For better or worse, this movie plays for keeps. Aided by Michael Giacchino's second masterpiece of a score (after Up), the film lets the action speak for itself, going for long stretches without any dialogue. It culminates in the exact go-for-broke ending that I keep asking for. But am I the only one who feels a bit of cognitive dissonance with these movies? The audience I saw it with applauded at the end, but it's hard for me to buy in that way for something that is so dour and self-serious while also being goofy. Like, I'm really supposed to learn about the lessons of work camps from CGI apes? The commitment behind the apes' design is admirable--how has this series not won any effects Oscars yet?--but is the storytelling strong enough to transcend those tricks? It's novel, but I'm not sure it's new. Matt Reeves crams the film with Apocalypse Now allusions, and though I was thoroughly entertained, I couldn't help but think this was Apocalypse Now for people who will never see Apocalypse Now.

[lgbt-ya]

Dreadnought and Sovereign - the Nemesis series

Published by Diversion books on 26th July 2017

Genres: superheroes, trans, young adult, fantasy, LGBT

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Blurb: Danny Tozer has a problem: she just inherited the powers of Dreadnought, the world’s greatest superhero.Until Dreadnought fell out of the sky and died right in front of her, Danny was trying to keep people from finding out she’s transgender. But before he expired, Dreadnought passed his mantle to her, and those secondhand superpowers transformed Danny’s body into what she’s always thought it should be. Now there’s no hiding that she’s a girl. 

It should be the happiest time of her life, but Danny’s first weeks finally living in a body that fits her are more difficult and complicated than she could have imagined. Between her father’s dangerous obsession with “curing” her girlhood, her best friend suddenly acting like he’s entitled to date her, and her fellow superheroes arguing over her place in their ranks, Danny feels like she’s in over her head.

She doesn’t have much time to adjust. Dreadnought’s murderer—a cyborg named Utopia—still haunts the streets of New Port City, threatening destruction. If Danny can’t sort through the confusion of coming out, master her powers, and stop Utopia in time, humanity faces extinction.

Interview with the author, April Daniels:

Hi, welcome to LGBT YA! Could you start by introducing us to the world of the Nemesis series?

Hello! I’d be glad to. The Nemesis series (Dreadnought, out in January, and Sovereign, out later this month) mainly takes place in New Port City, a metropolis that is described in a lot of my initial project notes as Not-Seattle. It’s a major American city in Northwest Washington on Puget Sound, but unlike its real-world counterpart it was the dominant population center on the west coast for much of the 20th century, which means it is both larger and more heavily urbanized than any real-world city in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle might exist as a small suburb, but it hasn’t appeared in the books. 

Approximately seventy years prior to the start of the series, a new wave of increasingly powerful super-humans appeared in the world stage. Superheroes and vigilantes are a part of everyday life, albeit one that most people don’t have much experience with.

This is the environment our narrator, teenage trans girl Danielle Tozer finds herself growing up in, and she is something of a superhero fangirl. When Dreadnought, the greatest hero in the world, gets shot out of the sky in front of her and she inherits his powers, Danielle’s body is changed to be what she always wanted it to be, and suddenly there’s no hiding that she’s a girl. On top of that she quickly learns that the world of professional superheroes is far less welcoming than she had hoped. I tried to ride the line between bleak cynicism in the flawed institutional design of the superhero laws and the optimistic sincerity of some of the heroes trying to work within a broken system. 

I wanted to create the feeling of a DC or Marvel style comic book universe with decades of history that shapes the present, but without the impenetrable continuity snarls and obscure back-story that characterize a lot of the output of the Big Two. 

Who is your favourite character in your books? What advice would you give them?

Calamity is an absolute blast to write, but she should learn to duck. How much of Dreadnought is inspired by your own experiences (excluding the magic!)?

A lot of the stuff relating to being trans, especially the description of dysphoria, are taken from my own life. The emotional damage that results from abuse is from my experiences as well, although the format of the abuse I endured was considerably different than the one Danielle confronts in Dreadnought. 

Dreadnought was your first published novel. What was the publication process like for you? 

I went to school to become a writer, enrolling in one of the few undergrad creative writing programs in the country at UC Santa Cruz. I thought I’d be published shortly after graduating, but it took nine years and I was homeless for some of that. Don’t do this to get rich.

When I finally had a manuscript I knew I could sell, I started querying agents. Querytracker.net is where you want to start that process. It’s long and stressful and difficult but eventually an agent said yes and we got to move on to the next stressful wait, but this time I had an agent doing the hard part. That’s when things started to feel a little real.

I was lucky in that we got an offer in our first round of submissions. We landed with Diversion Books, a smaller publisher, and working together my editors and I put the manuscript into publishable shape. 

Then there was a lot more waiting, and nerves and anxiety and then one day I was published and it sort of took me by surprise. At first it was sort of just another data point: okay, milestone passed, on to the next one. About 24 hours later I had a breakdown sob-laugh-cry fit for about an hour.

And that’s the publishing process. 

What are some of your favourite diverse SFF books?

Right now, I’m really into Martha Wells’ work, which often deals with protagonists who clearly have some kind of significant trauma in their pasts. This isn’t a sort of character background that’s marketed as diversity, but in the sense of being literature that helps someone recognize themselves and feel a little more complete, a little better able to face the day, then her work certain falls under the umbrella of diverse SFF books. Books that I really, really needed this year.  

Do you think diversity is a trend in publishing? What would you, as a trans reader, like to see more of in the future of publishing?

I think diversity has been a trend for a while, and we’ve been seeing the limits of that approach for some time now. The common pattern, historically, is that authors who did not have any personal experience with a particular kind of marginalization would read two or three books, decide they were an expert, and then write a book about The Trans Experience or whatever. This would only be annoying if it stopped there, but it can do real harm by perpetuating stereotypes and blocking marginalized authors out of the market. That’s where not thinking too deeply about diversity gets you; nothing actually changes, except the wallpaper.

Things are looking up, though. I don’t expect that this will never happen again, but I do think people are starting to move toward the understanding that if you want to read a book about a trans person, you should read a book by a trans person. The own-voices movement is one I’m a huge fan of. I think that’s probably the right strategy for where we are at the moment.

Obviously this doesn’t mean authors can’t write characters who are unlike themselves; it means authors shouldn’t claim to speak for others. 

Nobody can speak for us as well as we can speak for ourselves, and that’s true no matter who you are, unless you’re in politics. Publishers should to worry less about diversity in books, and more about diversifying the people whose work gets accepted for publication and promoted. The solution will need to start at home, so this will mean diversifying their own staffs as well. 

What advice would you give to authors who are planning to include a trans character in their next works?

It’s not too difficult, I don’t think. Don’t describe their bodies in a way that’s any more detailed or lurid than you would a cisgender body. Give them personality features aside from being trans. Don’t get cute with pronouns, don’t do a “surprising reveal”, and don’t kill them. Pretend we’re people and you can’t go too far wrong.

What are you writing next?

Can’t say, but past experience suggests people will like it. 

Finally, what’s your favourite conspiracy theory?

The best conspiracy theory is the one that NASA killed JFK to keep him from telling Khrushchev about the alien castles on the Moon. The book you want to read is called Dark Mission by Richard Hoagland and it is the most batshit story you will ever hear. 

From the Masonic ritual allegedly conducted shortly after the Eagle landed in the Sea of Tranquillity to the crank-a-licious numerology chapter, this book has it all, and also grainy photographs reputed to be of kilometres-tall crystal structures on the Moon. A perfect blend of kitschy Americana and paranoid hallucinations, this book has my highest recommendation for conspiracy fans of all sorts. 

Thank you for asking.

April Daniels was born in a military hospital just before it was shut down for chronic malpractice—in hindsight, that should have been an omen. After various tribulations in childhood and the frankly disconcerting discovery that she was a girl, she graduated from UC Santa Cruz with a degree in literature, and then promptly lost her job during the 2008 stock crash and recession. After she recovered from homelessness, she completed her first manuscript by scribbling a few sentences at a time between calls while working in the customer support department for a well-known video game console. This book was mainly porn, with a few swordfights included for variety. When April realized she couldn’t pitch her book without blushing, she decided to write something else. During yet another period of unemployment, she wrote Dreadnought.

She has a number of hobbies, most of which are boring and predictable. As nostalgia for the 1990s comes into its full bloom, she has become ever more convinced that she was born two or three years too late and missed all the good stuff the first time around. Having recently become a pagan, April is currently enduring the karmic backlash for all the times she was smug about her atheism.

Early in her writing practice, April set her narrative defaults to “lots of lesbians” and never looked back.

Follow April on tumblr at @msaprildaniels

[martymulders]

Character:  Jean Baptiste Gerion DuPont Verse:  Historical | WW2 | Drama

NIGHT.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Diligently and quietly the group worked.  Five men, huddled around a scratched, wooden table, shoulders bent forward, heads down, focused on their work.  The soft sound of wood hitting would.  It was the only sound besides their breathing.  They did not talk when they worked, they only focused.

Click, click, click, click, click.

They wore casual clothes, dressed for long hours of work.  Their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, jackets hanging off the back of their rickety chairs.  None were expensive but only some were embroidered with the telltale patch of a Hebrew.  Smoke billowed up from their ashtrays, creating a translucent cloud that floated above their heads, unable to escape the small room they worked in.  Only two small table lamps were on, casting a dull light across the room, giving them just enough light to work through the night.  Their eyes strained but they never complained, only continued to work.

In front of each man, a pile of small, thin wood blocks with a waxy tip at the end.  There were twenty-six sticks in every pile, although the men often had to share amongst themselves.  Twenty-six for every letter of the French alphabet, every letter carved into a flat stamp on the wax end.  They’d made them by hand, working as tirelessly as they did now.  They dipped each end in a sponge soaked in ink, stamping out their manifesto on whatever paper they’d been able to collect.

Un Manifeste pour L’homme Contamine read the carefully pressed letters at the top of each piece.  A manifesto for the tainted man, translated loosely.  A rallying cry for the abused, the forgotten, the deserted who struggled under the jackboot of The Third Reich.  Crushed into the soil in which they were born, in which they were entitled.  A word for the disillusioned, the broken, just a hand reaching out of the darkness to bring them back into the light.  The men stamped each letter silently, dedicated to advancing their message.  Jean Baptiste DuPont’s message, his words.  It had inspired the other four men who sat around him, stamping, stamping, stamping.  They could inspire others.

Jean Baptiste Gerion DuPont headed the men, headed the movement.

The work was slow but it gave them results, how ever tedious the tasks may be.  When they finished printing with their handmade tools, they folded the papers into a compact pamphlet.  They would be passed around, these little revolutions, handed to people under tables, slipped under doors, pinned to an unmonitored alley.  They needed to be seen, they needed to know the Le Sang Des fils de France was there, fighting for them and giving them the courage to finally fight for themselves.  Perhaps the people of Les-Chambon-sur-Lignon would not win the war, but they could win their home, could they not?  Perhaps more Germans would come if they should manage such a thing but the Germans were here now, their town now a breeding place for Nazi amusements.  When France had surrendered, the grip against her throat only tightened more.  The battalion had been assigned there perhaps less then a year and already Le Chambon was a shadow of it’s formal self.  The Germans had flooded it, removing people — not only Jews — from homes to quarter their men, dominating businesses and enforcing the new laws and ordinances. French citizens displaced were expected to lodging, perhaps with relatives or a vacant home for rent.  Anyone Jewish, whether by religion or heritage, was given a specific location to find housing, although much of the area was undeveloped.  The area was sealed off with a wire fence and posted with guards, some who patrolled the dim streets and others who watched the gate.  Access was granted on a exiguous basis, leaving most decisions up to the arrogant Hitler youths who acted as watchmen which made the rules arbitrary and ever changing.  Jean Baptiste had once had a home, the home his mother had raised him in and gifted to him on her death.  He did not doubt it housed German soldiers now.  Now he lived in a filthy basement, twice as small, just enough space one needed to survive.  The water was poor and it wasn’t uncommon to turn a tap or faucet to find it completely dry.

A Jew could not own a business nor property, so any Jewish owned businesses were reclaimed and redistributed to the highest “pure” citizen.  The building the men worked in, huddled in the storage cellar, had once been a cafe, although now that it was tucked away in the place called, “Le Chambon Ghetto Juif” it had no purpose until these men had come to give it one again.  Around back, hidden behind a bit of shrubbery, double metal doors lead down a long set of stairs.  The revolutionaries had taken to securing the door with a long, sturdy piece of wood when they entered take to their clandestine task.  If they ever were discovered though, the makeshift lock would work for only a short while.  They had yet to procure any type of weapons, although Jean Baptiste had been given promises by a contact, an ally in his fight, that perhaps two luger pistols.  It wouldn’t defeat a whole regiment but two was better then nothing.

Jean Baptiste looked up suddenly, eyes giving the distracted faces around his a sweeping look.  He stood and the men looked up at him, braced as if waiting for orders.  Jean Baptiste had never claimed to be a general nor ever formally declared himself leader, it was just something they all knew.  When people were lost, they turned to the strong.

“Quelle heure est-il?” Jean Baptiste asked them, tapping the top of his wrist.

“Presque une heure du matin, Jean Baptiste,” one of the men responded, looking down at his worn wristwatch.  He was an old Jew, a bit stumpy, with small glasses that sat perched on his nose.  He’d once had a nicer wristwatch, a present from his wife, but that had been confiscated from him.

Jean Baptiste nodded a moment, thinking.  It would be 1am soon and he’d agreed to meet his  amateur arms dealer at 1:25am.  The man was not a Jew and thus did not live in Le Chambon Ghetto.  They would rendezvous at dark section of the enclosing fence, a place where the fence was weak and contraband could be slipped through rusted, broken links.  He’d never met the seller, he’d gone through a Polish man, who’d fled only to wind back up in the clutches of nazism and who’d assisted the cause before.  They had to be careful, the entire group.  While punishments could be harsh no matter the crime, to be caught supplying a Jew a weapon?  They would be shot on sight, no doubt.  Perhaps if his contact was a German man, he’d find a little respite in just a harsh prison sentence.

“Claude,” Jean Baptiste looked to the man who’d been at his side.  Claude was a handsome Negro man, his chest broad across and his shoulders squared.  He’d lived in France since he was a young boy, originally from America.  His parents had been slaves and when it had been abolished in the colonies, they’d left the country as soon as the opportunity afforded itself.  Claude had once told him that he thought his parents hoped to out run the memories.  As a man, he’d found residency in Le Chambon and although the people treated him well enough, he remained on the outskirts of their society.  He hadn’t been required to move into the Ghetto but his living space was almost no better.  He’d found work in menial jobs, when white people found enough grace in their hearts to extend him the help.  He was dedicated, smart and there was no one else Jean Baptiste would ever trust as deeply, “viens avec moi.  Ze rest, we will meet a-gain in quatre jours.”

Claude stood without hesitation and the other men returned to work.  The routine was the same every time, every night they worked, they would properly wipe away the evidence of their existence without guidance.  Jean Baptiste and Claude fixed themselves, slipping back on their jackets and ascending the long steps into the chilly night.

This would be the most dangerous part.  There was a curfew in the Ghetto and while there was no law pertaining specifically to Negro curfews, for Claude to be found with a Jew up to no good?  Claude would be no less culpable and the Nazis would not consider his loss a tragedy. Jean Baptiste could not imagine his life without Claude and, as he believed, the dependence was mutual.  They watched one another, each other’s watchdogs.  They watched each other now, as their feet shuffled quietly through the streets, keeping out of sight as they could.

When the pair reached the fence, they waited until they heard the agreed upon signal.  The wind stirred and spun the leaves and garbage that littered the streets and the men waited, crouched behind high shrubbery.  They shared a glance in the darkness, saying nothing only breathing steadily in and out.  Jean Baptiste felt Claude’s sturdy fingers come to gently grip his wrist; there was movement, although it could not be identified yet.  The men froze and then…

Taptaptap. Taptaptap. Taptaptap.

Nine soft knocks against the fence, grouped in three.  He was here.  Jean Baptiste and Claude gave each other one more look before they made careful movements from their spot.  The hurried to the location at the fence.  Standing there was a white middle aged man, bald although his face was covered in a neatly trimmed beard.  At his side, a ratty bag that must have contained what the revolutionaries had come for.

“Sind Sie ihnen?” the man whispered, his accent heavy and German.  It seemed the Third Reich was not as united as they thought, “Die Sohne von Frankreich?”

Jean Baptiste’s ears perked at the last phrase.  His German wasn’t great, although he’d been trying to learn it as best he could.  He recognized some of those words; he wanted to know if he was finally speaking to The Sons of France, the name the hopefuls had whispered.  Jean Baptiste took a moment before he nodded and whispered back,

“Oui, nous devons etre rapide,” he insisted.  The German nodded in agreement and reached into the bag at his side.  Jean Baptiste could feel Claude behind him, braced and waiting, keeping watch as their secret transaction finished.  The German brought up the gift and Jean Baptiste held open the broken links, slipping luger through the chains which was passed to Claude.  The second came through and Jean Baptiste took it for himself.

“Z-ank you,” he whispered back to the German.  English was becoming increasingly universal and perhaps they would be able to understand each other, “Z-ank you. You’re saving man-ee lives…”

The German said nothing, merely looked at the two.  And then Jean Baptiste went blind, his vision becoming white, eyes strained from the sudden burst of light from the darkness.  Three flashlights suddenly illuminating the Frenchmen, still holding their newly acquired lugers.

“Nicht bewegen!” the German officer demanded, “Nicht bewegen! You are not to move!”

Three of the officers had been waiting in the wings, it was clear now.  One stepped forward from the darkness behind the German, shining his flashlight through the fence at the guilty party.  The other three, though, had come from both sides, closing in on them as they’d made their trade.  Jean Baptiste’s panicked eyes turned back to the German, who still stood staring at him, impassive.  This meeting had been doomed from the start.

As the officers moved closer, Jean Baptiste and Claude noted only two had their pistols drawn.  They looked at each other for only a moment but the decision was made.  What other option was there?  If they were to die, let them die fighting.

“Fredrick,” one of the officers called to another, a smile on his face, “es sieht aus wie die kyke und Nigger hatte ein paar ziemlich grose plane, eh?”

The others laughed, amused by the comment and Fredrick responded in turn, “Ja, ja! Es scheint sicher, um wahr zu sein!  Wissen sie nicht ein kyke nicht wissen wie man eine waffe zu benutzen und Nigger verwenden nur speere verwenden?”

That got an even bigger laugh.  The targeted pair merely stood, waiting. Always waiting.  Now they waited for their moment.  They’d both know it when they saw it, they just needed to wait.  When it came, it came in a flash.  Just a second too soon or too late and all hope would have been lost.  At the first chance, both men made a swift dart into the closest alley, stay just ahead of the bullets that left dusty holes in the side of the buildings they ran between.  Towards the middle of the alley, there was another that split across and they pair made to turn; running straight made you an easy mark for a bullet.  Jean Baptiste went right, Claude went left and they just kept running.  Jean Baptiste could hear shouting and the sound of footsteps on his trail but he ran, coming in and out of alleyways and cutting through abandoned houses.  He ran until his lungs hurt and until his legs simply could not run anymore.  Finally, he took refuge behind a garbage container, panting rapidly.  He’d worked so hard, his legs and arms shook with the tension.  He was hot in the face and his stomach felt nauseous.  

“Ich habe es satt,” came a voice, it was distant.  The petulant voice of a young German man, one of the officers from before and he was speaking with another.  The man sounded like a whining child more then a Nazi soldier, “Wir solten nur jeder von ihnen schiesen, ich bin es leid mit diesen Juden zu tun haben…”

The other man seemed to agree with a humming sound.  They were getting closer, Jean Baptiste could hear them better now and their footsteps seemed to get more and more near.  He swallowed and took in a breath, trying to calm his racing heart.  Fumbling with the luger for a moment, he went to open it.  Shooting to German officers, while something he would not mourn over, would put Jean Baptiste in no better a position but he may have no choice.  He opened up the chamber and felt his shoulders drop, feeling that wave of defeat come over him.  It was empty.  The German had given them two empty lugers and then he’d given them up.  Jean Baptiste’s mind raced, he tired to figure out his next move.  They were only getting closer.  His only option was to make another break for it, they’d see him no doubt but perhaps he could get away — although the chances seemed unlikely.  Not only was the area past his current spot no good for hiding, his body was too weary from the adrenaline rush before. His other option was to stay put although that was no doubt a death wish as well.  Jean Baptiste slid the luger beneath the disposal container and tilted his head back, letting his eyes fall shut… now it was a waiting game, as it always had been.  Unfortunately, this would be his final time.  His people needed him.  They would be aimless without him, crumbling under the weight of their invaders.  Jean Baptiste found himself hoping Claude had gotten away, in the very least.  Please, let him have gotten out of the Ghetto, back to his home — they would never find him if he could get away.  Claude had once said himself, a bitter joke, all Negros looked the same to the Germans.  He only needed to get away...

They were very close now, shining their flashlights around the area.  Jean Baptiste held his breath, listening to their boots scuff on the streets as they walked.  He would give them no satisfaction of fear and he would face his bullet with his head held high.  Squaring his jaw, any moment they would pass by and see him, their voices were so close they seemed almost next to him.  He couldn’t understand them but they seemed exasperated as they chatted quietly back and forth.  Then, to Jean Baptiste’s utter amazement, the pair of officers reached his garbage container and, before rounding it, took a left turn disappearing down the alley.

Jean Baptiste was frozen, even as he listened to the footsteps fade away.  His shaking had returned — although, this time he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.  In truth, he did a combination of both.  He brought a hand up quickly, covering his mouth to hold back the stunned laughter that seemed to force it’s way out of him, tears running down his face.  All tension left his body, but it left him feeling weaker then before.  He picked himself up, slowly, retrieving the luger once more.  Carefully, so carefully, he made his way down the street.  His sad little home was so close, if he could stay out of sight.  His pace only increased when he saw the familiar markings of his living quarters.

“Jude! Jude, was machst du hier drausen!?” came a German shout, Jean Baptiste felt his stomach drop.  He instinctively tossed the weapon, seeing no other choice, into a patch of overgrown weeds.  If God saw it fit to give him one more miracle, perhaps he could retrieve it later.  Suddenly, another flashlight raised and stopped on his face.  Holding up a hand to block the burning glow, struggling to see the source of the voice.  He hadn’t seen the face of the officers earlier though he had no doubt he faced one now.

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” the German officer said, walking over to him, free hand poised on the luger on his belt, although he hadn’t pulled it out yet.  Jean Baptiste shook his head,

“Non,” he responded, his words slow.  The man had no shot him on sight, which gave him hope that perhaps this one was ignorant to what had transpired earlier, “je parle francais…"

“Naturlich nicht,” the officer huffed.  Just by the sound of his voice, Jean Baptiste could tell he was older then the ambush he and Claude had been met with, “Englisch?”

Jean Baptiste nodded, “Oui, I can.”  

The man approached him and asked briskly, “You are not to be outside before the sun has risen, Jew.  What are you doing?”

“I…” he hesitated.  What could a man be doing out at 3am?

The officer’s eyes narrowed and he asked again, “What are you doing outside before sunrise?”

“I walked, ze air… it iz good for me when I am having tra-bule sleeping.”

Jean Baptiste felt the crack of the flashlight across his face and he went down, getting the air knocked out of him.  The man gave him one kick in the stomach before leaning down to repeat, “Jew, what are you doing out before sunrise?”

There was no response from Jean Baptiste received another kick in the stomach.  He could taste blood from his bottom lip, busted from the hit with the flashlight and the terrible ache in his ribs.  The question was asked again and when he did not respond, he was kicked once more.  The officer continued on a few more times and when it became ever apparent he would get no answers from the man on the ground, he reached down to lift him up with a hard pull.  He shoved him hard in front of him,

“Bewegung! Move! Go!”

Jean Baptiste stumbled and was shoved again, the blood from his face dripping down onto his shirt.  He did as he was told and soon found himself locked inside a jail they had converted for Jewish prisoners especially.  He was given nothing for his face, nothing to sleep on and left without food.  It seemed almost funny to him; to fight for so long, to lead a revolution only to end up hanged for missing his curfew.  If he wasn’t hurting so much, he’d laugh, but it would hurt his ribs to do so.  Jean Baptiste didn’t see anyone until the following evening.  He was given bread, water and some sort of ration bar.  He didn’t know what it was but it was bitter and dense, although he ate the entire thing.  His food had been been dropped into his cell, most of the water spilling from the cup as it landed, by two German officers who paid very little attention to him.  The fact he was being fed at all was enough, Jean Baptiste kept his head low.

“Was machen wir mit ihm?” one of them asked the other, nodding towards Jean Baptiste.  The other let out an irritated breath and waved his hand to indicate disinterest.

“Nichts!  He is not important now, let him stay there until the Captain leaves.  If there was no possibility he may stop down here during his inspection, we would not even bother with him. He is always insisting we bring food like we're maids to the Jew.  Go, Emirch, wir haben arbeit zu tun.”

They left and Jean Baptiste finished the remainder of his food, looking around the small empty cell.  There was very little to work in his advantage, nothing that may let him get to freedom.  He picked up his cup and gave it a hard whip at the wall, where it bent and bounced back, clanging on the floor as it landed.  It had been bent, the weak metal unable to stand the force of the throw and now it’s mouth shaped more like a U then an O.  The handle had broken off on one end, sticking out as a sharp edge.  Although, the sight made Jean Baptiste pause.  When a man had no hope, he was willing to try anything.  

Sliding himself across the floor, he retrieved the cup and began to twist at the handle, trying to get the other piece off.  The metal was pliable but sturdy enough to give him struggles.  The victory he felt when his hand came away, the metal handle gripped in it, was incredible and he hadn’t even done the meaningful part yet.  Moving over to the door, he peaked out the bars, trying to see if there was any movement.  He saw nothing and neither heard the sounds of people.  This jailhouse had been very old, which is why Le Chambon had built a new one many years ago, and the locks were still traditional keyholes, not as advanced as the tumblers found in modern locks.  Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady his hand and inserted one end of the metal into the lock, working carefully.  It took him an hour and a half, struggling to twist the tumblers appropriately but, when he finally had, there was deep, hollow click and he felt the door swing ever so slightly on it’s hinge.  A breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding slipped from his lips but it did not stop him; he could not stop.  Now was not the time to celebrate, he was still in the wolves’ den.

Jean Baptiste opened the bars, which creaked as they moved, only enough to slide his thick body through and one foot over the other, he skittered his way quickly and lightly to an opposite wall, taking cover to peak around the corner.  He tried to remember the directions the officer had brought him in when he’d locked him up.  The beating had left Jean Baptiste lightheaded though last night and he wasn’t entirely sure he could picture the route clearly.  It was better then waiting to die, locked in a cage like a rat.  At least, he could try.  So, he moved on to the next wall, preforming the same maneuver.  Once and while, he saw a Nazi officer or a policeman or a secretary filing papers.  He did as he knew to do: he waited. And he moved slowly, circumventing them every chance he could.  He reached a certain point and stopped against a wall, a doorway at his left.  He was sure the hallway to his right was how he’d gotten out but when he gave the quickest of glances, he saw a group of officers dressed in the familiar tan — although one wore green, his chest decorated with insignias, badges and ribbons.  Jean Baptiste pulled back and leaned against the wall, listening carefully.  They spoke in German but they seemed to be discussing something important, their voices very serious.  That wasn’t what set off the alarms in Jean Baptiste’s head, though, that happened when he heard them begin to make their way up the hallway.  Just like the night at the garbage container, they would see him and he highly doubted he’d catch another lucky break like he had that night.  He looked down the hallway to his left, although it ended in a dead end.  The only room up here was the doorway to his left.  It was undoubtedly where the men were headed but the only other option he had was to turn right and meet them head on.  Jean Baptiste did the only thing he could; he peaked inside the room and slipped inside.  

The room seemed to be an office, or perhaps a meeting room.  He didn’t know but he needed a place to hide.  Perhaps he would scrape by, by the skin of his teeth once more.  Seeing few options, Jean Baptiste could only hear them getting closer.  He made a dash for a desk, slipping himself underneath it, hidden from view.  Covering his mouth with his hand in hopes of stifling the sound of his breathing.  He pressed himself against the back of the desk, curled as closely together as he could.  Then he heard the men entered, they were laughing, as if they’d just shared a joke.  There was more talking, more German until someone said,

“Kapitan, bitte, sitzen! Sit, sit.”

The man who was addressed, the Captain — who Jean Baptiste could only assume had been in the green uniform — took the man up on his offer and to Jean Baptiste’s chagrin, he saw the seat pull out and a pair of finely shined jackboots step into place and the Captain sat, listening to the officers talk about whatever it was they were.  Jean Baptiste was as rigid as possible.  The man’s green-clad knee was just inches from his face, one wrong move and his nose would brush the man.  The jackboots so close, Jean Baptiste had to let them rest under the gap created by his upturned knees.  If the man moved, if he moved, it would all be lost.

God damn these goddamn Germans.

/end of starter.

[chrissymcdermott]

If You’re Thinking About Moving to LA...

Consider This Advice From A 1.5 Year In Transplant

A good friend of of mine recently told me they were considering moving from Philadelphia to Los Angeles to pursue their career in the entertainment industry and asked for my advice. A year and a half into living out here, after being asked for my insight, it felt like a good point to take a moment and really evaluate where I was at with everything. With that in mind, I put a bit more effort into crafting a thoughtful and at times brutally honest response.

Below is my advice to that friend considering the big move. You’ll notice a few names are redacted as to protect certain individual’s privacy (and to not shoot myself in the foot professionally.) I hope this will be helpful to a few of you folks out there considering becoming an LA transplant. Especially if you’re coming from another part of the country that feels distinctly different from this mega metropolis.

Hey Friend,

As I was writing this I realized that this is the first time I'm really truthfully reflecting on my experience living here so far. It's hard to do when you feel like you're always in the thick of it. Obviously this is a whole lot to digest but I believe it's all valuable insight. I hope you feel the same way. Take as much or little from it as you like but I do think it's worth reading the whole way through. Take your time but once you're done, let me know what you think. :)

First, I think the most important thing to note is that I don't regret moving out here at all, but it's taken me up until recently to feel that way and you'll see why as you read on. It's absolutely true that if you have greater aspirations than what Philly has (or most other cities have) to offer, coming out to LA is a logical move. That said, an important thing to remember is if and when you do, you're one of tens of thousands of people doing the same thing every year so it's unbelievably competitive and everyone is gunning for the same jobs. Far more than what you'll experience anywhere else, even in New York according to my former New Yorker friends out here.

Moreover, even if you're tremendously talented, your odds for getting noticed let alone hired are much smaller so you have to plan accordingly. Ideally, people move out here with either a solid job or several freelance gigs already lined up. Realistically however, there are always a million variables at play that will determine whether that's actually the case or not. Sustainability is imperative. Everything you do in preparation for when you get here and when you arrive has to be focused on making sure you plan months in advance as much as possible. I have tried to make it so even if I had zero work I could last at least two months while looking for my next gig.

Your Network

It's really great that …………… is helping you connect with people out here but be sure to build your network of people on your own as well. Use resources online to connect with people before coming out here too. Your success in LA is literally and intrinsically based on who you know and you can't count on anyone but yourself to build those relationships. I know it might sound a little silly or exaggerated but it's not - you will make it out here only if you have a strong network of people you can rely on and your professional (and to a big extent personal) survival out here depends on the network you maintain. You can apply to all the jobs you want but talk to anyone out here and they'll tell you 90% of all "industry" jobs filled are through referrals, phone calls, and emails. Most of mine have been so far. - On that point, whatever phone number you're going to use for connecting with people, keep it. It's crazy who ends up with your number sometimes, and if you change it, you risk missing out on potential opportunities.

Money

In addition to building your network out and lining up any and all work, I recommend saving up at least $5k but preferably closer to $10k before you move - and plan on all of that savings being gone within the first year of living here. Also, keep the funds you save for living out here separate from what you budget to actually move across country, that should be it's own separate fund of about $3k if you're driving.

When I moved out I had about $15k saved up. Even with working freelance gigs fairly often for the first year, (at worst I'd go about 2 and a half months without a job,) all of my savings were gone in about 10 months. Granted there are big apartment move in costs, a decent chunk of money just spent on going out to meet people, and a lot of unforeseen expenses (you will guaranteed get lots of tickets in the first few months just getting used to the parking situation out here) but LA is just fucking expensive. I naively brushed that important fact off when we moved out here which was really dumb. Unless you eat fast food all the time just buying lunch is always $12+, $6 drinks are only the shittiest beers, groceries are nearly doubled, and rent is the biggest bitch of an expense. Unless you want to live in a terrible shit hole in a sketchy area, you're going to pay at least a grand a month for a studio apartment even in Hollywood - and no one actually wants to live in Hollywood. I live in a barely acceptable neighborhood in Koreatown in an ok 1 bedroom apartment for $1450 before utilities and other bizarre building charges. Prepare to spend half (or maybe more) of your monthly income just to keep a roof over your head.

The Actual Work

You will be a PA and you will have to be a PA for a while. No matter your experience, skill level, or professional value, if you want credibility and to have any opportunity to work at the level you're actually at, you're going to have to be a PA for a while and it will SUCK. It can honestly be soul crushing work but it's part of what you're signing up for when you move out here and this industry LOVES making people "pay their dues". This is another fact I didn't fully appreciate until trying to find work here.

My first full time gig here was as an Editorial PA on a studio movie. I worked for shit pay under some of the most entitled, privileged, complaining, awful people you can imagine. I know it sounds harsh but they were truly the worst people I've ever met and they were absolutely horrible to me. I busted my ass for 6 months and took a lot of abuse only to be fired because a bitchy 2nd Assistant Editor decided to sabotage me after I happened to see him sleeping in his car during work several times and he didn't want anyone to find out. I've never in my adult life had other adults be so unkind and say such awful things about and to me for literally no reason other than they're miserable bored people who are jaded by everything they're so fortunate to have.

When I was fired my immediate boss said she didn't know if I "just didn't give a shit, was too lazy, or too dumb to be able to do the basic job of a PA." - We both know I'm of course none of those things and she said that even despite me doing the work of the Post Coordinator on top of my own job (we didn't have one so it was a responsibility that I took on voluntarily in hopes of moving up) and the Post Supervisor and I having a great relationship. (Side note, after I was fired, a lot of the other people in the post department reached out to me and said that they were shocked that I was fired me and that I'd be missed. A few of them even wrote references for me so there are some good people too, haha.)

To progress and work out here you have to be convincingly confident and have no ego at the same time always. You must walk around like you're the best fucking thing to grace this planet while still being humble enough to be the person responsible for nothing more than picking up everyone else's trash. One day you'll be on a rad freelance indie gig DP'ing and creating some awesome shit and the next day some middle aged Key PA is going to be screaming in your face for not getting something to someone quick enough. It's a bizarre fine line to walk every day but you make adjustments as you go.

Being intuitive and very observant help a lot in this regard. The best advice I received during this job was from the Post Supervisor. He explained that the reason he moved up and got out of PAing was because a producer noticed him picking up a broom to sweep the set he was working on. He said you should always be the person to jump up and help out with even the smallest task well before you're ever asked. The O.G.s always notice those who take that initiative.

Why It's Actually a Good Thing

Alright, so this is where I've paused to read back what I've wrote so far and I want to switch gears because although it seems otherwise from what I've said, I do advocate moving out here if you feel like it's the right decision for you. As I said at the beginning, I don't regret moving here and I'll tell you why.

In terms of that soul crushing PA job where I spent the 45 minutes driving to work every morning dreading the 12+ hour day ahead of me, I learned more in those 6 months about working for studios and working in LA than I learned about filmmaking and production in my 9 years in Philly. I learned what people are actually capable of being like out here (both bad and good) and also what people are capable of accomplishing if they're able to survive and stick it out during the "struggle years".

That Post Supervisor I mentioned, his name is …………….  and he was one of the producers on …………….. Not only that but he was the guy running the production when they shot the infamous ……………. scene and the …………….! One day he sat with me for 2 hours and told me about all of his crazy stories from the production. Not only was it super cool to hear those stories, but this dude was having a blast hanging out with me and reminiscing about his hay days on …………….. That was fucking rad to say the least. - We're still close by the way, we check in with each other often.

Also, that job made me really realize how strong, determined, and resilient I am. I can take a lot and I'll get through it. Thanks to that job, I know my way around most of LA pretty well and am comfortable driving anywhere. I've also now finally wrapped my head around the concept of it being ok if you don't like people and it's also ok if people don't like you. I think most importantly I learned though that once I experienced it, paid my dues, and I got everything I could out of that job, I know not only what to look out for and avoid, but more importantly that I will NEVER let anybody treat me like that under any circumstances ever again. - I don't think that's something I would have learned had I stayed in Philly.

In regards to your network, equally as important will be your group of friends and I'll of course be one of them. You'll definitely meet a lot of people that you think will be your friends and then they'll disappoint you. You'll also quickly realize that often even the seemingly good folks have alternative motives that you'll have to keep an eye out for. You'll meet some friends and lose them, you'll meet other people you really like but never speak to a second time, and then you'll meet the people that will ultimately become your family out here. They'll be your saving grace, your source of support, and the best distraction you have from all the challenges you'll face everyday. For me, most of them are also transplants from the North East and as I've gotten to know them more, I've realized that our shared values and perspectives allow me to trust them almost empirically. This is partially because if you’re not from LA a lot of the people here, and especially the people that are from here, are weird AF. I honestly think it's because they've lived in paradise so long and haven't had character building experiences like shoveling your car out of 3 feet of snow at 7am before a full day of work in February, haha. BTW, it's 72 today here soooo there's that. :D Anyways, thanks to the friends I've made, I've had incredible, life changing experiences that I'll remember forever. Exploring this amazing state with those people has been an invaluable experience that I'm grateful for everyday.

Money. If you're ok with and willing to be poor and struggle for a while (meaning an indefinite amount of time), you'll be fine. Living here is an endurance test and a war of attrition but you'll eventually be able to get back to a comfortable living. You just have to stick it out for a while. It will brutal sometimes and you'll eat a lot of horrible cheap food but at the end of the day, knowing you can live for two weeks off 20 bucks is something you'll come to be proud of. Poverty almost seems like a right of passage out here in its own respect and it galvanizes you as a person. This brings me to my last point.

LA is fucking wonderful, awful, weird, confusing, infuriating, amazing, encouraging, defeating, and beautiful all at the same time. It's like living in the weirdest dreamlike world that you love and hate emphatically all at the same time. I go back and forth between loving this city and loathing it intensely ten times on an average day. I've been at my very very rock bottom here and my highest high. I've also learned so much that I honestly think it will take me a decade to fully comprehend everything I've exposed to in the last year and a half.

I'm proud to be here and I'm proud that after everything, I'm finally starting to believe I'll be able to survive here... but if I'm being perfectly honest, that still feels like a toss up everyday. Despite that, I'll never be the same person I was before I moved and that's a good thing. At the end of the day, I know now that so long as I can stick it out, stay tough, work harder than I ever fucking have, and endure, I'll be able to accomplish everything I moved out here for and more.

If you're truly willing to sacrifice everything, realistically start all over from scratch, and relentlessly fight for the life you want, then do it. Almost daily I think of the beautiful house, great job, amazing friends, and comfortable life I had in Philly but I know I can never go back to that and I'm ok with it. Life is more exciting out here and if you do it right, it will change you for the better. And again, I'll be here to support you through all of it if you do decide it's the right move for you.

I think that's enough to chew on for now. Because I'm a huge cheese ball, I'll end with this:

Keep me posted and feel free to hit me up with questions or anything else whenever.

[conscientiously]

A LINE BY LINE RESPONSE TO:

Original post here, if you’re so inclined to read without my annotations. 

Let’s jump right in, shall we?

A Line by Line Analysis of “I Am A Female And I Am So Over Feminists” by Gina Davis

“I believe that I am a strong woman, but I also believe in a strong man.”

A strong man? Just one? Also, what does believing that strong men (excuse me, a strong man) exist have to do with anything?  Are you arguing that feminists don’t believe in strong men?  I don’t feel that the existence of men who are “strong” by whatever convoluted definition of that word you’re implying is a particularly debatable point, not to mention its irrelevancy.

“Beliefs are beliefs, and everyone is entitled to their opinion.”  

This is true enough in context, but you’ve already demonstrated that you confuse belief with irrefutably true fact.  Being “entitled” to hold an opinion that defies or ignores a proven statement is called ignorance, and it’s one of the biggest problems in the world today.

“I’m all about girl power, but…” 

Are you aware of the definition of feminism?

“… in today’s world, it’s getting shoved down our throats.” 

As we all know, the most unpalatable, troublesome public figures we hear about day after day after day in media coverage are all feminists working to further the cause of gender equality (looking at you, Donald Trump).  

“Relax feminists, we’re OK.”

Who exactly is the we you’re referring to here? Does it include women who are being brutally tortured, publicly shamed and killed around the globe because of their gender?  Does it include girls who are denied education because of their gender?  Does it include transgender women?  I could go on and on.  You are grossly generalizing.  Congratulations on being happy with your life—just don’t assume all women have your privilege.

“My inspiration actually came from a man (God forbid, a man has ideas these days).”  

God forbid, a woman writes an article bashing feminism without confusing women’s rights and male oppression these days.

“One afternoon my boyfriend was telling me about a discussion his class had regarding female sports and how TV stations air less female competitions than that of males.” 

At this point, you may notice my respect of your writing skills falling equal to my respect of your opinion on feminism.

“In a room where he and his other male classmate were completely outnumbered, he didn’t have much say in the discussion.” 

As an obvious expert on gender studies and sports media, I’m sure his insights on that topic would have been absolutely invaluable.

“Apparently, it was getting pretty heated in the room, and the women in the class were going on and on about how society is unfair to women in this aspect and that respect for the female population is diminishing quickly.” 

I’m not sure what your point is with this story.  The coverage of women’s sports on television is far from a top priority of any feminists I know.  It’s also not representative of the issue of global women’s rights.  It’s an irrelevant personal connection to a problem much larger than you, your boyfriend’s class, or even (God forbid) the WNBA.

“If we’re being frank here, it’s a load of bull. First of all, this is the 21st century.” 

Here, in fact, we are agreed.  It is the 21st century.  And focusing on this sub-sect of inequality that is undeniably superficial compared to the real problems real women face worldwide is a load of bull.

“Women have never been more respected. Women have more rights in the United States than anywhere else in the world.”  

Yes. This is exactly the problem that many, if not most, self-proclaimed feminists work to solve.  How much more chauvinistic can you get than to claim that since women in America have “rights,” feminism doesn’t matter anywhere?  I am not just an American woman, I am a woman of the world.  I want to show solidarity with Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani who was shot in the head on her way to school because of her gender.  I want women who have fewer opportunities than I do to know I care about them and am working to make their lives better.  Please, lift your nose out of your privilege and see the serious problems women face in our global community.

“As far as sports go, TV stations are going to air the sports that get the most ratings. On a realistic level, how many women are turning on Sports Center in the middle of the day? Not enough for TV stations to make money. It’s a business, not a boycott against female athletics.”  

I can’t believe we’re still talking about equal ESPN coverage.  And I can’t believe how sweeping your gender-based generalizations have become.  Oh wait, they’ve been this bad all along.

“Whatever happened to chivalry? Why is it so “old fashioned” to allow a man to do the dirty work or pay for meals?”  

Number of times I’ve asked myself if the author of this article knows the definition of feminism: approaching double digits.  Feminism is not about refusing to let men play historically male roles. Feminism is not about policing your personal relationship choices. In fact, it’s the opposite.  It’s letting you, as a woman and ultimately as a human being, take the role you want in your relationships and your community and your world.  And letting all other women do the same.

“Feminists claim that this is a sign of disrespect, yet when a man offers to pick up the check or help fix a flat tire (aka being a gentleman), they become offended. It seems like a bit of a double standard to me.”  

First of all, logical fallacy: almost everyone becomes offended when they are shown a sign of disrespect.  That’s not unique to feminists, and it’s not a double standard.  Also, the part that is disrespectful is when people (not always men) offer something without first asking whether another person wants it.  A culture where we don’t pay attention to what others want is a culture of normalizing and excusing rape, abuse, theft, dishonesty, and ultimately, collective egocentrism.  

“There is a distinct divide between both the mental and physical makeup of a male and female body. There is a reason for this. We are not equals.” 

There is a very simple explanation for this physical phenomena: reproduction.  You are substituting anatomical truths for sociological ones.  No feminist I’ve ever heard of is out to create a uni-gender human race. But every feminist I’ve ever heard of is out to change the ignorant beliefs that because men and women are different, we’re not equal.  

“The male is made of more muscle mass, and the woman has a more efficient brain (I mean, I think that’s pretty freaking awesome).” 

Now I see what you were saying about believing in a strong man.  You refuse to acknowledge the manhood of any men who have less muscle mass than you.  You are doing such a great job generalizing the sexes and blatantly ignoring anyone who doesn’t conform to to the two dominant categories!  I mean, I think that’s pretty freaking awesome.

“The male body is meant to endure more physically while the female is more delicate. So, quite frankly, at a certain point in life, there needs to be restrictions on integrating the two.” 

I'm sorry, are you actually arguing in favor of gender segregation? After all, that is the opposite of integration, which you say you want to restrict.  Men, you get the northern hemisphere.  We women will all live in the southern.

“For example, during that same class discussion that I mentioned before, one of the young ladies in the room complained about how the NFL does not allow female athletes. I mean, really? Can you imagine being tackled by a 220-pound linebacker? Of course not.” 

Actually, I can absolutely imagine that situation, because you can’t police my thoughts. And many women worldwide can do more than imagine it, because something similar has happened to them in their experiences with rape, abuse, or torture.  Also, how is this is still about sports?

“Our bodies are different. It’s not “inequality,” it’s just science.” 

The bodies [phenotypes] of a white man and a black man are different.  The body of a pregnant woman is different than that of a menopausal woman.  The body of a sedentary, obese person is different than that of an olympic runner.   Are there inherent inequalities in these differences, too?  Does every physical difference between people contribute to a hierarchy of superiority? Groups like the Nazis and the KKK answered yes to these questions.  And while we’re on the subject of science, does science have an answer for the pay gap that pervades its own very field of study? Can science explain religions that deny women leadership roles in them? Physical differences are not the end-all-be-all of gender inequality.

“And while I can understand the concern in regard to money and women making statistically less than men do, let’s consider some historical facts. If we think about it, women branching out into the workforce is still relatively new in terms of history.” 

Only because of millennia of patriarchal oppression.  But please, go on.

“Up until about the '80s or so, many women didn’t work as much as they do now (no disrespect to the women that did work to provide for themselves and their families—you go ladies!). We are still climbing the charts in 2016.” 

Okay, we were planning to talk about historical facts.  These seem to be historical (and present) stereotypes you didn’t bother to research.  Or perhaps they’re alternative facts.  But please, go on.

“Though there is still considered to be a glass ceiling for the working female, it’s being shattered by the perseverance and strong mentality of women everywhere.” 

Wowzers!! I had never thought of it this way before!! You mean women can take a stand against the pay gap and demand equal salaries to make their workplaces fairer for everyone?? We should come up with a term for that movement!! What do you think would be a good word to indicate a strong and persevering woman who shatters inequalities and advocates equal rights for her gender??

“So, let’s stop blaming men and society about how we continue to “struggle” and praise the female gender for working hard to make a mark on today’s workforce. We’re doing a kick-ass job, let’s stop the complaining.”  

This is like heading to the bar to celebrate the end of finals week…on Tuesday night. Disastrous. Yes, women are working hard to fix problems and they should be celebrated.  But the work is not done and the struggle (which is not imaginary nor ironic and will not be put in subliminal quotation marks here) is not over. In some places in the world, it is even getting worse. So we agree: let’s stop the complaining, Miss “I’m so over feminism,” look around us at the problems women face and get back to work.

“I consider myself to be a very strong and independent female.”

 Whoa, me too!!  And I know a lot of other women who would say the same thing!! We should, like, call ourselves something!!

“But that doesn’t mean that I feel the need to put down the opposite gender for every problem I endure. Not everything is a man’s fault.” 

You’re right; not everything is a man’s fault (the one man again though? The strong one, right?).  Who do you blame though, for the pay gap, which you’ve at least acknowledged as being real?  Or is it just no one’s fault?  When systemic sexism evolves from centuries of being entrenched in a patriarchal worldview, that’s just not worth assigning blame for?  God forbid we offend any men reading this article!  No, screw it: if you are a male, and you’re reading this, your gender is responsible for thousands of years of oppressed, forgotten, enslaved, uneducated women who could have contributed to today’s society and made the world we currently live in a brighter place.  I am not going to blame you for everything (though I could go on), but for that, I see no other instigator.  

“Let’s be realistic ladies, just as much as they are boneheads from time to time, we have the tendency to be a real pain in the tush.”  

Careful, you almost sound like you believe there is a shared characteristic between men and women!

“It’s a lot of give and take. We don’t have to pretend we don’t need our men every once in a while.”  

The infamous royal we.  You, madam, do not have to pretend you don’t need your men (I notice you shift to the plural here. Interesting choice.) every once in a while.  But I don’t have to conform to your generalizations of a female as needy, vulnerable and dependent on men.  Neither do women who choose to be single, women who choose to depend on other women, or women who don’t have the option to make these choices, who have no one, male or female, to depend on because they are isolated, imprisoned, abused, or abandoned.  

“It’s OK to be vulnerable.” 

If you met a woman who spent her childhood physically and verbally abused, forced into prostitution, and who was risking her life by asking you for advice on getting out of her current life situation, would you pat her shoulder comfortingly and say, “It’s OK to be vulnerable”?

“Men and women are meant to complement one another—not to be equal or to over-power. The genders are meant to balance each other out. There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

Your reasoning here has tied knots in my brain by its paradoxes.  If the genders are meant to complement, balance, and not overpower each other, then how can they not be equal?  In what logical reality does that make sense?  Regardless, the world we live in is not one where one gender doesn’t try to overpower the other.  Men have spent all of human history overpowering women, and they are not letting up now.  There most definitely is something wrong with that.

“I am all about being a proud woman and having confidence in what I say and do.  I believe in myself as a powerful female and human being.” 

No but really, have you even looked up feminism in the dictionary?

“However, I don’t believe that being a female entitles me to put down men and claim to be the “dominant” gender.” 

Neither do I, although I think out of fairness the men of the world should perhaps allow us to spend the next few thousand years in control and see if we end up better off than we have with them in charge.

“There is no “dominant” gender.” 

Right.  Really.  All sarcasm aside, I agree with you 100%.  That is why I identify as a feminist.  I see men around the world claiming to be the “dominant” gender every single day, and I want to set it right for my daughters and their daughters until modern gender inequality is as archaic as Adam and Eve are to us.

“There’s just men and women.  Women and men.” 

No, no, no. You were doing so good for a sentence or two there, Gina.  This article gets an A+ in perpetuating the binary gender paradigm. Whether or not you personally believe being transgender is a natural gender identification, you can’t simply will away the existence of people who identify outside “just men and women” by ignoring them.  If you want to be relevant to the feminist conversation, you need to address everyone it includes, not least among them transgender females, who are much more likely to face gender discrimination than cisgender females.

“We coincide with each other, that’s that. Time to embrace it.”  

What a specific, attainable, and empowering call to action to end this illuminating article!!  I am going to go embrace a man now and thank him for all he’s done for me and my fellow women!!  I am going to go hug my female professors and thank them for teaching me for a lower salary than their male colleagues!!  I am going to send a thank you note to my boss for allowing me to “build character” by living on lower wages than my male coworkers!!  And don’t forget about the gender segregation act taking effect next month. I’ll see all y’all men at the equator, which will be the only place we’re allowed to “coincide” from now on!!

A personal message to Gina Davis: Please, educate yourself on what the majority of feminists are fighting for.  You will find it not so different from your own views, if you think about the problems your fellow women face across the globe.  You are privileged to be a white American female, in a loving relationship with a stable income, internet access, and constitutional rights.  You are legally free to write articles that help perpetuate laws that deny other women the same exact right.  But by the same token, you could use your rights, your freedom, and your education to help further the cause of those women who lack them.

[latitudelongitudegratitudein]

The alter ego I left behind in 2016

Hey boys! Who wants to go on a date with Satan? Come on down.

What would you think if someone offered to set you up on a date with a girl named Satan?  

We’ve all heard about a girl that’s like Satan. She parties hard, drawing boundaries only around the things she has yet to do. She shows up in your life one day with her amazing shoes, brand new convertible, and whispers kinky things into your ear with her raspy voice (just like Elizabeth Hurley in Bedazzled) Who wouldn’t want to make a pact with the devil knowing that doing so would mean having the time of your life?  

Let’s be real though, Satan is one of those “hot mess” girls (View Cobra Starship’s “Hot Mess” music video). A girl that is BFF’S with Ke$ha and vomits glitter for fun. The kind of girl who is a blast to be around but turns out to just be loose cannon after all. A girl whose life is a never ending party, always moving on to the next party, drink, bro.

She has been drunk for so long she can drink virtually anyone under the table, even men and her superpower is being insusceptible to hangovers (take that Batman). Basically, Satan has been avoiding responsibility all her life and is completely out of touch with herself.

Now, would a bro want to hang out with Satan? Hell yeah. Would a nice, responsible guy with a fully vested 401K want to go on a date with Satan? Probably not. Would she be someone they would take seriously? You guessed right. Nope.

Guys don’t want to date let alone “wife up” a girl who they think has seen, been, and experienced everything. Where’s the adventure in that, right? Not saying she has, but she makes it SEEM like it. It’s just the way the world works. Perception is reality.

Unfortunately for Satan, she seems all over the place. A party girl is...Well, let’s just take a trip down definition lane. If you were thinking Merriam-Webster you would be terribly wrong (she wouldn’t even have a shot in hell with Merriam or Webster, even though she runs the place). Say hello to Urban Dictionary:

A girl who will party hard anywhere, even if the party is shit she will get down and get naked. She likes to fuck, usually will either swallow or let you spray it all over her. Also prone to threesomes (including bi), and taking it in the wrong 'un.

A girl who simply likes to party. Every weekend she is seen at a party either drinking, dancing, or mingling. She may go home drunk or completely sober. Commonly associated with being whore, they are usually just 'wild childs', that party hard.

A girl who will hang out and have sex with a guy or guys who are sharing coke, ecstacy, crystal or other drugs with her.

Any female who constantly frequents nightclubs. She is entitled to always have a good time, with little or no responsibilities.

This is the general view the world has of party girls. Not a really good one. Satan is rarely seen as a girl who wants to settle down and change her lifestyle.  She is not the type of girl who gives the impression she could be taken seriously in a relationship. Again perception is reality.

Well, hello there! I am Satan. Ha. Except not all the ideas that are used to define me are true.  I do whisper into people’s ears with my raspy voice (mostly fart jokes), I didn’t develop an immunity to hangovers (still working on a formula). And most importantly, I do wanna settle down.  It seems that I am a lot of things that I am not. I tend to give the wrong impression. I know.  

I will spare you the gruesome details of how I got that nickname...let’s just say it involves many shots, lost shoes, frontal lobe damage, projectile vomit (not mine) and a tiny hat.

Let’s take another little trip. This one is down memory lane so you can understand the evil forces that caused me to be this way. (I say evil forces for dramatic effect don’t go  and think I am part of some weird ass cult). And for all the Satan’s out there, don’t worry there’s hope.

When I was 13 I was a hopeless romantic, I always have, always will be, and don’t let me tell you otherwise. I believed Prince Charming was going to show up one day and take me on a magic carpet ride. (Yeah, I take the carpet over the horse any day. Plus having a tiger pet is cool as shit). You may be thinking “Alright Jasmin, relax!” But really, I believed he would show up, kiss me, and suddenly all the love songs would make perfect sense. (My boo, wherever you will go and I will walk a thousand miles follow). EW. If someone called me boo today I’d barf instantly. On their face. I wouldn’t be sorry.

Needless to say it didn’t happen. The prince flaked on me, found another boo and I remained single for the rest of my life. (With the exception of a two week boyfriend I had. He was a sweet kid but I broke up before I could develop feelings for him). Later on, I realized that I was terrified to bare my heart and soul to anybody. Yeah, I am a living contradiction. I wanted love, the whole shebang but I didn’t want to feel vulnerable. (Maybe the real reason why no one came).

Other than him, no other guy seemed to be genuinely interested in me. Boys noticed my body for the most part. I’d crush on my male friends on a regular basis, just to have them crush on my girl friends (no, I never went to them to confess my love. I’m much more chill than that and my pride wouldn’t have allowed me). They just saw me as their fun friend with a great sense of humor and a “hot” body.

So in my teenagey little brain I got what I thought was the message the universe wanted to send me (let the celestial trumpets blow here). “You are a girl to have fun with, your face isn’t cute but you can use your body. Boys don’t take funny girls like you seriously, they take bodies seriously though, so you might as well go out there and have fun.” And hell broke lose.

I decided that if love wasn’t going to happen to me. I was at least going to have a damned good time. So as a good rebellious millennial I said fuck love, fuck all those love songs, and fuck feeling unwanted.

I choose a bunch of badass bitches from movies and real life who had no fucks to give and I made them my role models. I did my best to model myself after them: Elizabeth Hurley, Angelina Jolie, P!nk, to name a few. I just wanted to be fun, attractive, and detached.  

The thing is that at the end of the movie most of them did end up with the guy and I didn’t, but I didn’t care #thelieswetellourselves.

So I became Satan aka the party girl. I never prostituted myself for any substance, didn’t sleep with any dudes and I definitely never let anyone “spray it all over me”. I don’t judge anyone who has, I did my fare share of very wild things, but I am explaining my version of Satan. I am also explaining myself in case my mom ever reads this, please sympathize. (Sorry Mom).

Ultimately I have hid behind this Satan persona that I created. I tricked myself and built this fake confidence that turned into real confidence (fake it til you make it, right?). Still I always believed I had to rely on my body to get the attention I deserved from bros. A piece of advice that I should take is you get what you think you deserve so never sell yourself short. I slowly became a professional provocateur and flirtist (yeah, I make up words on a regular basis). I mean damn, I would have even flirted with my own shadow if I thought it was a hot bro.

In the love department I crushed on guys who were always unavailable and pushed some nice dudes away. I was too busy filling my kiss chart with strangers from all over the world to be bothered by nice dudes who actually saw right through me and wanted to take Satan out on a date. (I know right? Were they fucking crazy? I took my bad bitch role seriously). I know now that the crazy one was me. Haha (that’s me laughing at myself and the universe and irony).

I maintained this lifestyle for about a decade. Can you imagine how exhausting it was? Take it from me, worse than a 9 to 5. It felt great until it didn’t and then I had to make it great again, as all deals with the devil this lifestyle came with a price. I’m not proud of some of the prices I paid, some price tags included: too much alcohol, drugs, my dignity, my morals, and copious amounts of guilt and shame.

There were many times I felt depressed, lonely, exhausted and I just wanted to have a boyfriend like my friends. No one came and bad bitches are never sad, so I grabbed my tequila, put on mascara, played some house music and got my shit on lock. It didn’t take long till I found the next party. I lived in this vicious cycle.

Oh well, you can’t live in the past. Those days are over now. Now that I have grown a little, I realize I was too busy attracting situations and people that fed the beliefs I had about myself (my Satan self that is). Probably so busy that even if Prince Charming had stopped by with his magic carpet I would have either not noticed or looked the other way.

You may be wondering who hides behind the façade? Well, Hello, it’s still me. I can’t deny the wild and crazy parts of me, but they are not all there is to my identity. I disowned many parts of my authentic self to keep up with the Satan persona.

The parts I disowned never went away, I just never showed them. Qualities people never would attribute as mine but actually are. Like the fact that I am smart and yeah, sometimes I may have shown up drunk or hungover to class throughout high school and college but my grades were great and I NEVER failed a class. I graduated with honors. And even though I am relaxed I am extremely responsible, reliable and organized. It may seem that my life is a mess but I’ve got it more together than anyone thinks.

As an avid reader, I actually read about 10-12 books per year, including some poetry books.I know. Haha. I enjoy museums, playing video games, amusement parks outdoor activities, dirt bikes, go-karts, arcades and spending time around large bodies of water. But I strongly dislike bowling and beer (this should be my online dating profile). The list goes on but I wouldn’t want to bore you.

So yeah there is a lot more than what a person “seems” to be.

In the past year and a half I’d like to think I have grown up a lot, or enough to let myself be more me and less Satany. Also I have been going to therapy for 10 months with a cool, intense, brunette with amazing hair, and a dry sense of humor who sees right through all my bullshit. She makes me get real and raw (raw hurts by the way). She’s helped me expel the forces of evil from my brain, taught me about gratefulness, self-worth, and thanks to her I have gained self-awareness which is one of the most amazing gifts anyone has ever given me.

So let’s reassess yeah?

I am like all humans which means I have strengths, weaknesses, and I am working on myself to keep evolving.

Sometimes it scares me to think that people will never see past Satan, and by people I mean a decent guy (if he saw past Satan) who I could potentially be in a healthy long term relationship with. What If I meet a guy I really like and I inevitably project that image about me? It is really fucking scary and I go on panic mode sometimes...except I am aware. Woke if you will!

It’s not the same panic I have felt since I was 23 and I thought I was going to die forever alone, this one is much milder (like the green salsa). I no longer believe I will die forever alone with 10 cats (I don’t like cats anyways) and I don’t believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with me anymore. I just trust that I will meet someone when it’s the right time and that’s all. I don’t sweat it anymore. I am at peace and for know I enjoy the pleasure of my own fucking company.

When I do meet him, I just want him to see me and not just Satan (maybe Satan in the bedroom...Jk). So yeah I may feel a little worried about that sometimes but then I remember that I am super awesome, I have a bajillion things to offer, and any guy who locks me down should consider himself very lucky. (Yeah, yeah I will be lucky too but this is about me, not him and I haven’t met him yet).

To all the party girls out there, it’s cool to have fun but don’t let Satan become your identity. Don’t trade the good, funky and nerdy parts of yourself to keep this identity you made yourself believe is all there is to you. Remember your real friends and family will always know who you really are and so should you.

PSA: I’m going to repeat this don’t fucking sell yourself short and value yourself enough to walk away from any douche who just wants to “spray it all over you”. This may sound completely platitudinal but whoever you are wherever you are, you are worthy of love and respect. Learn to love yourself, know your value, and don’t put up with anyone who doesn’t.

P.S.S When I wrote this in September I feared that even though I had evolved, guys would always see me as a party girl. Thanks to the 10 guys from the post below I was able to understand what Michelle always told me. It was something like“ Jude, don’t worry. They will see you” ( Not just Satan).

I still worried. She was right, they saw me :)

[theblacktivity-blog]

Taking The Stage

In these crazy times the ABC network special “Taking The Stage; African American Music and Stories That Changed America” was a reminder of a gallant history. It was at once a testament to the resilience of a people and in some ways, the constant invocation of that trait seem to quietly whisper to the viewers for whom it was meant: “we must begin  again to prepare ourselves”. In the main, it was a Black musical tribute celebration of the new Smithsonian National Museum of African American Art and Culture. But the panning of the camera’s throughout the Kennedy Center’s mostly Black and illustrious audience, (not the least of which included takes of President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama dancing harmoniously to the rhythms like college sweethearts reliving the conjured up memories brought on by the songs) gave it the air of pomp and circumstance. To a degree, it was the sort of thing that's met with a wink and a nod, in that it seemed very much like a celebratory send off to The First Couple and all that they mean to us in symbol and reality. And as each performer did the stage their justice, often times acknowledging the President and First Lady in the rafters, that love was radiated back in the form of warm appreciative smiles and what seemed like chest thumps and air daps sent telepathically...the Black way. The show opened up with a jovial Oprah Winfrey as host who exclaimed “Although I should open up the show by saying, ‘good evening everyone’, what I’d really like to say is hallelujah!”. Getting a rise out of the crowd as only Oprah can, and with the president and first lady looking on, she continued; "We’re here to celebrate, from our first days here as African Americans, we’ve left a record of how we felt and how we moved through life, from the spiritual side to the sexy side, life in all of its colors. Tonight is about music and it’s about memories and it’s about imagination and tonight is about taking the stage and changing America." What may have seemed on the surface like a typical awards show or tribute show introduction when looked at with more depth seemed more like a soft call to arms. It showed something of an acknowledgement of the days ahead and as usual, the role we as African Americans will have to play in bringing about and insuring justice.  Afterwards, the performances began to roll in. Beginning with a tribute to the legendary Black opera singer Marian Anderson, Mary J. Blige performed ‘My Country Tis’ Of Thee’ as a projected background of the Lincoln Memorial served to create the ambiance of the moment Anderson made history by singing on those very steps in 1939. Following was actor Jesse Williams, with an introduction to the musical form of ‘The Blues’. Amid the receding of thunderous applause, grew the somewhat tense silence of an audience more than likely familiar in some way or another with Williams’ strident and fiery oratory, the very type displayed at the 2016 BET Awards. Among the Black faces in the crowd were white ones as well, some celebrities, some carrying an air of quiet importance, all of whom visibly appeared to be on either end of a black to white spectrum. They either seemed genuinely engaged with the words of Williams as he linked the history of ‘The Blues’ to the dark legacy of chattel slavery, or developed that reddish blush indicated when some whites anxiously await guilt (real or perceived) to be transmitted into their souls via the rhetorical barbs of the smart or “radical” Black man in-residence. The air was broken when Gary Clark Jr. performed a number in the blues tradition followed by a performance by the Alvin Ailey Dance Troupe of the lyric ‘Wade In The Water’. In the lead up to the first commercial brake was an article on display at the Smithsonian National Museum of African American Art & Culture entitled; “Bill of Sale of a slave”. It’s a record dating back to 1835,  detailing the sale of a slave (more than likely a fair skinned woman) between the seller a local judge, and the buyer, both from Arkansas, right around the time when slavery was beginning to expand further westward. This intermission was timely as it highlighted the historic ills from which such a racially divided nation sprung. Then, as the show continued there was a moment of awkwardness. The type that makes one say to oneself; “And....exactly why is this?”. Dave Grohl  (former drummer for the legendary band Nirvana and Foo Fighters founder and guitarist...rock renaissance man) joined the stage with legendary go-go icon Trouble Funk as a tribute to the musical form that has its origins in the nation’s capital. Granted, Grohl did grow up near the D.C. area (northern Virginia more specifically Alexandria) and may have very well been influenced by the art form, it just seemed out of place. One wonders why not UCB and Trouble Funk? That would have been appropriate and more in tune with Washington D.C.’s historic sound. Instead what happened is overbearing guitar and vocal riffs that overpowered the very percussive rhythms for which go-go is known. Whether that was a producer or network choice, who knows? In any event it had the slight air of paternalism (no fault of Grohl to be sure) that tends to occur when white America feels the need to awkwardly force itself into spaces in the name of an over-the-top proof of solidarity with Black culture. I mean all due respect to the white brothers and sisters who are really down. Let’s be clear, we appreciate those who truly are, the Black delegation fucks with you! But sometimes we would rather you refrain from messing up the beat. Post that incident, Fantasia took us down home with her rendition of Aretha Franklin’s 1967 song Dr. Feelgood. Such a performance from the North Carolina bred songstress reminded us that there is indeed a difference between singing and sangin’. Usher’s tribute to the late great James Brown left nothing to be desired as he slid, glided, and jump-split his way all over the stage in the way only he could, clad in the flyest damn black tuxedo I’ve ever seen. Then there was another awkward “huh?” moment, albeit less than the go-go performance. Actor Tom Hanks introduced the 7 surviving members of the legendary Tuskegee Airmen. Of all the tributes of the night, this one was undoubtedly the most moving as their wasn't a dry eye in the house as Hanks described the story men despised by their country for the color of their skin, even as they shot down America’s enemies abroad in record numbers. The airmen, some walking some in wheelchairs and all who looked incredibly well kept (Black don’t crack ya’ll) were then met by Fmr. General and Secretary of State Colin Powell who gave an emotional salute and greeted each man with an embrace and handshake. A moving moment indeed but also one that begged the question; “Why wasn’t Colin Powell himself slated to tell that story in addition to everything else?”. At the very least if they wanted an actor to introduce the story, why not someone like Lawrence Fishburne? After all, he was casted in the original movie about the Tuskegee Airmen circa 1995. No disrespect to Tom Hanks (one of my favorite actors by the way) but it just seemed like yet another example of that paternalistic brand of altruism. Afterwards the gorgeous Angela Basset led an introduction of tributes to singers Billie Holiday, Lena Horne, Ethel Waters, Sarah Vaugh, and Nina Simone which were performed by various artist including Christina Aguilera and accompanied by jazz musician Robert Glasper on piano. At break, we were introduced to yet another artifact on display at what will henceforth called the “Black Smithsonian”, rock-n-roll founder Chuck Berry’s candy apple red 1973 Cadillac El Darado. Little was mentioned about Berry being the founder of the musical form of rock-n-roll as we know it, instead the break opted to say the he was “influential” in early rock-n-roll. I noted that, duly. The convenient avoidance of the fact the Elvis Presley stole practically every move he had from Chuck Berry....but I’ll move on. Usher graced the stage once more to give tribute to the role of Black athletes in America including a montage of Jesse Owens, Muhammad Ali, Jackie Robinson, Arthur Ashe (Rich--what! Richmond!), Althea Gibson, Juan Carlos, Tommie Smith, and a host of others past and present. In usual form, comedian Chris Tucker took the stage to lead into what would be NeYo’s best Michael Jackson rendition. It was yet another reminder of just how big a hole that loss will always be in the world of entertainment at large and the Black community. While NeYo in true fashion did ‘The King’ much justice...it’s just not the same. P.S. The person that didn’t think to schedule the Prince tribute there after should definitely be demoted, possibly fired. The incomparable comedian Dave Chappelle, broke the seriousness of the moment as only he could with some sharp and socially observant zingers before his piece honoring the tradition and importance of Black humor. From Moms Mabley, to Dick Gregory, to Redd Foxx, to Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy, the montage provided reminded us of the role of Black comedy in the analysis and coping with life in an often absurd America. Janelle Monae did her part prefacing the Motown sound that brought Black soul music to “mainstream” America. Gladys Knight was honored and how better to honor the honor the legendary soulstress than the Ms. Knight herself, leading the crowd in the classic “Midnight Train To Georgia”. John Legend followed, tapping into his inner Marvin Gaye with a rendition of “What’s Going On?” in his signature staccato voicing, as perfectly timed a song as it was when Marvin first wrote it. After a commercial break which included a commemoration of the revolutionary Nat Turner (white America’s historic candy man) in which the Bible that Turner was caught with after the Southampton, VA insurrection was explained, the Blackness continued with a tribute to the jazz art form.  The legendary Herbie Hancock was introduced to the crowd by one of the coolest Black men on the planet in Samuel L. Jackson. Hancock performed the signature contortions and improvisations that make the art was it is from piano, to electronic synthesized keyboard as the crowd looked on in awe. Improvisation being a key trait of the Black experience as a whole, it was only right that jazz would be preceded by hip hop. Will Smith took the reigns by citing a Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Common cited Langston Hughes’ “I Too, Am America” Chuck D when into his legendary verse on “Fight The Power” as President Barack Obama mouthed along, and Doug E. Fresh set the proverbial “it” off when he laid as only he could the a vocal percussive that would serve as an instrumental to “The Message”. The crowd clapped and lip synched along; don’t push me/cause I’m close to the edge/I’m tryin, not to lose my head/a huh huh huh huh/it’s like a jungle sometimes/that make’s me wonder/how I keep from going under. I watched on wondering if those in the crowd (more particularly the white folks) yet understood poignancy of Melly Mel’s words after almost four decades. Arguably hip hop’s most famous bridge, this is in varying degrees, the Black experience in America summed up. Essentially a hip hop version of writer James Baldwin’s quote that; “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time”. With an inward chuckle, my inner Mr. T pitied the fools. Ending the night were actress Octavia Spencer and Stevie Wonder. Spencer played her part introducing us to that timbre, that down home sound that we know as gospel.  After the pleasantries, Donnie McClurkin graced the stage joined by the legendary Howard University Gospel Choir in a performance that was so good it should’ve been followed by 1st Sunday church basement potato salad after. Thereafter Beyoncé protégés Chloe and Halle led the crowd in a soulful and vocally mature version of “There Eye Is On The Sparrow” that was certainly another check off of the list in a series of performances in which the duo should aptly be considered soul music’s generation next. Of course though, what is a tribute to gospel without the incomparable Rev. Shirley Ceasar! As she always does Ceasar the lit the stage as only a traditional down home Reverend and gospel icon can, sweat dripping from the forehead and all, as she too was joined by Howard University’s gospel choir. After catching the holy ghost like Julio Jones in one on one man coverage, the crowd welcomed none other than Stevie Wonder onto the stage. Breaking into his classic “Higher Ground” he was joined on stage by all the performers and guest as he beat the piano up like self defense. Such an ending seemed to serve as a signal to Black America at large, that this musical and cultural tribute would've been best summed up by the words of Kendrick Lamar: “we gon be alright!”.

[spamzineglasgow]

(ESSAY) Where Does a Body End? Moving through a Globalised World of Travel, Technology and the  Ecologies of a Fragmented Self in Lydia Unsworth's Certain Manoeuvres, by Max Parnell

‘Where does a body end?’ Max Parnell takes an extensive venture through the pages of Lydia Unsworth’s Uncertain Manouevres (Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2018), asking how do we know, how do we travel, how do we value our world, our wild, our guides, our motion and ourselves in a time of environmental crisis?

Move to New Zealand, wherever. Pick the name that suits you best. Do you like to wear German trainers? Who doesn't? What about Japanese?  

> It's already dark at five pm and I'm watching a group of tourists photograph a landmark in Glasgow whose significance I myself don't know. Whilst I watch these figures move, people that could be from all corners of the globe, I think back to the month I spent in France this summer: another traveller moving through overcrowded cities, trying to silently assimilate. To say that Lydia Unsworth's debut collection, Certain Manoeuvres 'guided' me through that month would miss the mark. I don't think the collection, containing a profusion of reflections on travel, notions of belonging, the fragmentation of the self and its relation to ecology and new technologies is written to offer immediate answers. Rather, the reward comes through the ways in which this collection invites the reader to dip in and out, to meditate on the questions it poses and to return to it, as was my experience.

> The focus of the speaker's voice; sometimes 'I', sometimes 'you', and even 'us', calls upon the reader to reflect on their own place in the world, on their own sense of identity and on the many, fragmentary selves that constitute an individual. Pieced together through recurring titles that feel as though they are in conversation with each other, the reader drifts with the speaker's voice, situating us within the conversation. Each of these partitions neatly opens up a space in which the speaker switches pronouns as a way of altering how the reader engages not only with the speaker's voice, but with how they, the reader, relate to the questions being posed.

> In the sections entitled 'On', the voice speaks mostly to a 'you', a subject that the speaker seems to know intimately; 'your house is the only one on the street'. Whilst seeming to maintaining an acute awareness of this subject's identity throughout these sections, it seems also apparent, right from the first page, that this 'you' perhaps represents 'us', speaker and reader alike. Unsworth delicately captures this collective 'you' throughout the collection through references to the habitual motions we enact whilst travelling:

Even now, at the furthest station, you disembark, head toward gentrification. Buy a postcard, write home that you have travelled. Buy a coffee, read books by authors you already know.

These reflections on the generic and predictable experience of travelling in a globalised world are woven throughout the text, as if as a way of framing the commonalities we pass through when travelling without quite comprehending why we do so. The speaker's voice is frequently direct, creating an immediacy to the poems that demands our attention:

           Out of office auto-reply, here I come. Culture shocks, here I come. Inspiration, here I come. Another temple,  here I come. Border control, here I come. Bucket list, here I come. The perfect getaway, here it comes.

One of the structural elements of this collection that works so effectively is the insertion of notes from a 1968 guidebook, Famous Cities of the World: Amsterdam. These short fragments not only help to partition the positional focus of the speaker's voice, but also add a sort of humorous reference to the speaker's meditations on the (often disappointing) motions of travelling. As the guidebook notes, the view from a certain building presents 'what could be almost any city', but only through a 'closer look' do features become more  distinctive. One of the questions that arise throughout this collection is whether or not travelling can ever offer us this 'closer look'? What even is a 'closer look'?

> The doubt of whether we can really come to know something, or somewhere through such fleeting visits resurfaces throughout the text. It's a sensation many of us know: leaving a place feeling like you've barely scratched the surface, resulting in the seemingly inevitable sense of ennui. In one section of Effects, the speaker almost implores us to consider this question: 'Imagine tapping into some sub-tropical region, really getting to grips with it, knowing which leaves to eat and which to ignore.' To read this whilst moving from city to city, spending less than a week in each, it was hard not to look at my surroundings and wonder what small impressionistic fragments someone must take away from the cities that I have lived in.

> There's an intimacy to the speaker's voice throughout the collection, one that at once recalls personal experience whilst simultaneously conveying a sense of unwanted indifference many of us have felt whilst doing what travelling 'tells' us we should do. In particular, I think of the speaker reflecting on their experience visiting 'the oldest university library in the world':

Whilst I hadn't seen the oldest university library in the world itself before, I'd seen something like it. Beautiful as it was… most of my attention was caught up in the fact that I wasn't really feeling anything. There was no sickness, no awe… just a lot of thinking about whether or not to bother taking a photograph.

I think this passage speaks to many questions that arise with contemporary notions of travel. The phrase 'seeing something for itself' struck a chord with me, as I think it hints at our tendency to research or look at places we're going online before seeing them in 'real life'. I recall once, after accepting a position at a university abroad, searching Google street views to check how the area around the department looked. When I finally saw it in actuality, there was a strange sensation that I was looking back at myself in the university library in Glasgow, the then present reality of that 'distant' street seeming to be inextricably tied to my former home.

> This seems to happen on many levels, not just through Google maps & street views, endless online photos and reviews, but also with ever increasingly sophisticated technologies. I know someone whose job consists of creating VR experiences of luxury holidays so that buyers can 'get a taste' before paying for the real thing, just to check if it's worth actually seeing it 'in real life'. This raises questions of the actual reasons for travel. Is it to discover something, to be surprised and have to learn from the difficulties faced in not being in the know? Or does this meticulous planning and the profusion of information render the act of travelling a process designed merely to 'experience' something in person?

> There also seems in Unsworth's poetry to be a reference to the insatiable desire (or perhaps even necessity) to situate ourselves around the globe, at the expense of feeling a sense of belonging. The speaker alludes to this, noting the 'under-rumble of quietude, a sharp but not entirely pleasant suggestion to be still', alongside the way the anxiety of flying stops them wanting to move. When an unnamed speaker remarks 'this might sound weird, but I'm satisfied', the implication is that this satisfaction results from being still, from remaining in one place. I couldn't help but smile at this line, recalling a time when a friend of mine, when explaining why she wasn't moving, told me exactly the same thing .

> As I mentioned before, this collection didn't exactly 'guide' me through my journey in France, but seemed instead to act as a reference point; the eloquent articulation of many of the emotions I encountered being mirrored back at me from Unsworth's poems.  The speaker's voice, at once relatable and honest, seemed almost too accurate with where I then found myself; 'I just wanted  to come home… a place where you didn't have to stand up if you didn't want to and you didn't need to buy anything'. Whilst I didn't have the immediate urge to return home, I'd started to grow tired of the inability to simply 'be' in a city without consuming. Having been asked by security to stop sitting on the floor in the train terminal of London St Pancras, the only place where you don't have to consume anything, these words seemed almost too pertinent.

> Throughout my time in France, moving by train from one city to the next, I frequently found Certain Manoeuvres making me think back to Ashton Nichols essay Beyond Romantic Ecocriticism: Toward Urbanatural Roosting. In this essay, Nichols draws our attention to what he interprets as technology's ability to heighten our interconnection with all elements (living and material) of our planet:

'The globe is now completely mapped, filmed and photographed, from those 1960's snapshots of the delicate blue-green planet seen from outer-space down to Google Earth shots of the smallest streetscapes and streambeds. With my own computer mouse, and with MapQuest or Google Earth, I can move from Mauritius to Manhattan in a minute; I can spin from the Seychelles to Seattle in a second. I can zoom down onto every housetop. I can see almost every car in every parking lot. But this is not a problem. This is not a loss. In fact, my ability to scan the surface of the globe with my computer in seconds is part of what assures me that I am linked to every living creature, and every material object, that surrounds me'[1].

In its direct yet tentative language, Certain Manoeuvres speaks to this notion, calling upon us to consider the  implications not just of living in a world entirely mapped out, but of travelling in such a world with this all encompassing map available in our pockets. Do we see such hyper-visualisation and advanced documentation as Nichols does; as an 'assurance' of connectivity with our surroundings? Or do we encounter this with a similar sense of melancholic despondency touched on in these poems? I feel the focus in this collection hints less at the connectivity, and more at the atomisation caused by contemporary technology. In Effects, the language has a cinematic quality to it, constructing a scenario that feels familiar, if not personal; 'We move through the world but we take our computers. You sit on the metro in Japan and swipe right, swipe left.' Even when travelling, something generally characterised by an openness to new experiences, a desire to learn and to immerse oneself in a new environment, Unsworth draws our attention to travel's invariable tendency to pull us out from the  atomisation caused by our relationship with technology.

> When the speaker insists that 'nothing here is wild', I think we can't help but see ourselves in the description of 'you' that follows:

You search for something that doesn't flaunt the stamp of man but all mountain ranges are rectangular fields and all wolves are dogs. The same logo is on the beach as can be found on the roofs and on the bollards.

In this specific, yet also quite familiar sensation of trying to find somewhere untouched or 'wild', there seems to be an emotional state we are growing accustomed to in the age of the Anthropocene. As I looked  from the window of my train, crossing the southern coast from Marseille to Toulouse, I found myself also scanning the horizon, Unsworth's description of ' hotel penthouses' and 'factory chimneys' unfolding in the early morning light.

> Another aspect of Certain Manoeuvres that spoke to me through my travel was the fragmentation of the self and the myriad forms such ruptures can take. This concept is examined not only in relation to the speaker's person, but in relation to our environments, noting the inserparateness of locational disconnection and a fragmentation of the self.

> There are multiple passages throughout that collection that not only felt pertinent to where I then found myself, but that seemed to trigger memories of an emotional state experienced when living abroad. One instance of this came in On, where the direct address to 'you' feels so candid:

You hear the constant pitch of your old country from inside the ear, pressing down on you like bad weather. You drown it out by sticking to the busy streets: trams, motorbikes, yellow lights, etc.

I think this musical portrayal, to some degree, is both metaphor and literal. It's something I've certainly been through, as if no matter how hard you try to assimilate somewhere, to step inside that language and occupy a new, partially formed sense of self, there are instances where the previous fragments of 'you' seem to creep in like a faint, distant pitch. It's a note you’re familiar with, one you recognise and that often feels frustratingly dissonant to the key of your new, modified self. Is there a coping mechanism for such ontological discordance? Or do you simply pass through the busy districts where the noise of unremitting nightlife makes the past self impossible to hear? Reading these lines, memories surfaced of walking alone, comforted by the twenty-four hour culture of an unfamiliar district that allowed me to just exist without explanation.

> There's something about the speaker's inextricable link to the objects that make up their person that feels so tied to the notion of travelling as a potential for personal growth. Unsworth hints at the objects that make up part of this experience — postcards, letters, photographs — whilst questioning how crucial of a role they play in actually forming the person. Were they to be discarded, would some part of the self be forever lost?

I take unneeded items and classify them: paper, plastic wood. Fling them... freeing up vital storage. The fact that the past still exists is so unnerving.

Again, I find this another example of Unsworth's ability to offer us images both metaphorical and literal, leaving us to meditate on the multiple possibilities of this phrase. Does this 'vital storage' signify physical space exterior to the body? Or this act of clearing out physical relics of the past a way of clearing out internal, cerebral storage, creating a space for one of the speaker's myriad persons to fill? I think one of the aspects of this ontological fragmentation that enriches the collection and that allows these questions to resonate is the fragmentation of the language itself, or, more specifically, the fragmentation of the definitions of words that are presented as false equivalences.

The word for time is tide, the word for tide is tie, the word for tie is binding. The word for wait is one step away from the word for watch. Hour logging. The word for war, the word for ear, emphasis, a prostitute.

I think the effect of these moments of playfulness comes in large part from the sharp contrast with the direct, prosaic style of the collection. There's something in the severing of these words from their meaning, alongside the detaching of the self from one specific body that reminded me of Jameson's 'schizophrenic fragmentation'. This develops further when the speaker's false equivalences move into a form of double negation; 'you are better not at home than not away', which feels almost like the discordant clash of two parts of the self  disagreeing with each other. It feels like the 'buffering' the speaker alludes to, the glitching of one's physical self with the idea of this self as they move through different environments. One of the lines that beautifully meshes this physical movement with a virtual movement comes in 'Effects', the collective 'we' travelling to 'the edges of computer games…  to see where the mesh runs out, see where the coders traded trees for grid'. The insistence that 'nothing is wild' extends in the virtual space, with no vector left untouched.  

> As we find ourselves entering the final stages of Certain Manoeuvres, the poetry takes these deeply personal questions of self and delicately entwines them with contemporary questions of ecological degradation and technological entanglement. Maintaining the same direct and immediate tone we've grown accustomed to, Unsworth's poetry looks at these questions with a tentativeness that avoids trying to be didactic. Instead, the reader is invited to consider these questions through the speaker's seemingly incomplete and slightly obfuscated images. We see the speaker 'attached to [their] past self by telephone wires, in paper repetitions… a molecule rotating in one of two directions'. This series of persons, seemingly enmeshed in both the memories of the phone conversations and the wires themselves,  throws us back to Unsworth's earlier meditation; 'Life, whatever that is: grain, maize, a chip in a computer'. These reflections, rather than standing outside of the other questions raised in Certain Manoeuvres, interlink both conceptually and formatically throughout the collection. Linguistically, the same fragmentation of definitions pulls apart the language surrounding extinction and consumerism.

Everything becomes a monument, an internet cafe, a clothing range. Timing is crucial. The Latin name of the functionally extinct Yangtze river dolphin means left behind. The word for pigeon is dove, the word for Dove is Unilever. As soon as one thing is joined  with another it becomes a different thing that is again just one.

Including false equivalences alongside genuine definitions, it forces us to pause and reflect upon the ways in which language plays a role in our perception of such environmental questions. Unsworth neatly pulls this off, pointing to the ways in which, through entering our definitions, words related to the natural world become synonymous with material products and consequently affect our conceptualisation of our environmental surroundings.

> This oscillation between false equivalence and actual reference is at work throughout the collection, arising unexpectedly at moments to present us with images whose veracity is uncertain. I think this is one of the most intriguing elements of Unsworth's poetry, a sort of uncanniness that draws our attention to the peculiar (and often challenging) alterations occurring in our world. One of my favourite examples of this comes in 'On', the weight of such a passage demanding a pause in the text:

Everything makes two of itself and because of this we think the planet will also. I move to another city so as to be free of my earlier mistakes. In Russia there is a town on the outskirts of Moscow made entirely of plastic. When the mothers are raped they look directly at the camera before they walk away. Locals clamber over rolling hills of refuse looking for something to build a roof from, anything that corrugates.

Evidently there's a lot to say about these few lines, but one of my first reactions (strangely or naturally, I'm not quite sure) was to Google such a town in Russia to see if it actually existed: I still don't know if it does. As I started to type the words into the search bar, I realised that I didn't need to know whether it existed or not. The fact that such a strange place could exist says enough in itself, demonstrating the bizarrely concerning ways in which our landscapes are being transformed during the Anthropocene.

> I don't think it's possible to comment on this passage without addressing what I found to be one of the strongest images of the collection. Needless to specify, the direct and explicit reference to sexual abuse woven into the middle of phrases speaking to questions of ecological degradation leaves the reader no choice but to pause and deliberate on two significances: principally, the significance of this image in isolation, and secondally the (possible) link between this and questions of ecology. It's not my place to state what this means per se, but one notion these lines invited me to consider is the inseparability of human rights issues from the ongoing, and multifaceted challenges of the deeply entrenched environmental concerns of our time. Can these specific violations be treated in isolation? Or are they part of a greater ecology of issues that interlink and merge, forcing us to see a perpetual mutability that makes these questions impossible to detach from one another?

> So where does a body end? As we move through this collection, following the speakers ontological fragmentation, it's hard not to look at the objects of our own lives in which small parts of our self manifest. As I moved through city after city, dipping in and out of Certain Manoeuvres, I couldn't help but feel that lodged within the camera, the journal, the interrail pass, all this paraphernalia of travel, was now a certain fragment of who I was during that month. This is a powerful collection that asks many difficult questions, ones that I feel require time to meditate on. Even after multiple close readings, there seems to be a life to this text which grows and mutates independently, mirroring the ways in which the speaker fragments, multiplies and manifests themselves in obscure objects and spaces throughout the poems. That this is a collection I will return to, I am sure. How these reading experiences will be, I couldn't say, such is the nature of this multifaceted, intricately layered collection.  

~

Uncertain Manoeuvres is out now and available to order via Knives Forks and Spoons Press. Lydia Unsworth’s latest chapbook, Throw the Towel In, will be released by KFS Press later this year.

~

Text: Max Parnell

Image: Knives Forks and Spoons Press

Published: 5/4/20

[1] Ashton Nichols, 'Prologue: Urbanatural Roosting', in Beyond Romantic Ecocriticism: Toward Urbanatural Roosting (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. Xiii-xxiii. (p. xv).

[nemesis-nexus]

AVE NINGIZHEDA, keeper of the Caduceus of Life and Death we call to you! On this date we celebrate Longest Night of the Year when the Sun is reborn and begins to make the transition back towards the Earth and the days begin to get longer! The Season of Death reigns supreme on the surface freezing everything in an ethereal suspended animation while the Season of Rebirth prepares itself in the darkest recesses of the underground! As the Guardian of Life and Death as well as the Lord of the Good Tree, your knowledge of the intricate Dance that is Creation and your relentless protection of Tree of Life grants assurance that Existence will go on Eternally so long as those who dwell within this space uphold their duties to Protect and Defend this planet in all its glory as we were created to do!

It is during this time that we gather our Family and Friends together and we appreciate the company of those we care for the most! Since the Ancient days the one thing that every Human on this planet has always shared is our need to survive utilizing that which nature gives us and to have the respect and conscientiousness to replace that which we take so that those who come after us will not be deprived and to never use more than we actually need as that is wasteful and destructive!

During the Season of Death that we call Winter the Earth puts itself to bed so that it may prepare itself for the Season of Rebirth that we call Spring! Nothing can be seen except maybe snow; the trees are barren, the animals are hibernating or have gone south for the winter to warmer climates! Nature keeps the ecosystem in balance by doing this so that the Earth has a chance to heal itself and regenerate the flora and fauna that is so needed for the survival of the Human and Animal Kingdoms. Because nothing is here we must take it upon ourselves to prepare for the coming months but we cannot do this if our resources are contaminated, corrupted or destroyed!

They say that we do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children and they are right! What we do today will affect what they are able to do tomorrow. What we squander today through petty selfishness and greed will determine what they have left to work with tomorrow. The responsibility of every member of the Human race is to try to leave the world, if not in the same condition in which it was presented to us at birth, slightly better! We must always keep in mind that is it NOT enough that we make sure people are able to endure while we are here, we must also do our part to make sure those who come after us are not shortchanged! When people say “it doesn’t matter what happens x amount of years from now because I’ll be dead…” it is an AFRONT to YOU Ningizheda because through Ururu and Enki/Ea we were provided with everything we needed to survive, through you these gifts are safeguarded so that they are able to replicate themselves with each passing season with enough to go around forever so long as Humans did their part with balanced cultivation! The problems arise because many Humans have this attitude that those who live RIGHT NOW are the only ones they should be concerned about! This attitude leaves future generations to fend for themselves rather than pick up where the previous generations left off and if these Humans just IMAGINED for a moment the situation THEY would have been in had Ururu, Enki/Ea and yourself decided that was YOUR attitude towards the Human race since the beginning! The Humans sure as hell would not have lasted as long as they did because, as future generations are being robbed of their right to exist, so too would all those who think nothing of this thievery!

This is an even BIGGER insult if the people with this attitude have children and grandchildren because they are insinuating that they don’t care how badly damaged they leave the world for their own human relations! Again we don’t even want to THINK about just how much of a disadvantage that would put US in had the Human race not been provided for so well since the beginning, so why are some people all too willing to do that to their own children and grandchildren? You didn’t do that to us and we certainly should not allow it to be done to our future generations, which is why all Earth Guardians need to rise up and resist the selfishness and greed that is threatening not only the future existence of the Human race, but ALL life forms INCLUDING the planet! It’s not too late, we CAN still put the wheels on this runaway train in reverse if we band together and fight back! HAIL SATAN!

One of the running stereotypes about Satanists and Satanism is that we're supposed to be these aggressive, evil people hell-bent on destruction and this is not true. If anything Satanists are the adversaries to the general population because the general population (especially nowadays) is exactly what you see on TV, a mindless cacophony of self-centered and shallow brain dead people who think that what's on the outside is the be-all end-all and that money is everything. They are the ones who are incapable of original thoughts or ideas and rely on whatever the TV or idiot box tells them because they are unable to think for themselves! This is how we ended up with quote-unquote 'reality TV' and celebrity worship. The true Satanist is an independent and proactive member of society, we take care of our own and we do what we can to help take care of our communities because we live here too! We are not the antisocial hate-mongering miscreants that Hollywood and the abrahamic faiths claim us to be, many of us are very social and willing to talk at length with just about anyone so as to help reach a new level of understanding and respect.

In fact it is my contention that we are more likely than anyone to look beyond what religion a person follows and treat them as the Humans beings that they are without conditions of needing to convert or worse, leaving them to suffer and possibly die if they don’t! We also don’t take it upon ourselves to set sail to another part of the world, land in a remote location then proceed to tell the locals who have existed there for thousands of years that they’ve been doing it wrong the whole time and that if they don’t convert that they are going to this special place of eternal torture and agony and if they still don’t convert then we will simply just have to kill them. We also don’t draw up Doctrines that entitle us to be able to go around the world and slaughter the people, steal the land and rape the women in the name of our church and god!

We also do not go around claiming to be anything other than Human - our Spirits are multifaceted but we are in form Human - we do not claim to casually work with or summon demons because we know how much ACTUALLY goes into both of those endeavors and they should NEVER be taken lightly nor should such claims EVER be used to validate ones walking this Path because eventually a charlatan will run into one of US and when they do and are unable to perform either of these actions, their already non-existent credibility will be shot! We also do not claim to be protected by “guardian demons” because they don’t exist! The truth about that is that no demon anywhere gives a damn about what happens to any human short of drawing up a contract for services and payments for services rendered! Again these contracts are VERY costly and the price you will be required to pay will have NOTHING to do with Human currency! Anyone who claims otherwise is completely full of it and should be forced to perform this activity IMMEDIATELY and in front of everyone in attendance, their refusal or failure to do so only further proves their claims to be fraudulent and deceitful!

We stand in opposition to these ‘storytellers’ because they are a big contributor to the current problems, the problems being the inability to deal with reality and taking responsibility for their actions! This self-righteous attitude DIRECTLY contributes to the consistent internal destruction of the Human race, the raping and pillaging of the Earth which in turn creates cause and effect disasters such as deforestation of hillsides and blasting craters into the Earth that results in erosion and landslides. How so? Because when you have a person who is coming from a bad situation looking for guidance only to come across someone preaching from on high that self-importance and self-indulgence is the way to go, you take an already volatile situation and make it THAT much worse! These people are the textbook definitions of false prophets and serve no purpose other than to make a name for themselves by telling others what they WANT to here and playing and preying on people’s fear and sense of vengeance rather than helping them deal with their past trauma and seeking strength and help from Father so they can get on with their lives!

Our Deity did not just Guard and Guide the Human race, nor was it EVER his, Ururu’s or Enki/Ea’s intention for this planet to ONLY cater to the Human race, they all worked together like Interdimensional Parents creating a Home and instilling values in all their Children to ensure that we could stand on our own without them needing to get directly involved with every little thing, this is why we were given Free Will, because they had the Faith in us to get the job done! The truth is that Humans are neither above nor below any aspect of Nature, we are part of the Hoop that makes up the Natural Order overall and as such we need to remember that we are NOT the only ones who live here so if we want others to respect OUR space, then we need to demonstrate that same respect ourselves!

Humans want to keep cutting back the woods to build businesses, apartment buildings, parking lots and whatever else, but then they want to get all upset when big cats, wolves, bears, coyotes and other such wildlife are seen on the streets or hunting in their backyards! Where do these people think wildlife is going to go when their homes and hunting grounds are stolen from them and their food has moved on to other areas or just dies off due to the lack of vegetation? They're not going to just disappear and no one reserves the right to kill anything just because it is living by its instincts and trying to adapt to its new habitat! It is not their fault if their new habitat happens to be your backyard because your backyard used to be their den! Our Father does NOT approve of MURDER regardless of who’s doing the killing or who is being killed and SLAUGHTERING an animal just because it, like us, is trying to survive in this world is UNJUSTIFYABLE! If we can’t walk over to our HUMAN neighbors house, claim it as an addition to our own then shoot them for refusing to leave, then why do Humans think we can treat our Animal brethren with such arrogant disregard?

One of the core values of Satanism is to stand against injustice no matter who the aggressor is or what form it takes even if what is happening does not affect us directly. It is absolutely necessary to do this because directly or indirectly we were put here for a single purpose and that purpose is to protect the Earth and all life forms on it, to keep the Balance so that life and existence may continue unhindered! Also the day will come when we may be in a position where we need help and if we are unwilling to give it to others, to stand with others when their lives and ways of life are threatened, then we have absolutely no business expecting them to stand by us! Being an Adversary does not mean going out and looking for a fight just like being a Warrior does not mean going around challenging people to prove how strong you are; being an Adversary means rising to the occasion and not backing down no matter what; being a Warrior is not about attacking what is in front of you, it is about defending what is behind you!

This Winter Solstice while you are celebrating, however you celebrate it, whether it's with Family and Friends or by yourself please keep in mind that there are several people who are not able to celebrate with either their Family or Friends because they are deployed all over the world standing strong with weapon in hand ready to fight on foreign soil so that the battle does not come to domestic soil! These brave men and women decided that they were more concerned about what happened to the rest of us than what happens to themselves so they enlisted, trained and are now putting themselves in harm’s way so that we don’t have to! Please leave an empty chair, plate and cup and raise a toast to our Fighting Forces to remind everyone that we are able to enjoy this time with relative ease (it is also very stressful for Military Families to enjoy the Holidays especially if they have not been in contact with their deployed loved ones) because someone else has taken it upon themselves to stand at post miles from Home!

Also keep in mind all those who came back stateside and are enduring the most difficult time of the year for themselves due to homelessness, loss of Family and/or Friends either at home or in combat and the mental illnesses including but NOT limited to PTSD that renders them unable to return to Civilian Life. The fact is that MANY of our Veterans come back home and are STILL fighting the war in their own heads, certain noises and visuals can cause psychotic breakdowns that may result in aggression or depression and in the worst case scenarios, suicide. When it comes to our Soldiers, regardless of age or experience, war is hell and regardless of whether we agree with the politics behind it, that they are STILL HUMAN and the things that they are subjected to in a combat zone or ambush or sniper attack has a detrimental effect on their psyches! They need attention, medical care and a place to live, this is the VERY LEAST our government can do for them after all THEY were willing to sacrifice for our government! ALL GAVE SOME, SOME GAVE ALL! RESPECT!

Glorious Ururu we ask also that you watch over the children of the world especially those whose parents are all too ready and willing to sacrifice their own blood via suicide missions, abuse of any and all kinds, selling them for drugs or prostitution etc because they are that messed up in the head! I don’t care what you believe in, if you can justify murdering or exploiting a child you have forfeited your right to exist in any capacity! May all those who would ever use, abuse, or kill a child meet with an even deeper level of apathy and cruelty! May they know all the suffering and more of the child/ren they are harming! May they be met with the same disregard to their lives as they have towards the life/lives of the child/ren they are too willing to end! May the children be freed from whatever viciousness they were forced to endure and may they grow up and put an end to child abuse of ALL kinds for good so that future generations never have to endure what they did!

Blessed Ningizheda, this Yuletide please help people remember in the midst of all the revelry that it’s not just about us but about what we can do for other people, especially those who do not have a home or anything to eat! Another Core value of Satanism is to assist those who genuinely need it; we will not enable those who refuse to help themselves but we will aid those who have simply fallen on hard times to get back on their feet! It’s not how we fall, it’s how we land and sometimes we need a hand getting back up on that horse! When we do we can better assist others who may be in the situation we once were and help them to also get on with it, so forth and on!

Most of all we wish to express our deepest gratitude for all that has been done from the Inception of the Multiverse to the Creation of this Layer and all the effort that went into the extensive catalog of life in all its forms! We appreciate not only being a part of it but we also appreciate all that has been given to us so that we may continue, we may have strayed from our deeper spiritual connection however we are working on it, we are striving to reconnect and the evidence is all around even amidst all the violence and corruption!

AVÉ URURU! AVÉ NINGIZHEDA!

Winter Solstice Prayer

May your cup runneth over

May your plate never be bare!

May you never stray too far

From those you know care!

May you know just enough pain

To truly appreciate pleasure!

May you have genuine success

Finding that which you'll treasure!

May you face every opponent

And never be caught off guard!

For every blow that you receive

May you strike back twice as hard!

May the Darkness of the Longest Night

Be a time for pause and reflection!

May you be granted the most profound insight

To help you move in the right direction!

May the bone-chilling Wind remain outside your door

And the warmth of Heartfire keep loved ones secure!

More than anything I wish for my Family and Friends to have a safe and Happy Winter Solstice and a Blessed Yuletide!

To those of other denominations I wish you Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year!

ZI ANA KANPA! ZI KIA KANPA!

MAY THE DEAD RISE AND SMELL THE INCENSE!

Etiamsi MULTA Et Nos UNUM Sumus Nos Sto Validus Ut Nos Sto Una!

Semper Veritas, Semper Fideles, In NINGIZHEDA Nomen Nos Fides! AVE NINGIZHEDA!

(We Are ONE Even Though We Are MANY And We Stand STRONGEST When We Stand TOGETHER!

Always TRUTHFUL, Always FAITHFUL, In NINGIZHEDA'S Name We Trust! HAIL NINGIZHEDA!)

AVÉ URURU! AVÉ ENKI/EA!

AVÉ NINGIZHEDA! AVÉ NINHURSAG!

AVÉ ININNI! AVÉ DIMUZI!

AVÉ IGGIGI! AVÉ ANUNNA!

AVÉ DRACONIS! HAIL THE GREAT SERPENT!

HPS Meg “Nemesis Nexus” Prentiss