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artie5o5 · 3 years

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I See You In Every Shard of Glass | Short Story Update #1

Logline: A 19 year old girl is forced to think back on the whimsical, romcom relationship with her high school ex boyfriend when he suddenly shows up at her window at midnight, and come to the realisation... that maybe... her memory of the whole relationship might have been distorted

Literal logline: looks like we girlbossed too close to the sun galpals!! so now we must gaslight ourself into thinking life is good

Story's vibes: I wanted it to be dreamy, floaty, whimsical- but I don't think i achieved that. It's more snarky, bitter, and romanticised

Setting: Unnamed US town

Genre: Contemporary

POV: 1st person, shift between 1st person present and 1st person retrospective

Word Count: 7086

Inspiration: Taylor Swift's iconicTM song "Style"

I've been listening to that song literally half my life but somehwere around last year I was like hmmm... this is a good story. So I took the first words "Midnight. You come and pick me up no head lights" and ran from there. But somewhere along the line the story got 🔥really🔥fucked🔥up🔥🔥🔥

Characters:

"I"

Soft hands, pink, white, floral, fairy lights on her bedroom wall

The popular girl in high school who stayed behind at home instead of going to a fancy college

Hopeless romantic

Romanticises ✨everything✨

Was a friend of the popular girl in high school, thus popular by proxy

One of those girls in high school who were known for their relationship drama with that hot guy

Now is just terribly, unfathomably lonely because all her friends left town for college

A little bitter

And I personally don't like her

Like there's just something about her. I can't put my finger on it

I just don’t like her

"Him"

Lether jackets, cigarettes, maroon maserati, black mustang

Trip Fontain, Slick black hair, sharp edges,

smell of whiskey and ashes clinging to cologne

Impeccably pretentious taste in music

Kiss, Aerosmith, Arctic Monkeys, Bon Jovi, Pink Floyd

Would make you feel like you're the only thing worth seeing in the world, the prettiest, most wonderful girl ever to exist

Would definitely sell you for a pack of cigarettes

Sally

THAT girl

Instagram aesthetics

YouTubr Vlogs, Instgram stories, Instagram reels - Painted in pastel

Confident, extroverted, can take over your world,

Takes no shit, puts you in your place

Filmmaker, artistic

Never shown in page, only in retrospect

What's it about?

CW: Date Rape??

Our unnamed narrator used to be the introverted friend of the extroverted friend, Sally. And thus she went from being popular by association to a terribly lonely college kid after Sally goes to attend ucla film school. Unable to make new friends, and all her high school friend haven gone to out of state private universities- she wanders around time like the phantom of opera. Big relate.

Until... her high school on-again-off-again shows up at her window, asking her to go for a long drive to nowhere.

Despite her better judgement she decides to go. Sitting shotgun in his convertible she rethinks on their relationship. But at the end of the night comes to a crude realisation that she might have been in denial about the actual nature of what they were...

This story was so hard to write despite knowing *exactly* how the story goes - All I had to do was to write down the plot of Taylor Swift's song "Style" beat by beat. Starting with him coming to pick her up at midnight and ending in his apartment.

But for some reason the imagary kept changing in my head. Like I just kept seeing a lake??

Even then, I was like alright - instead of going to his apartment we're going to a lake. It's alright. It's gonna be a story about a bad relationship, maybe bad sex. It takes place over One (1) night. Max 4000 words. It won't be hard. You can do this, Artie!

But noooo...

It was so. Hard. To write. Instead of writing straight ahead till the end I kept meandering, running in circles - writing about unrelated stuff. The writing itself was coming out so horrible - at times I felt like I was shitting through my fingernails on the keyboard.

I think my problem began when I realised it's not gonna end in bad sex but something much worse and I was just dreading writing that scene. I was really, really afraid to write that scene.

I never experienced anything like that, thankfully. So I was genuinely afraid of portraying it in a wrong light or leaving scopr for victim blaming in any way. I just didn't think I was a mature enough writer to handle the subject material respectfully. And about 5000 words of meandering and Months waster - I just put my hands up and quit

But then in December I opened the doc and read the stuff I had written so far and realised - it wasn't as bad as I had thought XO What I had thought was me rambling was just - story - the fictive past. You *can* in fact write stories with two timelines running through each other. It doesn't necessarily make it bad.

I had vowed then I'd finish it before the end of 2021

Spoiler Alert: I didn’t.

What really helped me was this video by @coffeeandcalligraphy

youtube

I realised that I had 11 short stories just lying around unwritten. Oops!

And I thought this would be a great way to finish them

So I started opening the doc like once a day. But I just. Couldn’t write.

But this time I had a deadline.

After 20th January, I kinda started to retype what i had written in a separate doc and that actually helped

I retyped all of 5000 words over 2 days and something just clicked. That's when I came up with the title. It was just titled "Style" previously.

I basically just edited and polished the story as I retyped but I hit another wall when I came to the end of the document- again, I didn’t know how to continue

Where I had left off, originally, was THE scene, right before shit was about to go down in the fictive past - where She is dancing with him in a baseball field to "I was made for loving you" (That song has a huge Lux Lison/Trip Fontain vibes to me for all the wrong reasons)

After staring at the blank doc for a while I realised - wait, weren't they listening to Aerosmith this whole time? Then why'd a KISS song start playing all of a sudden??

So I changed the song to Crazy by Aerosmith

So I was staring at the screen, half listening to the song - when the lyrics floating in my ear

That kinda loving makes me wanna pull down the shad

And I thought... point. He does want to pull down the shade and get to business

That kinda loving... now I'm never ever ever gonna be the same

I was like... point. She's never gonna be the same after this.

And then the bridge came on...

I need your love, honey... I need your love

You turn me on

Then you're gone

Girl you drive me crazy

And oh god it clicked!

I DON'T HAVE TO WRITE ANYTHING DETAILED AT ALL

I could just write their interactions before and after the fact. Skipp the gore entirely

That way there's no way for me to fuck it up or be disrespectful!!

It was 4 in the morning by then, however. So I went to bed.

Here are some excerpts from the finished draft

This is my original work so treat it gently. Do not plagiarise please uwu

When I could find time, I walked around the mundane streets of our neighborhood, passed the same houses that we grew up around, that I've seen every single day of our lives - walked past the same malls and grocery stores that I know the ins and outs of like the palm of my hand, sat at the same diners and coffee shops that we used to visit as high schoolers. I felt translucent. Floating through air, invisible as a ghost.

I can't say big relate because I litetally never get out of my house.

But I do aspire to go out more and be a ghost

I remember the night in vignettes. In little snippets from some half-remembered dream. I remember Aerosmith blaring through his car radio, I remember standing up in my seat with my hands on the windshield, my hair blowing back in the wind like I’m in a music video -I remember hysterical laughter, perfect teeth, I remember him pulling me down, saying that I’d shoot out of the car. I remember telling him he’ll crash the car and thinking if I died tonight, I’d be happy.

Is this like realistic? That she remembers everything before the fact and everything afterwards but not the fact itself?

Okay, this next scene is like my absolute favourite

So instead of an excerpt I'm dumping the whole scene!!!

He parked in front of a winding path in the woods. I looked around and I had no idea where I was. He sat back in his seat and looked at me.

“Did you miss me?” He said

Be still my beating heart, don’t ruin this for me.

“No” I said.

“Did you think of me?”

I thought of you every single day that I walked past a McDonald’s or every time I saw a baby crying. I thought of you every time I saw a sunrise or a sunset. I thought of you every time I listened to Aerosmith. Every time I smelled ash and alcohol, I thought of you. Every time I saw a fire, every time I lit a candle.

“Umm..” I said, faking thoughtfulness with a smirk on my lips. “Not really.”

“That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?” He leaned in so close I could feel his breath on my face.

“Is it?” I said, “I mean..” My voice faltered.

“Your hair smells nice.” His was low, close to a whisper.

“Thanks.” I nervously ran my hand through my hair. “It’s the shampoo...”

He kissed me. As naturally as breathing.

Like gravity, like water running downstream, I kissed him back. I knew the taste of him like the taste of apple custard and strawberry pie my grandma used to make when I was a child. Kissing him was like brushing my teeth or sipping my morning coffee - I could do it half asleep, I could do it blind. Like an old habit you just went through the motions, because it was yours.

When he broke away I could see the string of saliva connecting our mouths. He looked at me with his lips still parted, eyes dreamy. “There’s a lake here I want you to see.”

The scene after this one is also sooo beautiful. But it's a big longer so I'll just not make you go through it for the sake of my vanity.

I'll just post the last paragraph how that ✨beautiful✨mesmerising ✨ moonlight glinting off Cinderella's glass slipper✨ scene ends

I was on my back. He was on top of me. His breath was stinging like sharp icicles on my neck. His hand left my chest and I heard him unzip. I sucked in my breath involuntarily. I don’t know if he saw the terror in my face but it must’ve been there - he smiled at me and his smile was kind and beautiful, his teeth flashed like sharp razor

Ouch.

She literally goes somewhere inside her mind and starts thinking about the last time she saw him - the "I remember the night in vignettes" scene. And finally realises that the beautiful night wasn't so beautiful after all.

I finished this draft on January 30th.

Writing it felt so cathertic for some reason. I don’t know if I did a good job. But I'm just proud that I finished it.

I'm really excited to start the next story. For some reason the next short is equally as fucked up as this one. Like 9/11 of those stories are. So. Messed. Up.

I'm very achingly new on Tumblr. I only recently started to log in regularly. And I have Zero (0) irl writer friends. So I'd really *Love* to have some online writer friends I can talk to, maybe hopefully even workshop together, be critique partners stuff like that

If you like my ✨vibes✨ I'd really appreciate if you interacted with this post so I could follow you!

I'm going to try and write one short story a month, and write them fairly clean. My college load is also pretty low right now, so I'd be (hopefully) posting here semi-regularly.

I'm a 20 year old Computer Science and Engineering student. My name is Artie. And I'm just glad to be a part of this community.

#I See You In Every Shard of Glass #Overture #writing update #author #writers #writing #wip #wip intro #current wip #short story #collection #short story collection #writeblr #excerpts from my writing #excerpt from a book i'm writing #Youtube #prelude

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ephemerlskies · 4 years

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constant craving 04 (final) | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: “drabble” series, best friends to lovers au, slight angst, FLUFF, bestfriend!au, unrequited love, smarter idiots but still idiots all the same

⇢ word count: 6.8k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol, excessive drinking (drink responsibly), pining, jungkook is an overdramatic baby, a surplus of feelings (i am disgusted with myself), one (1) fire hazard

⇢ summary: with the Friendiversary approaching quickly, both you and Jungkook have an array of trials to navigate through. and, as Seokjin gets caught in the crossfires, you must finally make a decision that will define how the rest of your life will unfold.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: wow.... so bitches really call this a drabble series then write a 6 thousand word finale... its me im bitches... anywho, i really love the way this played out!! jungkook had to hit the bottom to start rising to the top and it shows. also, the ending is like....... hehe well ill just let you all see for yourselves. enjoy my lovely readers! this wrapped up such a heartfelt series that is so dear to my heart. thank you all for the support for this! and i might whip up a few drabbles simply because i think this relationship is really cute hehe ok... happy reading! <3

part four: i love you too

Carrying that music box in his pocket felt like a well-deserved and all too grim reminder of what went down a few days ago. Sitting drunk yet again, though one would best describe Jungkook’s posture as more of a sloven pile of flesh and bones withering away on a bar stool, he searched for the wallet which was in one of his four pockets.

He reached for the wrong one. Instead of the faux leather skimming his skin, it was a solid wood corner pricking the pad of his index finger. It stung more than it should have. Perhaps he'd gotten a splinter, or the top layer of his skin was simply too raw from all the wear and tear of your fight. Jungkook wasn’t one to jump at such negligible shocks, but it sank him back into that night. It wasn't the wooden corner at all.

You loved him. You still love him.

That's what you said. That's what nearly put him on the floor instead of in his chair, and what had been preying on his mind as if he were no different than a helpless animal drowning his regrets in whiskey. And he knew he should have said it back.

Jungkook theorized ways to defy the cruel restraints of time, and if the universe would be so kind as to allow him to travel back to that day in middle school when he happened upon a scared, flush-faced student running so fast and panicked that they bumped into each other, just to be the one who said 'I love you' first. Or those genies and shooting stars and blessed fountains that supposedly granted wishes; he would pay no hesitation to plead with whatever deity would listen and permit his most prioritized desire.

The retrospective bargaining remained a ghost haunting just about every waking moment of his life. Though, he had not been quite sure if said ghost was some cosmic sent presence or simply his own guilt. If regret took on physical ramifications, then Jungkook would have been convinced that was why he felt as if his legs wouldn't have been able to carry him even if he tried.

If I could just go back to that night with the knowledge I know now, I would have hauled my ass to your house instead of that club and told you that my choice was made for me the moment I met you. Every other person I ended up with these past twelve years was simply a buffer for loving you. I had to prepare myself, because loving you was something entirely too tremendous for a boy still grappling with his own faulty speech pattern to assume.

I wish you knew that. I wish I didn’t stand there like an idiot and let you leave, thinking me some hero for finally letting this new guy Seokjin take the place I had always imagined being in. I wish I had just said that I love you.

I love you.

I love you, ___.

Jungkook’s vision resembled that of a smudged lens. However, there were no fingerprints on his eyes. The world had turned blurry and colorless, the latter he knew was not due to the sixth order of whiskey he let soak into his heart’s open wound.

A life of color was one of the many things that left when you did.

He didn’t know it then, but Jungkook was being fervently dramatic since it had not been more than seventy-two hours the last time he spoke to you. Thought to him, it was akin to being just short of death and taking another breath would have been an expense he wasn’t sufficiently funded to pay.

Whatever happened in the interim of him paying his tab and walking out onto the sidewalk must have landed somewhere in the blacked out stretches of his inebriated memory, since he was now staring at your contact gleaming on his phone bearing the semblance of one guardian angel.

It was so ingrained into his routine. Opening the app with the phone icon, clicking the ‘recent’ tab, and finding your name no further than three contacts down the list because he called you as if he had important things to tell you, though normally it was just to hear your voice or to tell you about what he had for lunch. And it nestled into his muscle memory as natural as it was for him to breathe or blink. Even when alcohol debilitated his driving, walking, and thinking, his body was drawn to seek a haven such as yourself. And he nearly pressed ‘call’.

Before the comfort of your voice could ring through to his phone, reality descended upon that reflex. Right now, you were probably with Seokjin, attending some pretentious art gallery for one of his colleagues.

It was just Jungkook and the night sky and the moon that he hoped you were gazing at too; it would be the only connection to you as of now. The moon, a parcel for the most longing gazes.

There are stories where the two protagonists get it right. This was not that story. That reality stung more than the residual burn of whiskey clinging along his throat.

Both you and Jungkook made every wrong decision possible. From the moment you subjected yourself to exploiting the veneer of being a ‘good friend’ to disguise any true feelings that might have taken light, to the moment Jungkook was presented with all the excruciatingly obvious signs that you were in love with him, but was simply too inept to notice, to the both of you neglecting any urge threatening the bounds of platonic. Any path that would have steered to a destination where you two would get that happy ending was conveniently untaken.

And you had a long journey riddled with heartbreak after heartbreak to prove it.

He traded his phone with that wooden music box, scuffing the soles of his shoe as he walked back home, hoping he’d be able to give the gift to you on your Friendiversary.

-----

Your pain was still raw. In this way, you had not considered, or rather avoided the idea of tending to such delicate wounds. The days leading up to the infamous anniversary had been spent hoping you would organically heal enough to allow the presence of Jungkook while denying another reopening in your wound.

You had been juggling a not so thrilling number of conflicts the three days preceding that self-acclaimed national holiday.

One, Seokjin and his bottomless supply of invitations that you felt too obligated to refuse. He had such a life packed with plans which is more than you could have said for Jungkook. He, most likely, busied himself with promoting ranks in some obscenely violent video game. Two, a mutual friend of yours had told you Seokjin was fixing to make your relationship official this coming Friday, and you didn’t want to admit the lackluster reaction upon hearing the news was equivalent to receiving a C on a test. It wasn't the worst grade to receive, but you knew there would always be something better than adequacy. Not satisfying enough nor disappointing enough to be dealt with without bending a few expectations. And three, all you really wanted, the only agent of excitability (both good and bad) that diluted the festering numbness in your heart just a tad more, was thinking about seeing Jungkook on your Friendiversary.

But with that excitement, was its equally worrying constituent: whether or not you would be able see Jungkook that day without cracking under pressure.

Things weren’t exactly attuned between the two of you. Your emotional stature had never been more unsynchronized and offkey with Jungkook’s, so, forcing a celebratory movie or dinner would be no different than adding cornstarch to the already thick tension.

“___? Are you listening?” Everything Seokjin had just been droning on about filtered in and out without a single word being absorbed, and you could have pretended this wasn't the case but stress had apprehended caring enough to lie.

“Sorry… No, I wasn't. I’m just stressed is all.” Since that was only a half lie, self-admonition had not yet taken permanent residency whenever you would look at Seokjin’s eyes offering nothing but genuine tact.

“Oh, sorry to hear! Are you okay? Anything you wanna talk about?” That, and the soft press of his hand over yours had swallowed you into a perpetual, guilty cycle of comparing two incomparable people.

Seokjin was always like this. Serving a gentle smile and honest ears as a vessel of calmness during whatever calamity you were grappling. It was safe knowing if you fell, you’d have a comfortable cushion to soften the impact. He was mindful with his words and had the intelligence to articulate them with impressive eloquence. You were more likely to see pigs fly than to see him stutter. He had a diverse group of friends and walked a steady path to a financially secure life. And you started to wonder what else one would need in a partner? Any sensible person would do much more than you had to snag someone like Seokjin, as handsome as he was kind and respectful. He seemed to have everything Jungkook lacked, including mutual feelings for you.

It would have been entirely too easy to pick him, as if there was a ‘Seokjin’ button and a ‘Jungkook’ button and you could press Seokjin’s on a whim. If choosing him would have meant miraculous nullification of all your very real and very unremitting feelings for that idiot you called your best friend, then you would have done it in a heartbeat.

There wasn't a 'Seokjin' button or a 'Jungkook' button, nor was there a button that would wondrously redistribute your feelings towards Seokjin.

And then there was Jungkook. Always in the back of your mind when he wasn't tenanting the focus of it.

He was never predictable in the ways that mattered. It was just as difficult figuring out his next move as figuring out whether this trait was exciting or exhausting.

Though, this had not been to say you didn’t know him well; in fact, all his habits and preferences and pet peeves could be bound into a book, written by you, and it would be so accurate anyone who read it would think it was an autobiography. He knew you to the same caliber. Where Seokjin would ask what was wrong, Jungkook wouldn’t need to. He already learned your behavior to know to say something along the lines of ‘tell me what’s wrong when you're ready, we can watch your favorite movie or swing by that Chinese place with those great fried dumplings in the meantime’. And on more favorable occasions, he'd say nothing and simply wrap you in his arms and let his shirt become a delta for your tears.

To anyone else, that might sound entirely too frank and perhaps a bit dismissive to be comforting, but to you it was the exact cure for each affliction. To never need explanations that would validate your feelings because Jungkook saw to that right when he took notice; to never manufacture fake smiles through failed attempts at cheering you up since, of course, he knew exactly what to do to vegetate joy in your heart and earn a smile from years and years —and years— of practice. It had almost driven you mad, thinking about how he knew from a shift in your brow what you were feeling and yet, somehow, never realized how deeply in love you were.

All the while, the moment you were convinced you had been versed fluently in his every move, he would pawn another blindsight that would leave you breathless and amazed all the same. Jungkook always had concealed tricks up his sleeve, and life was anything but repetitive with him. You would more often than not find yourself struggling to relearn language and existing itself just to keep up with him. How exactly he managed to wield such diametric facets of being was an enigma beyond the reasoning of this universe.To feel like home, somewhere you belonged outside of your own body, and a daring voyage into a completely new world all at once must have meant he was some sort of Godsend. Only angels could have sculpted a soul so magnetizing, you assumed.

Seokjin was an umbrella, shielding you on some arcane journey under an unforgiving rainfall. Your shoes kept dry and your hair intact.

And if he was the umbrella, then Jungkook was the rain. Falling everywhere and all at once, so that you couldn't help but let yourself be saturated in his entire, vibrant being. And who’s to say letting such a water fall against your skin was a bad thing? Sometimes rain is cleaning, gentle even. They bear fruits as beautiful as rainbows that guide you to an unnamed treasure.

Your treasure, however, had a name.

Jungkook calling.

"___? Hello? You in there?" Seokjin waved his hand in front of your face mostly in a jesting manner, but part of him felt like your eyes were blinded by something held in your heart. If he hadn’t pulled you back into reality, you might have been lost forever.

“I'm just…” Your attention had abandoned this conversation the second his name gave light to your screen. “Sorry, um…”

“It's okay, you can take the call. I’ll be in the kitchen making us some coffee.”

If you were to thank him profusely, it would have been far too obvious how much you missed seeing his name among your notifications, and most likely expose how often you spent thinking of Jungkook while you were supposed to be enthralled with Seokjin. So, you just nodded and answered the phone.

Nodding and answering, as though that didn't feel like taking a breath of clean air after hours of swimming through muddied waters.

“Hello? ___?”

“Jungkook.” It took you longer than usual to form a response and what was assembled had been a half-baked utterance just to let him know you were on the other side of the phone, hearing his voice and feeling a surge of energy course through your veins like he was some delicious narcotic filling life into you after only a week without him.

“___.” Jungkook was in his own debt of words as well. The exchange halted for a few seconds, a jaded breathing cutting the cracked static.

“Look-”

“Hey so-”

Any hope that you had finally caught up to the same page as Jungkook was lost. Now, it seemed you two were reading entirely different books.

“You go.” You said after another dreadful pause. He was the one who called, so he should be the one carrying the burden of navigating through this deafening tension.

“Well, I- uh… I… Well, you see I was just, um, wondering…” Jungkook’s heart must have shut off. That would explain why even the most rudimentary of words felt closer to a foreign language. Or, why he was making conscious efforts to counteract the threat of his nearly dormant lisp.

His brain was drained dry of any blood, his inner mechanisms were shutting down. Even without the alcoholic filter catching words and common sense in its web, Jungkook felt himself fall into an overactive state of dumbfoundedness. Sobriety only a cataract for his emotional override.

“Our friendiversary?”

“I’m sorry, I did not understand literally anything you just said.”

“Me neither.”

The charming and familiar laugh that spilled through the speaker reminded you that Jungkook was in fact a real person. Not some figmented embodiment of every lost and unrequited and tortuous feeling you had been suppressing for twelve years. Jungkook was real, his laugh and everything else you loved about him were all so incredibly real. And more importantly, the pure joy you felt was real; a permanent serialization of his. Your smiles and his smiles had always surfaced in tandem.

Now, you both were laughing. Neither were warranted by his messy attempt at forming a coherent sentence. The weight of discomfort shedding from your shoulders had been partnered with a slew of relieved chuckles.

“Anyway, um. I- I still wanna see you on our Friendiversary. Or, at least give you your gift.” Admitting that was terrifying but the thought of breaking the consecutive streak of eleven years simply because he was too much of a coward to admit he wanted to see you dizzied him. However, the thought of spending your friendiversary alone terrified him beyond comprehension. So, he thought not about that as a possibility; he carved an opening to his heart in hope you wouldn’t send sharp thorns of rejection into it.

“Yeah, I, uh. I still wanna see you too. I mean, it is a national holiday. We gotta have holiday spirit, right?” You were forcing playful banter, it felt like lemon juice scouring cuts on your tongue, but you were so desperate to make things between you two feel normal.

“You’re right! So, um… You can come over tomorrow night. I’ll set up a surprise or whatever.” He seemed to have fallen back into stride with pre-confession Jungkook. Trying to keep up with him now would just exhaust you of all your means, so you chose to save the rest for tomorrow night. Even if that meant watching him walk away to some unforeseeable finish line; his back, the last part of him you’d see until you could finally collect your broken pieces and start walking as well.

“Sounds good! I’ll, um, see you then.”

“See you, ___.”

You had no idea, and how could you, that Jungkook was now wiping small clusters of wetness from the bed of his eyelids. Why he thought you, the one person that remained a constant in his life, would say no to him over one fight (of many) made for quite the spill of tears. But if you did know, you would have told him you felt like crying too.

"Hey! How did everything go?" You were so immersed in your virtual conversation with Jungkook you nearly forgot the person you were presently with. The train of guilt wouldn't stop for your pathetic attempts at disembarking.

"Oh! Thanks for the coffee." You sipped, and it had just been a stall to blink away the tears that were straying beyond your will of concealment. "It went good. We're still celebrating our Friendiversary."

"Friendiversary?" Seokjin's light chuckle veiled his tense concern.

"Yeah... Uh, it's just this thing we do to celebrate our friendship. The day we met."

"Oh... that's..." His eyes were scaling the rim of his mug.

"That's what, Seokjin?" You were stern, knowing well enough it was born of far more than platonic defensiveness. And you had no right to be the one prosecuting him since you clearly had more to hide than meets the eye.

"I mean, it's just interesting how dedicated you are to an anniversary with a friend." Seokjin wielded that soft-spoken voice which made it difficult to be anything but patient with him. And from the tone of it, he seemed to have no ill intentions with that statement, though it had not been an entirely innocent observation. To you, however, it felt like he might as well have set you on fire.

"Interesting? What is that supposed to even mean? I mean, we've been friends for twelve years. I- I don't know why people are always so judgmental." Your arms crossed over your chest, hoping he would take notice how much his comment slighted you. If asked, you would have insisted you would have been this worked up over any of your friends. Though you knew well enough this was untrue, and it made you feel even worse acting as though Seokjin was the one at fault here.

"I'm sorry. I'm not judging you, really. I just... I just have never heard of two friends doing something like that so religiously."

You sighed out all your anger, knowing the way you snapped at him was merely misdirected frustration. "No, I'm sorry. I know it's kinda weird."

"Look, I get it. You guys are close. But, ___, you talk about him so much that half, no, over half of your stories include him. We've been dating for, what, barely a week now, and I know more about this Jungkook guy than I know about you, and I haven't even met him."

Lips parted, ready to dispatch another slew of defenses to refute all the things he said. It was more disappointing than it was shocking to find nothing but a long sigh emerging. Because he was right. Jungkook has been interwoven so thoroughly in your last twelve years that if you only told the stories without him in it, then it would be the least accurate and nondescript retelling of your life. Fragments of an unfinished novel. It would miss the most crucial pieces, entire chapters, of your story.

You would have been presenting a shell of you, hollow and one dimensional. All the inner parts of you, the lungs and veins and tissue that gave you life and made you whole belonged solely with Jungkook.

That's why you sat there, blank faced, foolishly waiting for the words that wouldn't come to your aid because you had no place to contend with him.

"Seokjin... I'm with you..." It's all that would come up your throat, and it felt like acid. You were sure it burned his ears when he heard them more than it had your throat.

It hadn’t even been partially true. Physically you were with him, but in your head you were sitting on your couch with Jungkook, consuming a concerning amount of junk food while chatting through a movie used more as background noise than entertainment.

"Okay. Does that mean you don't have feelings for him?"

"Well..."

"Can you confidently say you could replace all the time you spend with him with time you would spend with me?" Seokjin must have noticed your returning tears because he loosened his verbal grip from your throat. To you, it sounded like he was pacifying you for some horrible sin, to anyone else it sounded as though he was simply trying to dredge up feelings that would disrupt the chance of a relationship between you and him. "___, I like you. I really do, but in all honesty, I'm looking for something serious. I think we would be great together, but only if you don't have any feelings left for him."

"Seokjin..." You regretted looking at him.

Sweetness was strewn in his eyes and gentle smile. Seokjin was softer than cotton, which made the real threat, the rough sandpaper wearing away skin and bones, you. It made it all the more painful to know you had been keeping everything you felt for Jungkook hidden from Seokjin. Though, if one would have presented an objective point of view, your feelings were far from secretive. And the most brutal honesty was that you knew feelings for Seokjin were never in your attainability. Not the way they always had been for Jungkook.

He was the wrong person who crossed paths with you at the right moment. A mere convenience. And you knew he deserved much more than what you had to offer.

"And maybe I'm being an idiot, but I like you too much to give you some ultimatum which would put you in such an unfair position. So, I'll let you think this over." His compassion felt more like a sharp blow to your chest. “No pressure.”

If he hadn’t smiled like he did, then you would have broken up with him right then and there. It was not possible to rip away such tender hope away from a smile so sweet.

"I'm sorry." You meant the remorse behind those words and it still hadn’t amounted to a proper consolation. "I'm sorry. I guess... I guess I'll go... Seokjin?”

“Yes?” He replied quickly, and you knew only a pace that rapid was one brought on by a sliver of faith that you might have made your decision right then.

“You’re a really great person. You deserve the world.”

Unfortunately, you couldn’t give him what he wanted. And as bitter and unkind as that might have felt at the moment, it was the only bit of truth and relent you could have offered him.

-----

In your bed, sleep became somewhat of an abstract desire. You knew your rest was deprived from you when the digital clock on your bedside told you it was six hours past the time you'd normally fall asleep. It was because you really did have a choice to make now.

To choose Seokjin, and know you'd collapse in the safety of his reciprocated affection, though haunted by how you would never feel the fullest extent of content. And you would live with that until resentment and distance wedged irreversible damage in your relationship.

Or, to choose Jungkook, which would catapult you into a depth so dark and tenuous that you would have no idea whether you'd meet gentle snow or hard, deadly concrete when you landed. And maybe you'd never land at all; maybe you would be caught in a state of falling down and down forever, until your beating heart eventually stilled.

Which one was worth it? Which were you willing to risk? These were the questions that kept you awake.

The hours leading to your undisclosed celebration events with Jungkook ceased being actual points of your existence and merely obstructions that you had to plow through in order to arrive at some conclusive moment. Something that might give you an answer to all your questions. Something that might have released you from devotedly checking your phone for a Jungkook patented text or call.

You were turning into a half-being. Someone who could only inhale a full breath, laugh an intentional laugh, and sleep a soundless sleep when their other half was there.

If you thought being in love with Jungkook for your entire friendship was pathetic, then you couldn’t fathom what you had become now.

Standing in front of his door, the same one you lugged him to that night he was too drunk to balance on his feet, when you willingly carried all the weight he couldn’t, when your lips became acquainted and comfortable with his within half a beat, you felt as if this chunk of wood was mocking you. A partition barricading you from Jungkook. Your Jungkook. The man you always felt you were on the outskirts of, with only a window to peer into his unreadable mind. And that was enough for you ―until now.

Now you were going to knock on that door with your hand, make him open it for you, and walk into his home. You would be the one to step foot inside of the very structure that only solicited closed doors and immovable walls and fogged windows. And you would leave behind your timidity, every feeling and urge that left you with disappointing compromises for the sake of maintaining this friendship.

You would be selfish, and he would finally feel a mere glimpse of what you have always felt for the best and worst of your life.

Even when he opened the door, arming a smile that actively disarmed you, this home of his was yours to conquer. This was your time to act for you alone, despite how many smiles he sent your way. You had not any weapons or shields or an infantry for a clutch. You just had your heart and all the love it carried.

“Hey! ___, you look… You look great.” There was no real incentive for him to censor how he truly thought you looked. Immeasurably beautiful. It was simply his own nerves impeding on the feelings that were too intense to express without it being followed by an entire soliloquy of I love you’s.

“Thanks... You too...” You could almost feel the words brimming in your and Jungkook’s mouth, carrying such raw emotions and longing intentions.

"I'm really glad that- Jungkook..." Walking into his house punctuated what you were about to say.

His living room was strewn with enough candles to steal the last of your words and to consider his house a fire hazard. That didn't negate this lovely sea of lights to be anything but romantic and thoughtful. A bit cluttered, and not at all perfect, but it must have taken Jungkook hours to set up every wax column. The thoughtfulness of this gesture would have astonished you had it not been for the consistency of Jungkook snatching your breath and words away whenever he tried. It was antithetical, the way you expected his surprises. Yet, always surprised all the same.

Unpredictable, completely surrounding you just like the rain.

"I had to turn off my fire detector but... Worth it." Jungkook considered the number of mishaps that could have dampened any chance of this being romantic.

A candle could tip over and set his entire place ablaze, the wax could leak onto his carpet and tabletops, damaging his furniture and savings for replacements, you and he could have suffocated from all the fumes steaming from the wick. But if that look on your face didn't feel like the only bit of revival to keep his heart's steady beating, if your eyes didn’t look as though it was the only set of eyes that shed beauty into this world then he wouldn't have used up exactly three lighters to pull this stunt. But it did, and he felt warmth and color return to every inch of his body.

He would have used hundreds of lighters to ignite thousands of candles if that meant an ounce of happiness from you. He wanted to say that, but he knew the candles said it for him.

The spectacle almost made you forget why you were here in the first place. It almost made you forget the resolve you managed to gather before entering. And then he said your name.

"___."

The letters flowing from his lips as if they could only be pronounced by his tongue. It sounded so good. So good, that if anyone else were to say it then it wouldn't have been your name at all. It would have sounded wrong, sullied. And it wasn't supplied by neat articulation, this new belonging of your name in his mouth. The need for him to sculpt your name into this world was more than that. "I will never forgive myself if I don't get this out while I still can."

"Jungkook, what is all this?" You didn't know why you felt a collection of tears brimming along your eyes, but you didn't care to figure it out. Perhaps you felt an influx of feelings, an abundance too heavy for your body to seal within the confines of your emotional seams, so they overflowed in the form of tears. This certainly had not been the first time you cried over Jungkook, but you had never cried over him like this.

"___, I love you!" Jungkook said loudly. It was just you and him who could hear, but it felt as though he wanted the entire world to know.

"What? I- You- What?" Your lack of verbal poise was indicative of your love for him once again taking the reins of your mind and heart. Words were a luxury you couldn't afford as of now. You just had to feel everything you were feeling until the rainstorm settled. The hope that he would spare you some remnants of fluency was far along, and you weren't too sure if what Jungkook was about to say would be gentle enough to leave you with any words at all.

"I love you. I don't know why I didn't know it sooner. Or maybe, I- Maybe I did know?" Jungkook sighed at his own ineloquence. "I'm stupid! That's it. That's my only excuse. I'm so stupid. The way I felt about you, the way I still feel about you, is something I thought all best friends had. I thought everyone felt like the moments they weren't spending with their best friends just felt like filler moments. Like, every day I spent without you was just a span of time I had to wait out until I see you again. Like every damn moment of my life is spent waiting for you. And if I don't end up with you then... then I'll never stop waiting."

"Jungkook, I-" He prevailed in surprising you, taking words and breath and thoughts all at once.

"And, I'm that stupid! I really thought all best friends had those moments when they stare at you, and- and-" Now, you weren't the only one with wet eyes and cheeks. "And I just feel like looking at you and being with you just makes me better. It makes me a better person, or something, and it makes me feel like... Like I'll never get hurt again. And even if I do get hurt, I know it's you I want to be there. I know that whenever something bad happens to you, or when you feel like crying or when you're happy or angry or anything that I want to be the one who gets to be by your side. When I look at you, all I want is to love you. To love all your pain away."

"You really mean that?"

"Yes! God, I love you." You didn't notice how it happened, but Jungkook's arms became a shield around you. Inside his arms you were indestructible. Your hands pressed against his cheeks, memorizing the plush, smooth skin. The world could hurl all the fire and ice it had, but it wouldn’t matter. "___, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I'm sorry that in that period, I hurt you. Please, forgive me. I love you, and I want to be with you."

"Of course, I forgive you. I... I can't believe this." Hearing everything you always wanted from him was drastically different when it was actually unfolding. It was a million times more than any hope or dream you used as a salve for your longing. It was everything.

"Maybe it took so long because I was afraid. Because the idea of loving you was something I wasn't ready for. Even though I did love you, God, who was I to take on something as fragile and crucial as loving you. I know I probably would have messed it up. And, fuck, maybe I'm messing it up right now. But I just needed it to be perfect. I needed loving you to be perfect because I don't want to give you anything less than that."

"You were always enough for me, Jungkook. More than enough. You were and are everything to me" His arms that pressed you further into him expressed how happy that made him.

"But I'm not perfect yet. I might mess up... A lot. No, I'll definitely mess up. I don't know if I can offer you perfect yet. But I do know that through everything I have never stopped loving you and I will never stop loving you."

"Jungkook... I don't know what to say." Your thumb grazed a falling tear from his face. Jungkook had not cried often in front of you; and you could tally up the amount of times he had on your fingers alone. But when he did, it was still as beautiful as when he was smiling or laughing or even scowling.

"You could say you love me back." You did. You loved him, his smile that was currently on a mission to melt your heart, his arms that carried both the good and bad parts of you, his wit that you always relished in. All the reasons to love him were an endless flowing river. If you were lucky enough, you would catch a glimpse of each beautiful current and be able to give name to the gravity that pulled you into him.

"I love you too, you idiot." The last word caught in your throat because your lips were being kissed instead.

His lips. Warm and exciting, allotting your being with an infinite devotion of his. And it was more than you could have ever hoped for.

It felt like fire. Like a grove of candles encapsulating the origin of heat. You and Jungkook, holding each other so close, you could have become one. Hot and all-consuming of anything in its path. If one stood too close, they would suffer scorching embers that stray from the orange pyres. Seokjin, Irene, and any other unassuming casualty that had the misfortune of stepping between the two of you, harboring the burn scars to remind them of what fumed from their interference.

Every element concocting between you and him was that of a bright flame, cremating pure metals and wet woods and thick forests alike.

You were in his home. His arms and lips and hands told you it was your home as well. All that time spent wondering why you could never slip inside before was never because he didn't want to let you in. And the thing is, you never thought to knock until now. You sat outside in a silenced hope that he would voluntarily open that door for you. But unknown to you, Jungkook seemed to be waiting as well. Waiting in a large room with empty spaces where you belonged and where he kept reserved for your residence alone.

He waited even when he wasn't quite sure of who he was waiting for, or if you would ever actually spill your warmth into his home. He waited until his fingers turned to ice and his eyes fell to exhaustion, for you to walk inside.

"So, you're like my boyfriend now?" Your voice brushed against his smiling lips.

"Yeah, your boyfriend, or whatever."

"You know this means you have to top next year's friendiversary. And I mean, all these candles? That's gonna be tough." It could have counted as sensory overload, the feeling of his palms flush against your back, the tip of his nose grazing yours, the bright array of candles illuminating the room. But you were so, incredibly cold without him that this felt like solace to you.

"When have I ever disappointed you?" Jungkook regretted what came out of his mouth too late to stop himself from saying it.

"Oh, I couldn't count the amount of times on my fingers alone! What about that time you forgot our chains for the tires on our trip to the mountains? We almost died." His eye roll only encouraged you to continue. Maybe, if you were lucky, he'd equip that cute pout whenever he wanted his way. "Or what about when you swore you brought water, but three miles in on our hike you had that look on your face. You know I reminded you to get water and you swore you did. Or what about-"

"Okay! I get it! I fuck up, jeez." He scrunched his nose, his eyes waning into crescents courtesy of that grin of his. You counted the number of wrinkles along the bridge of his nose as you always did, though you had acquired an expertise in the geography of his face. Each line and angle and ridge were now and eternally yours to restudy and marvel. "Hey, uh, almost forgot."

He reached into his front left pocket. "I, um, kept carrying it around thinking I'd see you somewhere. Kinda dumb right?"

"Not dumb." You opened the tiny box, wound the handle until the spring felt tight and you could see the throngs prick the textured wheel, and it was one of those moments where you didn't see a gift in your hand. You simply saw his thought and sentiment manifested as a box of wood that sung a tune.

All the things Jungkook wanted to give you, the sun and the moon and the entire universe were not his to give. So for now, he settled for this music box and there would be a day when he would collect each celestial being and place them right into your hands. Maybe then, he would feel less of a debt for possessing such a love like yours.

"This is... I love it. Thank you, Jungkook." You smiled, but it was motivated in the hopes he would smile back. You thought he deserved that much, at least. And he did.

"Sooooo... Can I tell Seokjin that you're actually in love with me and that he sucks ba-"

"Um, absolutely not!" As always, his crudeness and slight inability to remain mature for too long only wedged you deeper in love.

So, terribly in love. Your state of constant craving for Jeon Jungkook had been left barren. That desolate, solitary province was no longer yours to take residence in.

You had a home now. And you had no need to crave Jungkook anymore. He was right here, holding you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

a/n: okay, cry with me.... these two.... such hopeless saps for each other i'm here for it. final destination is simp city... also (spoiler) it is completely canon that irene and seokjin bond over their mutual heartbreaks and get to smitten hehehe. anyway, my loves i hope you enjoyed this finale as much as i enjoyed writing it!!! it was a short but heartfelt journey with these two and i will miss their idiocy sm. thank u for your endless support i love u all!!! <3

#bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #btsgoldnet #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts angst #bts fluff #bts writing #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook bestfriend!au #jungkook angst #bts series #jungkook bestfriendstolovers!au #jungkook series #constant craving #rubycoast

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blissfulsun · 4 years

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Part 2 of the fwb!Jeff blurb for you lovelies💖 there will be a pt.3 at some point. Highly recommend listening to To Me by Alina Baraz (my writing inspo) & enjoy!!! [ALSO!!! Jeff drinks for the sake of this fic]

There’s no peace of mind in sight, although, in retrospect you kind of prefer it, silently welcoming the distraction as friends and strangers alike crowd your surroundings in the bar. He is nowhere to be seen, even his towering figure swallowed up by the flashing lights.

‘You’re lookin’ at alcohol poisoning with that track record’ your friend’s words amuse you, hand still reaching for the next round as Sam sits down beside you.

‘I’m trying to figure out how many shots it takes to be happy, but so far, it’s not twelve’ you muse, facing the freckled boy with a warm smile.

He’s nice enough, sweet smile and good to the bone. The way he shyly looks away every time you hold eye contact for longer than five seconds is a dead giveaway, you wonder if that’s why Corinna invited him tonight.

She’s the first and last person to know that it’s been a while since you’ve slept with someone, unaware of the fact your last bed companion is currently spying from your very own table in the back.

You feel his piercing gaze at some point, mind instantly aware of the particular set of prying eyes, his stare burning into the exposed skin of your back. ‘

Alright...’ Sam laughs as he proposes, ‘how about we finish these and get on the dance floor before your bodyguard storms over here, cause I don’t want to ruin everyone’s night by fighting.’ His forwardness shocks you, confusion blurring within the crowded dance floor as his arms wrap around your shoulder. You can think yourself into overdrive later.

On the other side of the venue, Jeff seriously considers drinking himself into oblivion, wondering which spirit might be strong enough to induce short term an amnesia long enough to forget he just saw you with someone else.

‘What’s up? You’ve been acting weird lately...’ Scott is the one to slip in beside him at the table, brave enough in his tipsy state to ask what everyone else has been secretly thinking. ‘m fine, you’re drunk.’ Jeff’s short with him, eyes searching for your satin clad body in the crowd.

‘If you don’t want to talk about it just say so. Don’t spend the whole night sulking and tell me you’re fine when you clearly aren’t’ his friend’s words anger Jeff further. Why does everyone think there’s something wrong with him? He’s fine, he feels fine. Jeff finally reaches for a bottle of whiskey, mind made up.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say’ he starts, busy preparing his chosen poison in a tall glass with ice. ‘Talking about it won’t change shit. She hates me for some fucking reason, it’s like I pollute all air around her or somethin’ the rant trails off, his mind too frustrated with the current predicament, it doesn't help that he hasn’t been with anyone since you, body rejecting even the thought of another warming his bed. The drink feels soothing down his throat, first of many.

‘I think he likes you...’ Sam interrupts your own train of thoughts, the two of you huddled together in the designated smoking area. Of course the one time there’s a nice guy and he’s only interested in you, all you can see is what he doesn’t have.

Or rather, who he isn’t. The facial hair isn’t quite the same, eyes too light to resemble your favourite shade of brown and behaviour too submissive to raise goosebumps the way Jeff’s possessive hold always did.

Apparently, you’re transparent in the realisation, which is how the pair of you ended up outside, a confession of the complicated mess you and Jeff found yourself in just...slipping out. His take on the situation makes you scoff, hands clutching onto your stomach as you erupt in self-deprecating laughter.

You eye him, disbelief clear on your face, ‘That’s a pathetic theory if I’ve ever heard one-’ ‘-not everyone is like you y/n..’ Sam interrupts again. ‘Some people don’t have their feelings centred and figured out, it takes others a while longer’ he adds, words sobering your own thoughts for a second.

‘I’m going home.’ You finally decide, fingers already tapping away to order an uber as you try and divert the conversation. ‘I’m just saying y/n/n, he will be asking you to take him back soon enough..’ your new confidant offers.

You thank him for putting up with your drunken rambles, the two of you simply chatting until your ride shows up, promising to hang out soon enough, if only as friends.

The drive home is spent in deep thought, your mind reeling at the what-ifs that feel too heavy on your chest tonight, body never this tired before as you finally step out of the elevator on your designated floor.

The exhaustion is forgotten instantly when you turn the corner to see a familiar pair of brown eyes belonging to the man sat on your welcome mat. He’s first to speak up, words slightly slurred but determined in tone. ‘We need to talk.’

#jeff wittek #jeff wittek imagine #🥺i love him #hope u guys enjoyyyy it ily #jeff wittek x reader #jeff wittek blurb #jeff wittek fanfiction

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destroy-the-cannon · 4 years

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Chapter Three: A Detestable Obsession

Hello hello hello! This week’s chapter is exciting because it’s in Olivia’s POV this time. I’ve decided that I’m going to alternate it from now on, which I think was the best choice. I was hoping to be able to get to the derby and really get things going, but I had to cover a bit of backstory, the masquerade from Olivia’s perspective. I think it’s a good one this week!

Taglist: @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @kingliam2019 @cordonian-literature @kamilahsayeet2063

Story Tags: Eventual lemon, sexual tension, enemies to lovers, slow burn, idiots to lovers, weapon loving women, woman loving woman.

Story Warnings: Swearing.

Olivia let out a long sigh as she wiped the last of her makeup off. She started on pulling out the million little pins from her hair, dropping them into the dish on her counter. She was absolutely exhausted, and not nearly as satisfied as she’d hoped to be.

I’m sorry, Olivia. I don’t want to hurt you.

I’m Lady Paige Langley.

She let out a frustrated growl as the events of the night played in her mind. Too many surprises had popped up at once, and she felt knocked off balance. She had swaggered into court with a loud look-at-me kind of confidence that made the weaker girls tremble, and she had left looking no more impressive than a deflated balloon.

I’m sorry, Olivia. I don’t want to hurt you.

Her time with Liam had started out fine. She had grown up with the man, so of course she knew how to work him. Coy smile, low laugh, dart the gaze towards his lips. She had popped out her hip and chest and watched how his eyes fell predictably to her cleavage before moving quickly away. He’d been stuttering like an idiot, which she’d taken to mean that he was liking what he saw. Until, that is, he finally stilled, ending the fidgeting and stuttering. Instantly, she knew that something was off. She had seen that look on his face before, and she knew what it meant for her.

“Olivia, listen-”

“Liam, l-”

“No. Please, this needs to be said.” She hated the way he squared his jaw and finally, finally held her eye. He had made up his mind on whatever he had been struggling with.

“Olivia. You know how much I care about you, and I’m glad you’re here, but this isn’t what I want. With you. If you prove to be the best candidate, then of course I’ll choose you, but I would be choosing you as a queen, not as a wife. I say this now because I don’t want…” He paused.

“I don’t want you to look back on this ten years from now and feel betrayed. Or like I led you on. You’re my friend, and you always will be, but I just don’t feel anything more for you.”

He might as well have put a goddamn knife through her chest. He wasn’t subtle, or vague, or wishy-washy. He had essentially just told her that he never loved her and didn’t think that he ever would. They were barely half an hour into the ball, and already it was completely ruined. She hunched her shoulders, feeling suddenly too exposed in the night air.

“Is there someone else?” It was a last, desperate attempt to regain control of the situation, and they both knew it. There was a horde of other women on the other side of the palace doors, each one more eligible than the last. But this was personal. This was him saying wasn’t him saying that Olivia Vanderwall Nevrakis, Duchess of Lythikos, wouldn’t make a good queen. This was him saying that Olivia, just Olivia, wouldn’t make a good wife. But maybe someone else would.

“Whether or not there is someone else, my feelings remain the same.”

“You didn’t answer the question.” He started fidgeting again, but she stopped him with a look.

“You owe me that much, at least.” Liam stopped and nodded hesitantly.

“You’re right. The truth is, there might be. I don’t know if she feels the same way, but I…” A ghost of a smile appeared on his face, and Olivia’s heart squeezed painfully.

“She’s got something about her that’s just so... different. Incredible. She’s smart, and ridiculously strong, and-” He stopped when he noticed her expression. He cleared his throat and looked away bashfully.

“Sorry. Wrong audience, I know.” Olivia sighed and tilted her face up towards the stars. The moon was nothing but a sliver in the sky. “I should go. Your time with me is running long.”

She turned to go back in. Just before she closed the door behind her, she heard him call it over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Olivia. I don’t want to hurt you.” She clenched her jaw and pulled the door shut behind her, leaving him alone in the cold air.

I’m Lady Paige Langley.

Olivia was sipping on champagne when she heard the herald announce the new girl. She didn’t bother to look up from her drink, even as the gasps and murmurs echoed through the room. Whispers of envy and shock flitted around her head like butterflies.

Hm. Must be a pretty one. The girl was announced with Maxwell Beaumont, so she must’ve been his date, some pretty little nobody he’d fallen for in a bar somewhere.

Sighing, Olivia swirled her glass absentmindedly, watching to see what the old fixtures of these types of events were doing. It was the same as always: Drake was in a corner practically snogging a glass of whiskey he’d managed to scrounge up, Hana was making polite conversation with an old, half-dead looking duke, and Kiara and Penelope were whispering together in a corner.

After her conversation with Liam, Olivia barely had the energy to stand from her chair, let alone walk about the room and mingle. She downed the last of her drink in one quick gulp, hoping it would give her the strength she needed. All she had to do was keep a low profile, do some eavesdropping, and introduce herself to the newbie. Should be easy enough. She adjusted her dress and pasted on an enticing smile, scanning the room for a figure she couldn’t recognize.

She spotted her target, a dark-haired woman in the corner talking to Drake. From the look on his face, she must have been chewing him out over something. She wore the angel outfit that went with Olivia’s devil costume. Interesting.

She came up behind the woman (Paige, wasn’t it? Olivia couldn’t quite remember how she’d been announced) and stood for a moment, waiting to catch Drake’s eye. It was always funny to watch him notice her: his features would go big and frozen, like he’d just seen a ghost. He seemed strangely wrapped up in his conversation with the girl, though, so Olivia took another step forward.

“Pardon me, but I must steal her away.” She shot a devious grin his way as Drake finally reacted, vague panic spreading on his face.

“Um, I’ll just…” He flew towards the bar. As soon as he was gone, the girl spun around to face Olivia.

In retrospect, the duchess didn’t really know what she’d been expecting. Some seemingly overwhelmed goody-good, maybe, excited to spend a night in the one and only royal palace. One of the girls Maxwell would bring in to these events and then probably never see again, a girl who wouldn’t have the guts to compete. A lost little calf, marveling at how the other half lived.

But that’s not what Olivia saw. The woman before her was no delicate little thing, as she’d expected. She had a kind of roughness, grit, that the other nobles there could never even dream of knowing. Kario akys, they said in Lythikos. Warrior’s eyes.

Her eyes travelled the rest of the woman’s shape. God, she was gorgeous, almost infuriatingly so. For a moment, Olivia said nothing. What could she say? Her usual fear tactics weren’t going to work on someone like this. She had been counting on Paige being a meek commoner, terrified to stand up for herself. But this woman clearly wasn’t going to take any bullshit. Even in a lacy angel outfit, she stood like a fighter, just the sort of stance that made Olivia’s heart hammer. She started to speak, her voice a low tone.

“I am Lady Olivia Vanderwall Nevrakis, Duchess of Lythikos.”

“I’m-”

“Lady Paige Langley. Yes, that’s right. That’s why I’m here.” As soon as the other woman spoke, the trance was broken. Olivia shook her head slightly, trying to regain control of the situation. She searched for something she could do to fix that, something she could say-

It came to her. She chatted idly for a minute or so, making sure that the girl really was planning on entering the race, before planting the bomb:

“When you go to meet the king, here’s what you’ll do…”

* * *

Finally, Olivia pulled the last pin free from her head. Her crimson hair pooled around her shoulders as she shook it out, the riot of color a sharp contrast against her pale skin. She paused a moment to stare into the bathroom mirror, trying to anchor herself somehow. Her face was completely free of makeup, and she wore only her pyjamas and a silk robe. Just yesterday, she had been so sure of herself, positive she was better than everyone there. But the face staring back at her seemed so fragile and lost that it surprised her a little. Maybe even worried her. She had no friends here anymore, and she’d ruined her chances of making an ally of Paige. She was alone again, and only in the solitude of her room could she admit how much that was starting to frighten her.

Or maybe she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She let out a groan as she straightened, banishing her doubts from her mind. The derby was tomorrow, and that was where her most important obstacle lay: the queen. The queen was really more important than the king, in a few ways. If she didn’t approve of you, she would let you know. It would become impossible to win unless you somehow made it up to her, which, seeing how stubborn she tended to be, was quite the challenge. A few of the girls would probably even drop out, which meant that the competition would be growing that much smaller.

Climbing into bed, Olivia reviewed her mental checklist. She had an appointment at the boutique scheduled for tomorrow morning, an alarm set so she’d wake up in time, a period to do her makeup, some time for breakfast…

She yawned as exhaustion settled on her bones like a heavy blanket. Turning off her lamp, she tossed over in bed, trying to use her last moments of consciousness to cobble together some sort of plan. Her two biggest problems right then were Liam and Paige. She needed to figure out some way to get Liam to start falling for her, and some way to get Paige… out of the competition. Olivia would never be able to focus with the girl around as a distraction. Her heartbeat seemed to speed up as she remembered gazing at her, having that one moment before she got her wits about her, a moment where she could just look and want and appreciate.

As sleep closed in, the duchess couldn’t help but wonder where everything had gone so ridiculously wrong.

* * *

Sun streamed through the windows as the beat of traditional Lythikanese war drums pounded through the room. Olivia let out a low grumble as she rolled to reach her alarm. Shutting it off, she lay in bed for a moment, trying to collect herself. It was the morning of the derby at last, a golden opportunity to get herself back on top. She knew she couldn’t risk being late, but the bed seemed to swallow her up as she tried to roll over and out.

Finally lugging herself across the room, she went to begin on her morning routine. Brushing her teeth and washing her face were important, obviously, but the focus of the day was makeup.

Some noblewomen searched for weeks to find the perfect makeup artist to hire for an event like this. The best and most promising ones were usually snapped up a month or so in advance, which meant that you had to start looking early. The artists would travel with the women to the various duchies, and fix up their makeup to suit whatever the day’s activities held. This was, of course, in addition to the team of other specialists that were typically used: a stylist to accompany you to the boutique each morning, a dietitian to make sure you didn’t fall ill during a trip, a facialist to recommend the best products to keep your skin glowing, and so on.

Olivia, though, hadn’t bothered. Partially because she knew Liam didn’t really care about all that, and partially because she found the whole thing to be dreadfully over the top. If there was one thing Olivia despised, it was a lack of independence. Draping herself across plush chairs while someone she hadn’t exchanged more than five words with rubbed, buffed, and polished away at her sounded like an expensive hell. She was perfectly capable of doing her own makeup and picking out her own outfits, thanks very much. It didn’t even make any of these women more likely to win. It just made them feel more secure in their chances.

Rubbing sunscreen into her skin, she went over her plan in her head. Once she arrived, she would meet with the press and talk a bit about who she was, her plans for Cordonia, why she was different from the rest. She’d walk around for a short while, grab a drink, and settle in to watch the races. The queen was coming to speak with everyone once the races were finished, so she’d have a bit of time to herself before then. Hopefully she’d be able to spot Paige as well. No doubt she’d be good and mad about last night, hopefully mad enough to make some irrational decisions. Hopefully she’d scream at Olivia, or push her, or even throw a drink in her face. Olivia could then play the victim to the press, Paige could drop out, and the two would never have to see each other again. Expect, perhaps, when Paige was invited as a guest to the royal wedding. Oh, how satisfying it would be to watch the girl kneel before her throne. Olivia grinned as she finished up with her lipstick, grabbing her purse. Making her way to the boutique, she sighed in satisfaction as she imagined her entrance to the derby. The press would swarm her, desperate for a quick word or photo. She would positively glow in the sun, and even Liam would have to notice and be awed.

She threw open the doors to the boutique, breathing in the mingling scents of a thousand expensive perfumes from visits past. She was relatively early, so only a small, terrified looking girl remained. Olivia shot a sneer her way, and she dashed out so fast she crashed into a servant in the hall. Laughing, Olivia strode to grab her outfit off the rack. Red was her signature color, but not really derby appropriate. She had picked out a floral fit-and-flare with blue and yellow roses, something elegant yet fun. Her hair was going up in her signature braided bun, complete with…

It was the derby. You had to wear a headpiece. But as Olivia stared down at the obnoxiously cheery looking bird that sat in a nest of feathers, she had to suppress the urge to chuck it out the nearest window. ‘Bright’ and ‘cheery’ were not words one typically used to describe a Nevrakis’ wardrobe. ‘Terrifying’ and ‘awe-inpring’ were much more within Olivia’s comfort zone. God, the things she did for her goals.

Adjusting the pin in her hair, she checked herself out in the mirror. Perfect. She looked perfect. Her morning was starting to shape up, at last-

“Okay. Here we are. Remember to pick something that the queen would like. That’s the big goal here. I’ll meet you in the car in like and hour, ‘kay? We’ll be parked out front.”

“Cool. See you then.”

Olivia froze. Goddamnit. She closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. There was no getting out of this now. She stepped out from behind the dressing room curtain.

“Paige. What a pleasant surprise.”

#olivia nevrakis #the royal heir #the royal romance #the royal romance mc #trr au #trr fandom #trr maxwell #trr mc #trr #hana lee #drake walker #liam rys #liam rhys #maxwell beaumont #slow burn #slowburn #enemies to lovers #idiots to lovers

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corpse--diem · 5 years

Text

Buried A li(v)e | Josephine & Erin

Takes place a day after this phone call.

Erin was greeted with an off-key shrill of “I Will Always Love You” the second she opened the door to Siren’s Serenade. For a moment, she almost turned right back out that door. But then she remembered Josephine, who was the whole reason she was here. She wondered if she was simply trying to smooth talk her, or she was genuinely interested in Erin did. As she ordered a whiskey from the bar, Erin also wondered if she cared what Josephine’s intentions were. The woman worked with kids. She was charming. And God if Erin wasn’t thrilled to have one night to think about anything but the fuckery that was her day yesterday. Her mind started to take a turn, spinning around the same question. Why? But it still didn’t come. She snapped her head, tapping gently on the counter to grab the bartender’s attention again. “Can you make that a double? Please?”

This was one of those rare instances where Josephine was going into something without any secondary intentions. Aside from anyone’s normal intentions for a karaoke meet-up slash possible date. Erin was intriguing and Josephine was a woman of needs. Despite being immortal, she still quite enjoyed dating and flirting and those fun courtship rituals. She liked meeting people and sleeping with people and sometimes that was all that things needed to be. Tonight, with Erin, could be any of those things. But it was with a genuine interest that she showed up, dressed in some nicer clothes, despite the usual crowd of the Siren’s Serenade being less than so. When she entered, she saw one person sitting at the bar, while most everyone else was gathered around the booth, cheering on the drunk man belting out “I Will Always Love You”. She came up to the bar and sat next to Erin. “Did I make it in time for the pre-gaming?” she asked, giving a smile. “I really hope you’re Erin, otherwise this might be awkward.”

Erin smiled at the woman sidling up to her at the bar, sitting up straight. Oh, she was pretty. “And I really hope you’re Josephine,” she laughed, turning enough to reach for her hand for a polite shake. “It’s nice to finally--” her voice was drowned out as the man reached an all new pitch of his own while he butchered Whitney Houston’s classic. She winced, laughed, then yelled a little louder. “It’s nice to finally meet you!” She could only hope the poor woman could make it out. Understandably, the bartender was also yelling with another patron close by who was trying to order over the loud droning. “What’ll you have?” She asked, laughing at the ridiculousness and the pitch that man could reach. Raised an eyebrow her direction. “Choose wisely. Drink choices say a lot about a person. No pressure or anything though,” she smirked.

“It’s nice to meet you, too!” Josephine said over the drone of the man, sticking her words carefully between his gulping breaths of air as he held the note. “In retrospect,” she said, once the droning finally stopped, “perhaps a karaoke bar wasn’t the best choice for a first meet up.” She chuckled, smiling back in response to Erin’s smirk. Erin was, simply put, an attractive woman. Well built, tall, nice hair. Eyes that hid something. A heart that also hid something, but Josephine had decided to try and ignore that itch for now. Sometimes conversation was just more fun the old fashioned way. “Gin and tonic, please,” she answered firmly, giving a nod and tapping the bartop with one hand. “I missed what you ordered, but let me guess-- you look like...a whiskey gal. Maybe bourbon, but those are relatively the same thing.”

“Yeah, maybe not--” the song ended, and Erin ended up shouting that last word. She stopped, giving a stiff smile as her head shook. “Thank God,” she huffed, trying to carry on smoothly after that mini debacle. A smooth melody came over the speakers, signalling the arrival of a more somber solo. Much better. “Gin and Tonic, huh?” She nodded slowly, thinking that one over. “Excellent choice. If you like to eat pine needles, I mean,” she teased, but held her drink up, impressed. “Ten points. Am I that obviously a whiskey gal?” She asked, turning to face Josephine, already thrilled with her newfound companion. Is that how it worked? You lose one friend, then gain another? Erin polished off the glass and was ready for another when she locked eyes with the bartender yet again.

“Hmmmm, well,” Josephine hummed, looking Erin up and down, “you’re wearing a blazer over a regular t-shirt and jeans. I’d hate to point out stereotypes, but most women who I’ve met in bars wearing that drank either whiskey or lagers. And you don’t have a beer in hand, so….” she gave a grin, taking her drink gratefully when the bartender returned. “I do, in fact, love chewing on pine needles. You don’t?” a cheeky smile, before she sipped the drink. Noted that Erin was going rather fast through hers. Something on her mind, perhaps? “So, thought about which song you’re gonna sing yet? Other than the final words of I Will Always Love You, of course.”

Erin sat back in her chair, straightening her back. “Wow, I feel judged right now,” she said with a laugh. “And to think I almost got beer. Pine needles were a close third though.” The karaoke part of this whole karaoke thing had been the last thing on her mind, honestly. Outside of the fact that Regan probably never wanted to speak to her again, Erin couldn’t let go of that nagging feeling needling in the back of her head, telling her something wasn’t right. Josephine was so nice though, and she pulled herself from her thoughts. “Probably some Fleetwood Mac. Always a classic, you know? Not to add to the stereotype even further,” She smiled but shrugged, letting her eyes fall over Josephine briefly. “What about you?” Taking a short sip of her drink, she remembered their last conversation and pointed toward her, adding. “I wanna hear some of these stories you’ve been promising before we get up there, though.”

“Oh, no, no judging here,” Josephine said with a chuckle, “just something I’ve noted over the years. More like..classifying! That sounds nicer, right?” She took a sip of her drink, raising a brow. “Fleetwood Mac is stereotype, but my mind was set on The Cranberries, so I can’t really talk, can I?” A sheepish grin. “Hmm, yes. I may need to finish my first drink before any good stories come out, but I can tell you about how someone came in recently and just donated ten-thousand dollars to the art department like it was nothing.” But Erin seemed a little distracted, and Josephine didn’t like that thought. Just as if with Deirdre, Josephine wanted her attention on her, and nothing else. She’d have to turn things up a bit.

“Classifying. Nice spin,” Erin grinned. “Ah, Cranberries, huh? Stereotype or not, I don’t hate it,” she chuckled, letting her fingers slide over the cold, icy glass in her hand. Josephine kept her on her toes already and she could appreciate that as much as the normal conversation. “Ten-thousand dollars?” She echoed, eyes widening. “What are you guys doing over there? Wall-length replicas of Monet’s Water Lillies?” She took a sip of her drink, clearly still astounded. “That’s amazing as it is absurd—no offense, of course!”

“With that amount of donation, you would think!” Josephine said with a chuckle, shaking her head. “The accountant even passed out when she saw it. Apparently the kid who donated it had no idea it was that um-- large of a donation.” She shook her head, smiling again as she took a large sip of drink, letting the cool fluid relax her. Not that she was worried about anything. Let the glass linger, let the alcohol linger on her lips as she licked them dry. “So, tell me a little about yourself, then. How’d you end up in White Crest? It doesn’t ever strike me as a town that people uh-- happen to end up in.”

“If ten-thousand dollars dropped on my lap, I’d probably have the same reaction,” Erin raised a brow, smiling. Some people get ten-thousand dollars, some people get shady side businesses. Guess Erin knew her lot in life. God, the pity-fueled inner monologue was driving even her insane. She took a sip of her drink, focusing back on Josephine as she spoke up again. “Really? Because I meet out-of-towners pretty much on a regular basis,” she laughed. “I’ve lived here my whole life. My parents owned the funeral home. They died, so--now it’s mine,” she shrugged. Her life in a nutshell, basically. Her brows furrowed, making a mental note that she needed to get out like this more often, but nodded towards Josephine, eager to move on. “What about you? How long have you been in town? You don’t strike me as a townie.”

“Oh, I mean, there’s plenty of people from out of town, I just mean-- it’s not a big, er-- vacation spot,” Josephine corrected, giving a smile. “You’re whole life, huh? I’m surprised I didn’t meet you sooner, then. I’ve been in town for about five years. Give or take a few years.” The reality was that it had been ten, but disclosing too much information was an easy way to expose her true age. She shrugged. “I suppose I’m not really considered a townie, but so far, it’s one of the places I consider home more than a lot of others. I...moved around a lot over the years.” She took another sip of her drink, already finding herself interested not only in Erin herself, but the fact that she had a little resent in her heart for someone. A parent, judging by how it flared just a little bit at the mention of them dying. And something else. Something...recent. “Sorry to hear about your parents, though. Were you close?”

Five years? Erin shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, we don’t really run in the same circles. Kids and corpses don’t exactly mix.” She grimaced, scooting a little closer to Josephine to hear her when the next singer started belting out some 80s classic rock. Maybe this was a good place for dates, when she realized how close she’d gotten. “Sorry,” she laughed. She sat back just a bit, raising her voice instead. Glanced down at her drink, clearly uncomfortable at the question. “Thanks. I was, yeah. But it’s fine.” Dead parents weren’t a great get-to-know-you topic. And it only served to fan that anger in her gut the more she thought about her dad. She nodded, trying to toss the subject right back at Josephine. “You said you moved around a lot? Why’s that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Oh, what was that? A bit of anger? Resent? Josephine knew the feeling so well she almost missed it. Erin had some deeper pain with her parents, aside from them just being dead. Did it have to do with how they died? Or why they died? Or was it about what they left her with? “It’s always hard losing a parent, no matter the age, if you’re close.” She put her drink down a moment, to reach out and put a hand on Erin’s knee, noticing how she’d subconsciously leaned in. “I know we’ve really just met, but if you do ever want to talk, I’m all ears. I’ve been told I’m easy to talk to. Must be a counselor thing,” she gave a wink and little smile before lifting her hand off and picking up her drink again. “I did,” she started, pausing. “After college.” It wasn’t a full lie. “Some...things happened and I found myself drifting for a while, trying to decide where I wanted to land. Turned out, it was a quaint little town in Maine. I like it here, though. Keeps me on my toes.”

Erin felt her cheeks burn and she couldn’t look at Josephine both when her hand touched her knee, and especially not when she continued pushing on the death of her parents. Was she just trying to be nice? Wouldn’t surprise her if she looked as pitiful as she felt. She seemed like the kind of person who was genuinely just a nice person, though. Erin mustered a smile, glancing up at her, shaking her head incredulously at her. “There’s no way you want to hear about my dead parent problems,” she said with a laugh in her voice. “But you’re sweet to humor me anyway, Josephine.” Ugh, she hated this. It wasn’t usually like this when she drank. It calmed her. But this she couldn’t shake. She felt wrong and she felt at just about everything. And she hated especially how all she wanted to do was focus on the very pretty, very kind woman who was somehow still tolerating her. “Yeah, it’s a small town but… never a dull moment,” she smiled over at her. “I know you’ve been here a while but--we’re glad to have you too.”

Josephine shrugged. “Maybe not right now, but I’m really good at listening, so if you do ever wanna talk about it, I’d love to hear it,” she offered sweetly, a smile curled over the edge of her glass before taking a sip. “Seriously.” She said pointedly before finishing off her drink and ordering another when the bartender came by. She turned to look back at Erin, leaning back in her chair. “Never a dull moment,” she said, right as another contender stepped up to the podium and began belting some classic Cher. Josephine almost rolled her eyes, giving a chuckle. “Well, I’m glad I came, too. If only to have met someone else who can suffer through this karaoke with me.”

Josephine was right. This was getting painful. And god, she needed something to snap herself out of this. A smirk spread across Erin’s lips as a stupid idea took shape. Hopped off of her seat, leaning onto the counter to fully face Josephine. “Question. I know we just met but… you trust me, right?” She grinned fully now. “Just a little bit? Maybe?” She pinched her thumb and forefinger together. “If you do, even just a little bit--order us some shots and I’ll be right back.” She backed up, starting towards the request table. Only got a few feet before she turned on her heels, tilting her head at Josephine like she was sizing her up. “I’d say you’re a soprano, right? I hope so.” Because every alto needed their soprano. That’s how it worked, clearly. Not waiting for her to argue--not that she could hear it--she bolted for the request table. By the time she came back, the woman ruining Cher was almost halfway through her solo. “Shots?” she asked innocently, glancing up at her. “We’re up next.”

“Well, I mean--” Josephine started, a little surprised. This wasn’t exactly how she’d thought the night would go, but she wasn’t saying no. If an attractive, single woman wanted to get drunk and do karaoke, who was she to say no? “Shots, got it.” She winked. “I’m more of a--” she went to shout, but Erin was halfway across the room now and there was no point, not over the droning of The Worst Cher Ever. She rolled her eyes, turned to the bartender and ordered two fireball shots. When Erin returned, she swiveled in her chair and held the shot out to her. “You better be pretty amazing at this, or you’re going to owe me big time,” she smirked, wondering if Erin would even get the irony of that statement.

“Thank you,” Erin grinned over at her, taking the shot from her hands. The smell of cinnamon burned her nose before she even brought it too close to her face. “Oh, alright. It’s that kind of night, huh?” Winging it wasn’t the word she’d use for this right about now, but it was pretty damn close. “I’m terrible at this. 100% Guaranteed. The singing, I mean.” Smirked again, as she held the shot glass up to her, letting it clink gently. “Hey, you invited me out, right? I can’t help it if I’m fun. Cheers,” she shrugged, like Josephine had any idea what she’d been getting herself into before she walked through those doors. It burned the back of her throat as she took it down and she winced, shaking her head. Cher was fading into the background now and the DJ was calling their names to the stage. “Next one’s on me because you actually might hate me for this,” she winced a little, starting for the stage as the intro melody to You’re The One That I Want from Grease lit up the room.

“It sure is,” Josephine agreed, clinking her glass with Erin’s as they downed their shots. Josephine had never expected to be taking fireball whiskey shots with a hot woman before signing karaoke, but she supposed that even in her age, there were still surprises. She grinned widely, following her up. “You’re right, I did. I’ll take responsibility for that part,” she agreed, pausing only when they made it up to the stage and the melody started. She’d recognize that melody anywhere, and couldn’t help but roll her eyes, shaking her head. “You definitely owe me more than one round of drinks after this,” she chided, grabbing the microphone, and drawing her breath up. “Brace yourself,” she said, before picking up the song when the “girl’s” lyrics kicked in.

Oh, good. Josephine was taking this with a grace that deserved free drinks the rest of the night. Erin could feel the alcohol loosening her limbs, her heart racing as dozens of eyes locked in on them. She made a point to pop the collar on her blazer, starting off the song, gripping the the side with one hand while the other held the microphone to her lips. “I got chills… they’re multiplyin’, and I’m losing all contrOOooOll,” she exaggerated her voice just how she remembered John Travolta in the movie. Pointed dramatically to Josie, unable to wipe the stupid smirk off of her face. “Cause the power you’re supplying. It’s electrifyin’!”

Josephine couldn’t help but grin. When was the last time she’d let go and just had fun with someone? It was sometimes hard to remember that it was okay to have a life outside of her day to day duties. It was just hard to let herself get involved with anyone when she was going to live forever and most people would live to be 80 or 90. That was too many lifetimes of people dying to count. Instead, she let the moment take her, and the feeling of Erin’s deep-seeded resent filling her up. She hadn’t come here for a wish or a deal tonight, but she wouldn’t mind if one happened, either. She pointed back at Erin. “You better shape up, Cause I need a woman,” she embellished the lyric a bit, stepping closer to her, “And my heart is set on yoooou!” She had to admit, it was a fun song. She was smiling by the end of it, when they held the last note together. A little sweatier, a little drunker. “You owe me another drink,” she said into the microphone before setting it back on the stand.

For two minutes and fifty-nine seconds, Erin forgot everything that wasn’t Josephine singing the most ridiculous duet she could’ve found with her. Oh no, she was really pretty. And really close. Erin couldn’t stop grinning, cheeks flushed from singing and the alcohol. The tiny crowd drunkenly applauded them and she snapped back to reality. “Worth it,” she nodded, enthusiastic and genuine. She reached for Josie’s hand, turned to the crowd, and bowed dramatically like she’d seen them do in movies after a performance. Couldn’t help but notice how soft they were. They were getting nudged off by the next performers before she could do more than burst into another fit of hearty giggles, shaking her head. “Okay - how fun was that? Don’t lie to me. I know you liked it too,” She grinned, desperately pulling off her blazer. That scattered, sinking feeling was returning. More drinks. Now. “Promise is a promise, right?” Thankfully, the bartender had seen them coming and was already nodding and getting their drinks ready. Promise. Regan. Ugh. Erin’s face contorted into a frown and she took a long, cold sip of Whiskey.

“Alright, alright,” Josephine said, shaking her head despite the smile growing on her face, “that was pretty good.” She let Erin take her hand and guide them off the stage after their awkward bows, and tugged her over to the bar again, holding up her hand for two more drinks. The barkeep was way ahead of them, though, and had both their drinks poured by the time they made it over. Another flash of resent from Erin. Whatever was going on, she was trying to drown it with alcohol. But Josie knew that too much alcohol could lead to the exact opposite effect. She could play that game. If Erin wanted to drink until she spilled all her secrets, then that was fine with her. “Thank you. I like her girl who keeps her promises,” she said, taking her drink and having a long sip of it. Still nothing. Damned heightened tolerance. It would come soon, though. She smiled, wide, over the top of her glass. “You were pretty good up there, John Travolta. But I’ve gotta say, I think I liked looking at you better.”

Even just saying the word promise lit up a fresh, raw anger in her gut. People promised a lot of fucking things and nothing ever good came of it, did it? Not with Regan, with fucking dad. Not even herself, apparently. “I do keep my promises,” Erin smiled tightly, struggling to swallow the resentment in her voice. But Josie was talking again and her focus returned. Wasn’t hard when she smiled at her like that. “That so, huh?” Erin hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. She took a long breath, leaning her elbow against the counter and a little closer to Josephine. “Serious question. If you had to choose between kissing John Travolta--young, suave John Travolta, I should clarify...” She grinned back at her, pausing for a beat, feeling fearless right now apparently. She had to be if she was going to go with this stupid line. “Or me. Who would you pick?”

Oh, so it was something about promises that was setting Erin off right now. Josephine didn’t miss the tight lipped smile as she spoke the words. Josephine could only wonder if perhaps Erin had run into a meddling Fae and made a few too many promises that couldn’t be fixed. Josephine wouldn’t mind granting a few wishes against that. Or whatever else Erin was drunkenly trying to bury. It would feel better if she could dredge up that resent for her father, but, right now, the only words Josephine heard were about kissing. Her eyes lit up a little and a smirk curled onto her face. “Well,” she started slowly, as if thinking about it, “considering I already said you’re nicer to look at, what do you think the answer is?” she asked, but it wasn’t really a question. She was already leaning in closer. Nothing wrong with getting two things out of one night, after all.

Oh, she did say that, didn’t she? Erin thought she was being at least half clever and not mostly drunk. Thankfully, Josephine didn’t seem to care all that much. “Travolta, obviously,” she smirked sheepishly. This was fine. She was fine. Her heart started beating a mile a minute as she followed Josephine’s lead, gently cupping her cheek and pulled her lips to hers. Her lips were as soft as they looked and that was the only thing she was letting her spiraling mind focus on. Didn’t think about how she just didn’t go around kissing near-strangers in bars, or magic, or the pick-up of organs Dale would be by for in the morning. That last one only made her angry, and think about her dad again. Jesus Christ, the last thing she needed to think about was her fucking dad right now. What was wrong with her? Erin shoved all of that away, hard. Snaked her arm around Josie’s waist and kissed her harder.

Josephine leaned gratefully into the kiss, glad for the temporary reprieve from the loud bar. She was sure people would stare, but she didn’t really care. She wrapped her arms around Erin’s neck, pressing in. Erin’s lips were still cold with her drink, but nowhere near as cold as Deirdre’s. The important part was that Erin felt human, and that part made Josephine just a little sad. That this would never be anything more than a fling. She wasn’t even that old for her species, and she already felt the weariness of having to search for someone who could live beside her for longer than one lifespan. But, that was life, she supposed, and this was good right now, and Erin’s lips tasted almost as good as her anger. When she finally pulled away, hands resting on her shoulders, still leaning in close, she said, “Do you want to go somewhere else? Or get another drink? I’m down for either, Travolta.”

Do you want to go somewhere else? Josephine’s voice pulled her back to reality, hard and fast. Erin didn’t know why that triggered such a violent change in her chest, and she probably had those drinks she’d gulped down in a little over an hour to thank for allowing the dam to break loose. Her eyes burned. The room spun. She kept her eyes on Josephine, painfully aware of the tears raining down her cheeks. “No,” she croaked, narrowing her eyes. “Sorry, I--” Wow, this was new levels of embarrassing. But she couldn’t stop them now that they’d started. “I don’t--” she wiped at her eyes, panicking, starting for the door. “Sorry, I’m so sorry--I n-need some air.” God this was awful. Stumbling through the crowd, she managed to find the door and burst out, the crisp air hitting her like brick. Fuck, she left her blazer inside. She’d rather freeze than have to turn tail and face Josephine again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mumbled, letting herself pathetically dropping to sit on the edge of the curb a short distance from the entrance.

Josephine couldn’t help but frown. Was it something she said? Perhaps it was just moving too quickly. Some people liked to take it slow. And that was fine. Glancing over, she noticed Erin had left her jacket, and that, coupled with the fact that she’d been crying and Josephine could still feel her, meant she should probably go give it back. Grabbing the jacket, and handing the bartender a ten, she slipped from her spot and headed out. “Erin?” she asked tentatively, looking around. Spotted her sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. She sighed, putting on a concerned look-- and, well, she was concerned-- and headed over, draping the jacket over Erin’s shoulders as she shivered. Sat next to her. “So...I know I’m not the coolest person in town, but I’ve never had a girl cry before.” Held out a napkin to her. “Was it the duet? Did you want to sing the other part?”

There was nothing Erin wanted to do more at that moment than melt into the storm drain under her feet when she saw Josephine reappear. Burying her face into her hands would have to do for now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she kept shaking her head, though a pained chuckle left her lips at Josephine’s small joke. “I shouldn’t have--this was a bad idea,” she mumbled, pulling her hands away to wipe at her eyes and cheeks. Couldn’t bear to look at this beautiful, funny, kind woman, knowing how badly of an ass she just made of herself. “Not because of you. Not at all because of you. You are cool as shit,” she assured her, staring at the storm drain, tugging the jacket tighter around her shoulders. Thankful that she had stopped crying for now, at the very least. “It’s me. It’s all me, and it’s Regan, and it’s my fucking dad, who I could just--” she felt her heart leap when she heard the words coming out of her mouth, spurned by the anger in her throat. Took a deep breath, glancing slowly over at Josephine. “Did you know drinking your feelings away doesn’t work?” she winced, a small, bitter smile on her lips.

“Oh, I know I’m cool,” Josephine said with a little shrug and a grin, “that was just for you sake.” She leaned back. “Don’t apologize, I get it. Sometimes you just gotta cry. I’m a school counselor, I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times grown adults and teachers come running into my office yelling and then start crying. It’s really alright.” That feeling of intense anger spiked in Erin again and Josephine had to fight to hide her interest in it. Perhaps just one more little poke, and it would all come out. “I did know that. Next time I’ll be sure to let you know before you try,” she grinned, giving her a little nudge with her elbow. “You know what does help? Talking. I know we don’t really know each other, but there’s a reason therapists aren’t allowed to collude with their patients. Sometimes talking to a stranger is easier. Better.” She turned to face Erin a little more fully, leaning her elbows on her knees, looking at her with genuine concern. “And you already cried in front me, so it can’t really get much worse, right?”

Of all the strangers to have a meltdown in front of, Erin was glad for it to be Josephine. She was going to owe her drinks for the rest of her life if she didn’t completely ghost Erin after this mess. She'd deserved it. “I guess it can’t, huh?” That prickle in the corner of her eyes returned and she bit her lip hard when she felt herself give into the offer. “For the longest time I thought I knew exactly what my life was going to be and what to expect. And then… one morning,” she snapped her fingers sharply. “Turns out everything I thought I knew was really fucking wrong. And it just keeps happening,” she paused, trying to find the right words. “Can’t change anything now, but God do I wish I could just--” her head shook, jaw clenched, but she couldn’t hold it in. “I wish I could just see my dad one more time. Just one more time, so I could just--scream at him for a bit, you know? He left me with his fucking mess of a business--” she turned quickly to look at Josephine. “The funeral home, I mean,” she corrected. She wasn’t that drunk enough to spill all of her family’s secrets. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that her father absolutely knew there was something dark going on in this town. Bear-people, vampire slayers, magic fucking mind control. At least she could’ve been prepared. Asshole didn’t do him justice. She sniffled, the tears falling against her will once more. Tried to smile again, rolling her eyes. “Fucking daddy issues. God. Could I be more cliche right now?”

Wish. The word set something off, rattling around inside of Josephine. She mulled the thought over. It would be easy enough for her to just snap and grant the wish now, but she wanted to see if, maybe, there was more. She gave a shake of her head. “If you’re a cliche, then so am I,” she said, “my father was a deadbeat, no good, abusive sack of shit. Only thing he left me was painful memories.” She shrugged. “Your anger is justified, even if you had a good relationship with him before. If he were alive, what would you want to say to him? What would you want him to feel?”

Erin shook her head, placing her hand on Josephine’s knee, her touch empathetic. Letting her know she heard her when words failed her right now. “Shit, that’s--god, that’s shit,” was all she could mutter in response, though she’d gained a new appreciation for her kindness with that confession. What would she say to him? Anger coursed through her like it had been bottled and stuck it right into her vein. “I’d want him to feel like the scum of the earth,” she started, tapping into something buried deep in her stomach. “While he’s turning into worm food, completely free of all of this bullshit, he left me here, trapped and completely unprepared. That his bullshit destroyed any chance I had at--” Words caught in her throat as a hard knot built up. Oh god, was she crying again? But it felt good to say the words. In the three months he’d been dead, she had no one she could properly talk to about this. Couldn’t vent in full detail about his ugly behavior. Her chest felt lighter even now. “He doesn’t deserve rest. He doesn’t deserve peace. The only part he should get to enjoy is the fucking rotting.” She wiped at her eyes harder, wrapping her arms around her middle. Quiet for a long moment. Blinked and remembered where she was. Opened her mouth to apologize, that she had gotten lost in her anger, her words were too harsh. But she wasn’t sorry. Not even a little.

That was more like it. Josephine smiled, ear to ear, and leaned in a little closer to Erin. “I can feel your pain,” she said, trying not to show the excitement bubbling inside of her. This was exactly what she’d been waiting for and the magic inside of her bubbled to be let out. She took Erin’s hand gently in hers, gave it a squeeze. “And you’re allowed to feel this way. You’re anger is real and true and I know just how to help with that.” And as she said that, delighting in her own satisfaction of the moment, she lifted her free hand, and snapped.

Out in Strawford cemetery, a hand clawed its way up to the surface, bloodied and covered in dirt and grass. The headstone read ‘Jack Nichols’.

#chatzy #chatzy: josie #wickedswriting #buried alive

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legobiwan · 5 years

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There’s a large meta I would love to write comparing TPM and Master and Apprentice, but I’m a little too delirious with fever to do something that intelligent at the moment, some I’m just going to bullet point some things I noticed in my 5 hour rewatch of TPM (due to intermittent napping and shotgunning Dayquil).

Qui-gon and Obi-wan spend a fair amount of their on-screen time disagreeing, and one of Qui-gon’s first acts of the movie is to dismiss Obi-wan’s “bad feeling about this,” which, in retrospect, Jinn, was maybe not the best idea. This is very much in line with the way they are portrayed in Master and Apprentice, where Qui-gon and Obi-wan cannot seem to see eye-to-eye on things, how Qui-gon constantly is questioning Obi-wan and his abilities.

I feel like Obi-wan spends a fair amount of this movie swallowing his reactions to Qui-gon’s increasing ridiculousness, like when they travel to the Gungan city with Jar Jar. Obi-wan immediately tries to negotiate with Boss Nass and when that does not immediately prove fruitful, Qui-gon bursts in with his favorite strategy, the Jedi Mind Trick. Obes doesn’t seem too pleased with Qui-gon’s tactics, nor to be undermined like that.

(this is not the face of a happy man)

Someone reblogged some other meta of mine commenting that Qui-gon (and much of the Lineage) has a savior complex, and don’t they’re all that far off. Qui-gon places himself as the ultimate authority on so many occasions in this movie, and while yes, he is the ranking Jedi Master on site, one might think he is a little too certain in the Force, in his abilities, in prophecy to always make sound judgments.

(Narrator’s voice: she doesn't. And this is not the first time Qui-gon will say something like this. Which leads to Anakin coming to Coruscant, and well, you know how it went from there.)

On a different note altogether, it was lovely to watch this with the subtitles. Anakin’s statement that Padmé looks like an angel akes a lot more sense when you know he’s comparing her to the Angels of Iego, which we have seen (who Obi-wan and Anakin spoke with) in the underrated episode, Mystery of a 1,000 Moons.

(one has to wonder if Anakin made the correlation when he and Obi-wan *actually* traveled to Iego)

Speaking of other friends, I laughed (and coughed) very hard when Darth Maul uttered one of the very few spoken lines he has in this movie.

(Maul, you have no idea how much that is *not* going to work out for you, buddy.)

I feel like Shmi Skywalker is the only sane person in this whole cavalcade of characters. I love how she handles Qui-gon’s request that Anakin go to Coruscant.

(“The choice is yours alone.” Not “This is your destiny,” or “this is your fate.” This is your choice, Anakin Skywalker, just as turning to the Dark Side was a Choice, not Fate, not Prophecy, just as Qui-gon’s devotion to Prophecy was his choice, just as Obi-wan made a very conscious decision to make himself believe in prophecy out of devotion to his Master. And in that way, choices become self-fulfilling prophecies.)

And again, we see this when Anakin leaves Tatooine. Shmi asks Anakin what is in his heart because it is what he desires, and as that old quote goes, “if something is that important, you’ll make time for it.” Not prophecy, not fate, but Agency.

(And you have to wonder if part of the reason the Order is so caught up in prophecy and visions is because their ability to act independently is somewhat stymied by things like the Ruusan Reformation and their relationship with the Senate, because they tread this very fine line between being active and passive, both in government and their day-to-day activities.)

“Master Qui-gon, more to say, have you?” Man, if I were Kenobi, I’d be pissed at this point, and we haven’t even gotten to the scene where Qui-gon basically casts off Obi-wan in front of the Council. We see this again and again in Master and Apprentice, where Obi-wan just chokes down a lot of his true feelings, due to deference and self-esteem and Qui-gon, as well-meaning as he is, just...kinda does what he wants.

(”Not this again, I’m going to need to break into the Corellian whiskey.”)

As I’ve pointed out before, Rael was 5 when he came to the Temple, Obi-wan 3, and yet now Qui-gon seems to have no problem with an 8-year-old Anakin coming in. Oh, Qui-gon.

Qui-gon promises a lot of things to a lot of people. It’s interesting, because Obi-wan gets very upset at Anakin in the Clone Wars: Gambit and Siege books for promising people he would help them. Aside from the fact that it is never a good idea to promise anything to anyone (I personally avoid ever saying that word) and Obi-wan is aware of this, I feel like this upset may also harken back to Qui-gon’s disturbing habit of promising things and then using almost any means necessary to make those things happen. Like Anakin winning the race and becoming a Jedi, for instance. All done out of good intentions, but come on, Jinn.

(I mean, yeeeeaaaah? I’d be afraid, too, if I were 8 years old surrounded by these guys. Chill, Yoda.)

I just need to include a picture of Palpy’s shit-eating grin here. He is so smarmy in this movie, I love it.

I’m not going to post screencaps of the Council scene because we all know what goes down there. Qui-gon takes Anakin as his student, and Obi-wan’s heart gets trod upon again, although he puts up a brave front because it’s Obi-wan and he is repressing a lot.

“Your focus determines your reality.” It’s really great advice. Qui-gon should listen to himself, as his focus (on prophecy) has determined his reality.

(Come on, Qui-gon. Throw the man a bone. Maybe say, “Hey, I *think* you’re going to become a great Jedi! I believe in you, Obi-wan! Good job!” instead of “I forsee...” I mean, okay, everyone has a distinct manner of meting out praise and Qui-gon does say Obi-wan is wiser than he ((without actually listening to that wisdom)), but even Obi-wan, who catches a fair amount of flak for being reserved, gives Anakin more direct praise than this. You have to wonder where this comes from, if it goes back to how Dooku raised Qui-gon, which is *totally* possible.)

(Can we just sit and appreciate that one of Anakin’s first acts for the Republic is to blow up this droid control ship that had a fair amount of sentients on board? That’s our little murder machine!)

(Ouch. I can’t even imagine what is going through Obi-wan’s mind here. This is probably the only time we see him make a promise. And by the Force, he is going to keep it. But Qui-gon’s last words are about Anakin, and Obi-wan is obviously distraught over this, over Qui-gon’s death, over everything. He loves Qui-gon, despite all their differences, because Qui-gon meant well for him, for everyone around him, and to think Obi-wan has the gumption to demand to train Anakin right after all of this...just, poor Obes.)

I feel like I’ve really been on Qui-gon’s case lately. He is a fascinating character, and he makes a lot of good points about the Council and the Republic, but he is so blind to his own faults and I think that’s where my personal frustration comes in with the man. And he wants to do good in the galaxy, you can see he wants to free all the slaves on Tatooine, but probably knows right now he can’t, has learned his lesson from Pijal. He doesn’t want to necessarily get suckered back into prophecy, but then there’s Anakin staring him right in the face. And Anakin is powerful, but is he the Chosen One or was he molded into that role by expectation?

The lightsaber duel with Obi-wan, Qui-gon and Maul is still my absolute favorite live-action fight scene in Star Wars. So. Good.

Guys, I forgot how much I love this movie, I mean everything including Jar Jar and child!Anakin.

I really appreciate how consistent Claudia Gray made Obi-wan and Qui-gon’s characters through her book, linking Jedi Apprentice and TPM. There’s so much more to read into with TPM now having Master and Apprentice in the background.

#also #this is all so GREAT for future chapters of hung #which i haven't forgotten about #just have been insanely busy #but now I am super pumped to write the next part #maybe if i'm not half delirious tomorrow i can go for that #phantom menace #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #damnit qui gon #ugh guys i really don't feel that hot #meta #long post #forgive me guys i'm rather garrulous on the topic of star wars right now

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notbemoved-blog · 4 years

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Dorothy Day and her Hope-filled “Revolution of the Heart”

What a time we’re in! I’ve put my blog on hold while working on my next book, but feel the need to come back with a few pieces to “Keep Hope Alive” in these dark times. And just in time for a Dorothy Day revival! Dorothy Day, the enterprising journalist and social activist (and perhaps soon to be saint of the Catholic Church) is having something of a revival of her reputation. A new biography (Dorothy Day by John Loughery and Blythe Randolph) and a new documentary (“Revolution of the Heart: The Dorothy Day Story” by Martin Doblmeier) have put Day back in the limelight where she belongs. She’s recently appeared in the New York Times Book Review (written by prominent religion historian Karen Armstrong, no less), for an extensive New Yorker profile, and even today in the REVIEW section of the Wall Street Journal! Day’s renaissance couldn’t come at a better time, when, thanks to the pandemic, the fragility of our safety net for the poor shows itself for what it really is: benign neglect, if not downright abuse.

I’ve been an admirer of Dorothy Day’s for decades, dating back to my time as a Catholic seminarian in Baltimore in the 1970s when we were encouraged to think a lot about the poor and about social conditions and how best to put our social consciences to work to improve things. After leaving the seminary and trying to find my way throughout the rest of the ‘70s, I enrolled in The American University’s School of Communications and set about trying to improve my skills as a writer. While pursuing a second bachelor’s degree in Communications (the first, from St. Mary’s Seminary College, was in Philosophy), I happened upon a wonderful journalist/teacher Joe Tinkelman, who taught some of my earliest writing classes and whose consistent encouragement caused me to believe I might have a career as a writer someday.

For his “American Newspapers” class, Tinkelman pushed us to write a long-form journalistic piece profiling a newspaper of our choice. My mind immediately went to The Catholic Worker, Dorothy Day’s creation from the 1930s that was still going strong in the 1980s. I thought a 50-year retrospective was in order, so I set about to research this little-known gem and report back to Tinkelman and the class. The research I did (mostly at Catholic University) put me in deeper touch with Dorothy Day, her philosophy, her writing, and her work with the poor of New York City.

For the next four weeks, I’m posting a serialized version of the paper I did for Professor Tinkelman as a tribute to his inspiring teaching and to Dorothy Day herself and her incredible work. Read with caution: You may just get radicalized!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Catholic Worker—The Voice of American Catholic Radicalism Since the 1930’s (Part I)

By Michael J. O’Brien, 12/8/81 – American Newspapers, American University, Professor Joe Tinkelman

On a piercingly cold night in December of 1978, I stepped from the sub-compact I had so comfortably been traveling in with a former seminarian classmate of mine onto the curb of Second Avenue on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We were on our way to Maryhouse, the Catholic Worker’s House of Hospitality for homeless women, to attend one of the C.W.’s Friday night meetings. It was my first visit to the Catholic Worker Headquarters. Before I could even close the car door, a middle-aged Black man with the smell of whiskey on his breath and of urine on his clothes—the smell of the destitute in any city—asked me for some money “for a cup of coffee.” I remember looking into this man’s half-dazed eyes, seeing behind him the lights of Second Avenue—the bars and novelty shops, the cafes and movie houses that give the street a feeling of one continuous cabaret—and wondering how to tell him on this of all nights that I could not give him a penny. [Part of our seminary training was to decline to give money to alcoholics. “They’ll only use if to further their illness,” we were told.]

I was already late for the C.W. meeting, so instead of inviting him for a bite to eat at one of those cafes, I asked him to join me at Maryhouse. I knew he would at least be warm there and perhaps could even get a cup of hot coffee. He refused, and as my friend and I dashed across the street to get to the meeting, I heard him cursing us. I can’t think, now, of a more appropriate greeting for my first visit to the Catholic Worker—a group that has served the poor and the dispossessed of the Bowery for almost 50 years.

At the time, however, I was only thinking of our lateness! As we opened the doors to Maryhouse and rushed up the stairs of this seemingly ancient tenement, I was awed by the thought that Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker—“both a newspaper and a movement”—graced these steps daily. For all I knew, she was there that very night, this being her primary residence in the City. I didn’t know much about Dorothy Day then, but I knew she had chosen to live her life among the poor and to serve them as if they were Christ. That was enough to spark my interest in her and in her work.

My friend and I entered the doors of the auditorium to a standing-room only crowd. More than two hundred people were packed into this tiny hall that serves as a distribution center for the newspaper and the meeting hall for “the clarification of thought,” as Peter Maurin, the Catholic Worker’s other founder, put it.

We took our places among those standing in the back and I caught a glimpse of Daniel Berrigan, the radical Jesuit pacifist, who was speaking to the throng. Berrigan was scheduled to talk that night—I guess that’s why so many people showed up—on the poetry of Thomas Merton, a well-known Catholic monk and author who died in the late 1960s. Berrigan read to us some of Merton’s poems concerning war, peace, death, and nuclear armaments. After each poem, he gave us his own interpretation of what he believed Merton was trying to convey; they had been good friends.

Thomas Merton, Dorothy Day, and Daniel Berrigan: Three pillars of radical Catholic thought in the 1960s.

The entire evening had an aura of unreality about it for me. Here I was in Dorothy Day’s house listening to Daniel Berrigan speaking on Thomas Merton—three pillars of radical Catholic thought represented under one roof! The history of modern Catholic radicalism came alive for me that night. It is some of that history, particularly the Catholic Worker’s singular role in its development, that I will attempt to relate in the text that follows.

The Young Radical Journalist

One could say Dorothy Day was a journalist from birth. Her father was a sports writer for the New York Morning Telegraph; her brothers became newspaper editors. Journalism was in her blood.

She became involved in questions of social justice at an early age. She read Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and Jack London’s essay on class struggle while still in high school. One of her brothers worked on a Chicago paper (where the family lived during Day’s adolescence) called The Day Book, an experiment by Scripps-Howard that reported on the ups and downs of the Labor Movement. The paper’s accounts of the the struggles of the poor and of the workers stirred Dorothy deeply. She began to feel that her life was linked to theirs, that she had received “a call, a vocation, a direction” for her life.

Dorothy Day began her career as a journalist in 1916 at the age of 18 by taking a job at a newspaper coincidentally named The New York Call—a socialist daily that was heavily involved in the labor issues of the day. Later she worked on The Masses, a monthly Communist magazine. After the periodical’s suppression by the Attorney General during the post-World War II “Red Scare”, Day worked for The Liberator, the successor to The Masses.

Her assignments took her to all kinds of strike meetings, picket lines, and peace rallies. She interviewed Leon Trotsky while he was living in New York and writing for a Russian socialist newspaper. She picketed the White House and went to jail for a month with a group of suffragists. She counted as her friends Eugene O’Neill, the great American playwright; Max Eastman, editor of The Masses; and John Reed, author of Ten Days That Shook the World, a journalists’s account of the Russian Revolution. (The new movie REDS explores aspects of the lives of all three of these men.)

A 1917 photo of Dorothy Day (center, holding a copy of The New York Call) urging the U.S. NOT to enter WWI.

An Unlikely Convert

Although her early years as a journalist were spent advocating for causes and movements that were considered godless (Communism, after all, considers religion as an opiate), Dorothy Day converted to Catholicism in 1927 at the age of 30. She saw the Catholic Church as the church of the poor and of the worker, and she wanted to be one with them in every way. Also, she had given birth to a little girl through a common-law marriage, and the overwhelming love she experienced for both her lover and her daughter made her believe that there must be a God.

Day’s conversion caused her much suffering; she had to leave the man she loved because he would not condone her religious leanings. But she put principle before personal comfort, as she would so many times in the future.

After her Baptism, Day found she was no longer one with her comrades. They could not understand her religious convictions and she found it difficult as a Catholic to participate in demonstrations and meetings that were organized by Communists. She continued to report on the plight of the working man for Catholic periodicals—she even did a series of articles for the Catholic press explaining Marxist-Leninism!—but she felt far removed from her earlier radical involvement. She was at a loss as to how to reconcile her two great loves—her newfound love for God and her continued love for the working man and the poor.

An Answered Prayer

Dorothy Day often warned people to be careful how they prayed. “God takes you at your word,” she would say. It was through just such a prayer that she found a solution to her dilemma and that The Catholic Worker came to be.

In early December 1932, Day was covering a march on Washington, D.C., by the Communist-led Unemployment Councils. The march was an attempt by the Depression’s unemployed workers to bring their grievances to Congress. Day was reporting on the march for two Catholic periodicals, America and Commonweal. She became distressed by the march’s lack of Catholic leadership and felt she could no longer sit by and watch as others, especially Communists, took the lead in fighting for the working man. She had to find a way to get involved in the struggle as a Catholic.

On December 8, just after the worker’s march and, coincidentally a Catholic Holy Day, Dorothy Day went to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception—still under construction in Washington—and prayed fervently that God would show her the way out of the box she was in. Remarkably, God took her at her word. When she returned home to New York, Peter Maurin, the man who was to teach her the way out, was waiting for her in her apartment.

Peter Maurin

Maurin had been sent to Day by the editor of Commonweal because they “thought alike.” He was a French peasant and was deeply rooted in Catholic social tradition. He had studied Aquinas, Augustine, and the socialy encyclicals of the Popes, as well as the many contemporary Catholic social writers, including Hillaire Belloc, Emmanuel Mounier, and the Russian activist and social theorist Peter Kropotkin.

Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin sitting for a group Catholic Worker photo in the early 1940s.

Maurin had a plan for the reconstruction of the then-crumbling American society. His plan had four planks: (1) houses of hospitality for the immediate relief of those in need; (2) farming communes to relieve the wretched unemployment brought about by urban industrialization; (3) round table discussion “for the clarification of thought” on social issues; and, (4) a newspaper to get these ideas to the man and woman in the street. Maurin’s entire plan was aimed at “creating a new society within the shell of the old” where it would be “easier for men to be good.”

The Birth of a Newspaper

Dorothy Day didn’t immediately comprehend the breadth of Maurin’s thought, but she jumped at the idea of publishing her own newspaper. She found out that the Paulist Press—a Catholic publishing outlet—would print 2,500 copies of an eight-page tabloid (originally 9”X12”) for fifty-seven dollars. Day feverishly began writing articles for the fledgling paper—articles on the plight of sharecroppers, child labor, the hourly wage for factory workers, and racial injustice. These, along with Maurin’s “Easy Essays”—short, free-flowing verse for quick and easy consumption of ideas by the man in the street—made up the copy for the papers first edition.

Maurin wanted to call the paper The Catholic Radical, but because of her knowledge of Communist periodicals in the U.S., Day insisted on calling it The Catholic Worker—a direct challenge to the then-popular Communist paper The Daily Worker. “Man proposes, woman disposes,” Maurin jokingly demurred. And so, The Catholic Worker was born.

They didn’t seek permission from the Church to use the word “Catholic.” Day wondered about this, but a priest friend of hers wisely advised, “Never ask permission.”

The enduring Catholic Worker masthead

The first issue of The Catholic Worker was ready for distribution on May Day—May first, the great Communist holiday celebrating the working masses—of 1933. In a short column entitled To Our Reader, Day dedicated the paper:

For those who are sitting on park benches in the warm spring sunlight. For those who are huddling in shelters trying to escape the rain. For those who are walking the streets in the all but futile search for work. For those who think that there is no hope for the future, no recognition of their plight—this little paper is addressed. It is printed to call their attention to the fact that the Catholic Church has a social program—to let them know that there are men of God who are working not only for their spiritual, but for their material welfare.

Dorothy Day was determined to make her stand along with others involved in the workers’ struggle, so in typical in-your-face radical fashion, she along with three of her Catholic supporters went to hock the paper in Union Square, where 50,000 workers had gathered for a massive show of support for Communism. They were scoffed at and they sold few papers, but Day and her friends were satisfied with their results. The paper had been launched. In addition, Day and Maurin had embarked on the great pilgrimage that would consume the rest of their lives.

(To Be Continued)

#Dorothy Day #Peter Maurin #Daniel Berrigan #Thomas Merton #Joe Tinkelman #The Catholic Worker #American University #AU Communications #St. Mary's Seminary College #smsc

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zydrateacademy · 6 years

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Current Activities - Conan Exiles #4

So I just posted my latest story “Assassination at the Summit”, and while I am proud of its contents, it has some background information. Basically starting at "Her outside clanmates had been navigating..." was practically written in a blind fury. I’ve calmed down now but this is my blog and I feel like ranting. First off, the character depicted in that story, Dey Yin, is an actual player. She’s an excellent writer and I strive to reach to her level of para-posting, as they give excellent opportunities to reply and react and I want to offer the same to other players when they interact with me. Also, she loves the story.

I am happy with the results as there was some effort put into it. Even in my blind fury, the last few parts turned out well. I’ve also been trying to work on my verb tense. Either I missed that class in school or over a decade of roleplaying has completely rewritten how my brain perceives verb tense. You might notice that my tenses swap between past and present, sometimes within the same line. This is why writers have editors, people. Anyway it was mostly a background plot, like many of my stories are. Basically I like to lay some groundwork before I claim things. I do not simply want to claim to be a whiskey baroness, I want to actually show it. I want people to see, through a narrative, the effort put in importing a whiskey from the outside world. The server is too small for specific events to surround these kinds of things, so I compensate by writing short stories instead. Quick aside; I actually did host an RP event with my character announcing the existence of her clan. It went very well with around ~9 attendees.

Whiskey and fun were had by all. Anyway. I spoke of this plot in-character with others and another player on the server, someone I’ve been trying to arrange RP with for... years, I think, across a few MMO’s. We’ve met on an ERP gathering website (ya’ll know the one) but our interactions could never quite get sexual. They’re a good writer and roleplayer and they definitely value quality over fluff. I can respect that. We had some meetups in GW2 but maybe we just don’t make characters that gel well because we just couldn’t quite get to the fluffy stuff. Anyway she happens to follow me on CE. Fair enough. No prompting, she just saw that I was playing a lot and figured she’d hop on the ship. She’s doing well on the server, has a whole clan, etc. Good for her. But upon hearing about this plot of mine, her character offers some... assistance. Instead of being a simple assassination, she wants it to be poison. She insists, having an IC personal stake against Khitan generals. Fair enough, but then she hands Livia an actual quest. Get three specific items. The items in question are in fact part of the several artifacts you need to remove your bracelet and “win” the game (which deletes your save file by the way). Not the whole thing, just three of them. The scourgestone was probably the easiest, and I had some IC help from a guy. It was all great fun. Admittedly I was salty at first, adding extra steps to a straightforward plotline. Then I got to writing it out and I enjoyed the idea of dungeon delving being written into it. It started to feel like an actual epic on the likes of Beowulf, Clash of the Titans, and indeed, actual Conan books and lore. Sword and sorcery. I’m not claiming to write as well as any of those (though I’m pretty sure the Conan movies didn’t have any writers, holy shit), but it started to FEEL like an epic RPG story. I didn’t have it completely written out but it had about three full paragraphs worth. Might have eked out an extra two before... bullshit happens. The salt starts to come back when the player drags their feet about getting the last item for the poison crafting. They are focusing on their clan base and that looks fine and all, but a boss hunt only needed to be asked in global “anyone want to help?”, 3-4 people would have done fine and we had 3 at any given moment, each of us with powerful weapons and armor. We could have gotten it at any time. Again, fair on them to a certain extent. I’m sure they have a job and when they were online, she was likely wrangling her clanmates and building assignments. I get that, but... again, we could have had this wrapped up in 15 minutes at any given point. Eventually my character tries to meet with another newbie on the server (as she does) but finds them already at this person’s clan base. Figure it’d be a good time for Livia to check in on the poison and see when we can go hunting but... Well. Let me give you quick context on this person’s character. John Mulaney has a comedy set talking about his father and how straight-laced he tends to be. He recalls a story (true or not, who can tell?) where John himself and some siblings (I think? Other kids?) were screaming for McDonalds. The father pulls into the drive through, orders a single black coffee, and drives away. John states something to the effect of “in retrospect, that was the funniest thing I’ve seen in my entire life”. Well, this person’s character is basically that guy. But a woman. Livia already has stated that she’s got quite the stick up her ass. Anyway they’ve traded barbs as you might expect, Livia being more of a carefree roll-with-punches and make-money kind of woman. Livia drops an offhanded line about “Maybe I’ll just get my people to slit the general’s throat and save me a headache [in dealing with this character]”. All we get in response is “So be it” and are then soon banned from her stronghold. That’s when I lowkey lose it. I don’t explode, I don’t rant, I don’t PM them. In fact, there’s almost no OOC communication between me and this person and I think it worked against us. She never once asked me permission to force a poison subplot in my story. The character just “strongly insisted” and Livia was like “fine, let’s make the thing” and I went off to get two of the three items THAT DAY. A week goes by, then that bullshit happens. What a waste of my time. I keep thinking back to a roleplaying guide I posted on this server’s website. It’s the same one I’ve copied and pasted across many MMO’s I’ve roleplayed on. There’s a section in there that talks about IC drama having no affect on OOC, or it shouldn’t. I’ve spent many years separating IC and OOC, often times whispering people after an OOC argument of like “That was fun, thanks for the RP!” That kind of thing. Unfortunately, this whole thing did have OOC consequences. The entire plot and story was essentially a gift to the player for being active, friendly, fun to interact with and being a good writer. I wanted to give the player and character something they would appreciate, but instead was delayed by a player insisting on adding a step. And then never stepped forward. It wasted my time and theirs and got in the way of that RP. Thus, I feel like my anger while perhaps not entirely justified, still makes sense in this context. My time was wasted, and now I’m possibly barred from RP with that person and their clan, or at least by going to their base. Not a single word OOCly was spoken between us throughout this. I remember PMing them the paragraph that featured them, asking if there was anything that needed to be changed. They said no, it was fine for the context and remaining an enigma. Fair enough. That was it. She never asked me permission to bullrush into our plot, nor did I outwardly refuse it. I thought nothing of it, and indeed as I mentioned earlier I did have some fun writing out dungeon adventures and Livia’s general hatred of the jungle biome. There was fun stuff there, class adventuring that I don’t write nearly enough about. Then it was all just negated because the other character absolutely refused to meet mine halfway in terms of diplomacy. Livia tried. I tried. So starting from “Her outside clanmates had been navigating the unknown country...” in that story, it was actually a rush job in fuming rage, so much rage my chest actually hurt for a few minutes. I do think it turned out well but I do believe I could have padded more with describing the architecture, culture, the nuances of Livia’s clan navigating the cities, dodging police and bribing informants. There’s a lot I could have done there but the story could have been done a week ago and instead I was left hanging because one player bullrushed into my plot and didn’t want to go kill a boss. I’m angry. I’m annoyed. Heavy sigh. Now, I still have two more stories to write. I have asked and received a new patron item (you can get some cosmetics if you donate to the server), a glowing polearm.

It looks very badass, especially at night. Actually hurts if you look at it too long. It’s great. I have it named “Imbued Polearm” and I have no idea why or how Livia would be in possession of it. I just saw someone having glowing purple daggers and thought “...I still haven’t requested a weapon decal for my patron perks. I want that a lot.” Was thinking of a Ymir ritual but white and blue is his motif so I’m not sure that’d work. Derketo is the goddess of sex, not weapons, and would sooner imbue Livia was a penis to properly spread seed long before she’d give her followers a badass weapon. Next story will be a little easier to write. I discovered with some proper dying the reptile armor does not look half bad at all. The aforementioned guy friend says it looks better on females than males, and I believe it;

Not sure why Tumblr blows that way the fuck up but there you go. Due to quality loss, it does look decent in-game. Definitely a “demon dragon slayer” type story to be had there. Was brainstorming that an alpha got tired of some adventurer killing all their babies at the spawning grounds... Next time Livia goes hunting she’d be in for quite the surprise.

All that and I didn’t even get into my clan growing and even having someone build me a proper stronghold.

Currently can house 6 clanmates with a master bedroom for myself. I plan on adding another floor to make way for 4 more rooms as I tend to get members when Livia goes save newly exiled players from the river. It’s actually in that building the above party screenshot took place. (There’s currently two spare rooms, I believe. Hint hint, come join us.)

#Conan Exiles #Conan #Exiles #Conan the Barbarian #Gaming #PC Gaming

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chocolatequeennk · 7 years

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Always Her Doctor, 2/4

John Tyler is a teacher at Farringham, but he’s been dreaming of another life–the life of an adventure known as the Doctor. When Marion Smith appears in Farringham, he’s immediately drawn to her. And why not? Marion Smith is the mirror image of Rose Tyler–the Doctor’s wife.

Reunion set during Human Nature/Family of Blood, with Christmas overtones.

This is part of @doctorroseprompts 31 Days of Ficmas. I used the word “Ice.” This is day 8 on my personal 31 Days of Ficmas.

AO3 | FF.NET | Ch 1

John paced in front of the chalkboard as he lectured his senior boys on the end of the Boer War. His dreams the night before had been particularly vivid, leaving him feeling restive and unsettled today.

Rose had been crying. They’d been standing on a beach, saying goodbye, and there had been tears running down her face. He’d ached to reach out and wipe them away, but it was like there was some kind of invisible barrier between them—he’d known he wouldn’t be able to touch her, even if he tried.

He’d woken up, gasping for air, as she disappeared right in front of his eyes. Once he’d gotten his tears under control, his journal had been a welcome outlet for a torrent of memories about the last time he’d seen his wife.

John shook his head. Not memories. Dreams. And it wasn’t the last time he’d seen his wife, because Rose wasn’t real and he didn’t actually have a wife. He tugged on his ear as he lectured; it was getting harder by the day to separate fact from fiction.

Finally, the bell rang and he dismissed the boys. Once the classroom was empty, he collapsed into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. He’d been on edge since the afternoon before, if he were honest with himself. He’d been in the middle of shooting practice when he’d felt a itch in the back of his mind, urging him to leave the school and walk… walk west, he decided after thinking about it for a moment.

That same itch was now telling him to go upstairs, and finally, after glancing at the clock and confirming the next period was his free hour, he gave into the prodding.

John took the stairs two at a time, not caring that he would chastise any of the boys he found running through the corridors the way he was. He needed to get upstairs. There was… He shook his head and kept going.

He found himself in the library a few minutes later, almost without knowing how he’d gotten there. He blinked as he looked at the shelves full of books, then turned around and stared at the door that had been locked the entire time he’d worked at the school.

“Can I help you?”

That voice.

John trembled, and he squeezed his eyes tight as he tried to get his suddenly racing hearts—heart—back under control. It isn’t Rose, he told himself sternly as he turned around. It can’t be Rose. Rose doesn’t exist outside of your dreams.

He turned around slowly, then took a deep breath and opened his eyes, bracing himself for the disappointment of an unfamiliar face.

He took in her features almost instantly. Hair a bit too blonde to look natural, a wide mouth and a teasing smile, and warm brown eyes he knew he could lose himself in.

“Rose!”

Something flickered in her eyes, but then her dark eyebrows knit together and she shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m Marion. Marion Smith.”

Her lips turned up just barely, and John wondered why her own name amused her. “Marion Smith. Mar-i-on Smith,” he said repeated, but no matter how slowly he said it, the syllables didn’t quite roll off his tongue like “Rose Tyler” always did in his dreams.

“That’s me,” she agreed, but yet again, a hint of something showed in her eyes—awkwardness, discomfort, John couldn’t say quite what… But he knew somehow that Marion Smith was not a name she would have used, if she’d had a choice.

“And… you are?”

John blinked. “Oh!” He tugged on his ear sheepishly. “John Tyler, history teacher.”

Another emotion showed in Rose’s—Marion’s—eyes, and her smile deepened. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tyler.”

There was something sensual about the way his name sounded on her tongue. John ignored the shiver that ran down his back and held out his hand. Rose took it, and they shook.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Smith,” he assured her. “I take it the headmaster has finally seen fit to fill the post of librarian? Really, it’s unacceptable that an institution of higher learning would go without a librarian for a full term. How are the boys to do their research if they don’t have a skilled professional here to help them find sources?”

Amusement sparkled in her eyes, turning the warm brown whiskey-gold. Yet again, John felt like this woman knew him, as if his little ramble was exactly what she would have expected him to say. A treacherous warmth filled him, and he had to resist the urge to step closer to her, to pull her into his arms, to brush the hair out of her face.

Marion smirked at him. “Well, maybe Mr. Roscastle should have filled the position earlier, but given that it fit my needs so perfectly, I’m selfishly grateful that he didn’t.” She winked at him. “What would I have done if I’d gotten to Farringham and there hadn’t been a single respectable position that could support me? I would have had to go on to the next town, or maybe even back to London all on my own.”

The recoil started in the tips of John’s toes and rolled all the way through his body. Just thinking about how close he’d come to never meeting Marion made him desperate to hold her as close as possible.

Marion tilted her head and stared at him for a moment. Then her expression cleared, and she shook her head quickly. “But I am here, so there’s no reason to think about something that didn’t happen,” she added quickly.

John breathed a sigh of relief. “You are here, aren’t you?”

Her smile softened. “Yes, I’m really here.”

John felt something brush against his knuckles, and looking down, he realised he’d never let go of her hand. “I beg your pardon, Miss Smith,” he said, feeling flustered for at least the tenth time in the last five minutes. He released her and shoved his hands into his pockets, since he apparently could not trust himself not to be overly familiar with the librarian.

A delicate blush coloured Miss Smith’s cheeks, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “You have nothing to apologise for, Mr. Tyler,” she assured him. “After all, I could have protested or withdrawn my hand.”

Rose—Marion— ducked her head and stared at her feet for a few minutes before squaring her jaw to look at him directly. “I’m afraid I’ve been struggling with loneliness lately, and I found the human contact too comforting to let go of.”

The little catch in Rose’s voice had always sparked the Doctor’s protective instincts, and John found himself reacting the same way to Marion. She sounded so lonely, and he said the one thing he could think of that might make her feel less alone.

“Then we have something in common,” he told her softly. His memories of Rose might only be dreams, but he still woke up every morning missing her. “I recently lost someone I cared for dearly.”

Marion held out her hand, and John took it in one of his. She smiled up at him, and once again, the tenderness in her eyes made him feel like she knew every part of who he was.

“Then perhaps we could be friends, Mr. Tyler.”

“Perhaps we could, Miss Smith.”

oOoOo

Rose took a shaky breath after the Doctor left the library. A week ago, she would have said one of her biggest fears was that somehow, she would get back to the Doctor only to discover centuries had passed for him and he didn’t remember who she was. Nothing could be worse than her husband looking at her without a shred of recognition in his eyes.

But she’d been wrong. John’s eyes had positively lit up when he saw her, and a matching wave of emotion had washed over Rose from their dormant bond. Surprise, elation, relief—everything you’d expect to feel if you were suddenly reunited with your spouse after a long, painful separation.

And she’d had to pretend she didn’t know him. She’d watched him fumble with her false name, the sounds clearly feeling as wrong to him as it did to her. The way he’d sounded it out the second time, trying to get the same rhythm to it that he gave Rose Tyler…

Rose rested her head in her hands and clenched her eyes shut until the hot feeling dissipated and she was confident she wouldn’t cry.

Martha had told her that some of the Doctor’s memories seemed to be seeping out into dreams, but she hadn’t mentioned that he’d dreamed of her. In retrospect, it was obvious—she’d certainly had plenty of dreams about the Doctor while she’d been gone. Of course he’d dreamt about her.

But the way he looked at her… Rose straightened up and took a shuddering breath. All her stern reminders to herself about how John Tyler wasn’t the Doctor had flown out the window when he’d smiled at her.

She’d been prepared for him to not know her, for him to look at her like a stranger. Instead, he’d looked at Marion Smith and seen Rose Tyler.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “How am I going to pretend I don’t love him?”

oOoOo

As soon as John reached his study, he pulled his journal out of his drawer and sat down at his desk to draw. He’d seen Rose. He’d met her; she was real.

He traced the line of her jaw and the curve of her lips with his pen. A single strand of hair had been falling out of her pins, and he drew the way it brushed down into her eyes.

He had to pause for a moment, remembering how hard it had been to not reach out and push that piece hair back. Rose was right there. His Rose. The woman he’d been dreaming about. He knew exactly how she would lean into his touch, how she would grab onto his tie to pull him down for a kiss…

John shook his head quickly, trying to dislodge those thoughts. This was Marion, not Rose. Marion didn’t know him. She wasn’t his wife.

His hand slowed and the scratching of pen against paper died down. She wasn’t, but she could be.

John leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe this was why he’d dreamed about being the Doctor, about being married to Rose. Maybe the dreams had been some kind of… super time sense, telling him that he was about to meet the woman who would be his perfect partner, who could hold his hand as he travelled across the stars—or just to London for a weekend.

Maybe the dreams had been a sign. Maybe Marion wasn’t Rose, but maybe she could be his wife.

The next afternoon, when classes were over for the day, John brushed his sweaty palms against his tweed trousers and pushed open the library door. Marion was standing with her back to him, shelving a stack of books, and he stood and watched her for a moment. Everything about her was exactly like Rose, even the way she held her body and moved.

When she shelved the last book, she turned around for another stack and caught sight of him. “Mr. Tyler!” she said, her cheeks flushing pink. “Did you need help finding a book for one of your classes?”

He shook his head. “Classes are over for the day, and I doubt any of the boys will be visiting you this afternoon. I wondered…” He tugged on his tie. “I wondered if you would like to take a walk with me?”

Rose stared at John Tyler for a long moment. His pale cheeks had flushed, showing off his freckles. She knew what that meant—he was nervous.

Which meant this was not just about going for a walk. John Tyler wanted to court her.

When she didn’t answer right away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and a little furrow appeared in his forehead. “Right, of course not. You probably… that is… I mean, you have books…”

Rose couldn’t stand the look of disappointment on his face. She never wanted the Doctor to doubt that she loved him, and even though he was human without most of his memories, this was still the Doctor.

She smiled gently. “I’d love to go for a walk with you, Mr. Tyler,” she told him, and she was surprised to learn that she truly meant it—not because she wanted to spend more time with the Doctor, but because she wanted to get to know more about this man he was pretending to be.

A true Doctor smile crossed his face then, not the regulated smile of a teacher trying to meet the expectations of his reserved peers. He bounced lightly on his toes.

“Brilliant!” he enthused. “I’ll go get my coat and meet you at the door in… shall we say ten minutes?”

Rose nodded, and had to put her hand over her mouth when he spun around and practically skipped out of the room. No matter what else came of this afternoon, she’d made her Doctor happy.

Her smiled faded a few minutes later as she put on all the pieces of outerwear deemed necessary to go outside in this society. Long coat buttoned up tight, a scarf wrapped around her neck, hat perched jauntily on top of her head, and finally, warm gloves. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she had to admit the hat was a good addition to the outfit, even if it wasn’t what she would normally wear.

The human Doctor was waiting for her just outside the door, and he beamed at her when she appeared. “Ready to walk, Miss Smith?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Rose felt a blush creep over her cheeks as she took his arm. “Where are we going, Mr. Tyler?”

He gestured vaguely with his free arm. “Oh, I thought we could take a ramble through the countryside, just take in the picturesque scenery.”

As they passed through the stone gates at the end of the drive, a cold beam of sunshine broke through the December clouds. The fields that lined the road were white with frost, even though it was afternoon, and Rose tightened her scarf around her neck.

“It’s beautiful here,” she told John. “I’ve always loved the icy beauty of winter.” Walking arm-in-arm with him as she was, she could feel his indrawn breath, and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Do you ever imagine…” he said slowly, “what it would be like if an entire planet were nothing but snow and ice?”

Rose’s heart stopped for a moment. “Another planet?” she said, trying to keep her voice light. Martha had told her he’d been remembering, but hearing him talk about something and knowing exactly what he was referring to…

She cast her mind back to Woman Wept, nearly eight years ago for her. “What happened to turn it to ice?”

John nearly tripped over his own feet. The idea of an ice planet hadn’t come from nowhere—he’d dreamed about taking Rose there, as the Doctor. He’d held her hand as they stood beneath massive, frozen waves, and she looked up at him and asked exactly the same question Marion just had, word for word.

He took a deep breath. “Oh… I’d say it was a cataclysmic disaster,” he told her, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t sound like he actually believed Woman Wept was a real place, but at the same time, if Rose and Marion were the same person somehow, he wanted her to recognise him.

He gestured at the road in front of them. “Imagine we’re standing on an ocean turned to ice in the middle of a fierce storm. Huge waves have frozen in the middle of their fury, and we’re walking on them.”

“S’beautiful,” Rose breathed as they walked under icy tree branches that stood in for the waves in his memory. “How’d you come up with that idea, anyway?”

John bit his lip, but he only debated for a moment before he told her the truth. “I dreamt it.”

“You dreamt of an entire planet?” Rose rested her other hand on his elbow. “What else have you dreamt about, Mr. Tyler?”

“Well…” He winced when he tugged on his ear and resolved not to do that when he was cold. “I keep imagining that I’m someone else, and that I’m hiding.”

To his surprise, his companion stopped in the middle of the road and stared up at him through wide eyes. “What do you mean, hiding?”

Her eyes sparked with concern, and he thought he saw flecks of gold in their brown depths. John shook his head and took her hand, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles. “It’s only a dream, Miss Smith,” he reminded her.

She bit her lip, but then he watched as she visibly collected herself, pulling the fiercely protective nature that had just peeked through back under wraps. “A dream, yeah.” She nodded and laughed. “And you can call me Marion, if you like,” she offered. “At least when it’s just the two of us. I’m sure someone at the school would say something about the impropriety of a school master calling the librarian by her first name, but I really prefer it.”

John could fee a silly grin spreading across his face, but he couldn’t help himself. “Then you must call me John.” Marion still didn’t feel like the right name for the woman smiling up at him, but he wouldn’t refuse her offer.

Marion smiled at him, and her tongue teased him again. “All right then, John,” she agreed. “Now, you were telling me about your dreams.”

John reached for her hand. As nice as it had felt to walk arm in arm with Marion, holding her hand was as natural as breathing.

“Well, this is going to sound silly,” he said.

Rose swung their hands between them. “Tell me,” she encouraged.

“I dream, quite often, that I have two hearts.”

Marion took his hand and pulled it closer, and a moment later, he felt her fingers press against the inside of his wrist. “Marion? What are you…”

“Shhh,” she said, and he realised she was taking his pulse. A moment later, she smiled up at him and let their hands drop back to their sides. “Well, unless the second heart is like… a stealth heart or something, you only have one.”

John tipped his head back and laughed. “Marion Smith you are…”

His single heart filled with warm affection for the woman in front of him. Last night, he’d tried to tell himself that Marion wasn’t Rose, to not expect her to act like Rose. But when she smiled Rose’s smile and used Rose’s wit, it was hard to remember she was not the woman of his dreams.

Marion raised an eyebrow. “Did my clever answer impress you, John?” she teased.

The word tugged at his memory, and John grinned down at her. “Yes, exactly,” he agreed. “You’re so impressive.”

To his surprise, Marion stopped walking and bent over with her hands on her knees. John was concerned for a moment, until he realised she was laughing too hard to stay upright.

“I didn’t realise a simple compliment would elicit this reaction from you,” he said dryly.

Marion straightened and wiped tears from her cheeks. “Oh, I am never going to let you forget you said that,” she gasped. “Thank you, John. This has been one of the best days I’ve had in a long, long time.”

#ficandchips #ten x rose #dwfic #doctorroseprompts #31 days of ficmas #fic by Nancy #cq's fic: always her doctor #fobbed fic #reunion fic #mentions of woman wept #in which John and Rose meet #soooo excited to post this chapter #:D

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sapphicscholar · 7 years

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The much-requested follow up to the Craigslist Girlfriend Chapter 141! It's all crack and fluff with just a moment or two of discussion about Maggie's past with her family. As my girlfriend put it, "it's too fucking cute." Enjoy!

A/N: Because sometimes I think holidays and a lot of holiday episodes of shows or chapters of fanfic hype up the idea of coming out, just as a reminder, if it isn't safe for you to come out or you aren't ready to deal with questions, you're more than okay not coming out, and you certainly don't have to do it on a day with a ton of other stressors already happening just because it's a "convenient" time when the whole family might already be around. It's a personal choice, not one that society or other people (even family and close friends) get to make for you. And if you have the choice and don't want to spend today with biological family, that's okay too! Do what's best for you personally, and sometimes that means binge-watching shitty TV and eating takeout and ice cream with chosen family.

Chapter Text:

“Did you know about her real job?” Alex demanded, cornering Lucy and pushing her up against a wall.

“Ya know, I’ve had dreams about this exact situation, Agent Danvers,” Lucy taunted, biting at her lower lip and throwing a lewd wink in Alex’s direction.

“I’m being serious. She said you interrogated her with Vasquez. Did you two know?”

“Um, kind of? Not quite. We knew that she wasn’t quite the scumbag she advertised herself as.”

“And how did you find that out?”

“We had her produce all of her old arrest documents and tax returns.”

Alex continued to eye Lucy suspiciously. “They could have been fakes.”

“No, Vasquez brought a computer system and finger print scanner. We knew the stuff was hers, but we let her cover up her last name and all—very generous of us.”

“And so she also covered up everything that identified her prints as belonging to a cop?”

“I guess.” Lucy shrugged, ducking out from under Alex’s arm the moment she relaxed slightly. Now a few feet away from immediate bodily harm, Lucy grinned over at her interrogator. “Now that you know she’s a cop, that change anything? Suddenly noticing how hot she is?”

Scowling, Alex scoffed and shook her head. “She’s still weird enough to lie about herself online.”

“And you’ve never lied online?” Lucy interjected, shooting Alex a disbelieving look.

“Not like that! And I certainly never volunteered to crash Thanksgiving with a bunch of random people!”

“You could have cancelled on her, but you didn’t…” Lucy trailed off, letting the meaning of her words sink in. “I’m just saying, maybe you don’t have that much room to judge.”

“Whatever.” Alex turned back to the two-way mirror, looking in at Maggie, who sat surrounded by large stacks of paperwork all marked up with sticky tabs indicating where she needed to sign, date, and initial. Seeing her look so small at the large table, Alex felt a pang of guilt. After all, the woman was stuck spending a holiday alone with paperwork when the only thing her ad had made clear was that she wanted a hot meal spent with other people, even if she wasn’t quite being honest about whom she was.

With a deep breath, Alex pushed open the door. “I come bearing pie.”

“My savior,” Maggie teased, though her stomach chose that moment to let out a loud growl.

“Yes, well, I suppose you were right about having been promised a meal. And I’m not one to back out of a promise.”

“You did stick with me, even once you met Gertie…”

Alex let out a small snort of laughter but nodded, sinking down into the chair opposite Maggie. “You know, when I was little, I used to beg my parents for a dog.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I put together whole presentations about why we should get one. They taught responsibility, encouraged physical activity, increased their owners happiness and longevity.” Maggie bit back a smile, imagining a shrunken down version of the woman sitting in front of her presenting whole stacks of research to her parents. “They insisted we didn’t have enough time to be responsible dog owners. In retrospect…yeah, okay, probably fair. But I had everything planned.”

“That’s really sweet, Danvers.”

Alex shrugged. “Point is, I decided about that time that we would name her Gertrude.”

“That’s, uh, quite the name.”

“You named your truck Gertie.”

“I suppose I did…guess it’s just the universe telling us how perfect we are together,” Maggie teased, though she had to admit, spending the day with Alex was much more fun than she had expected. She felt like she knew her better than a few of the women she’d actually dated in recent memory.

“Ah yes, such a sweet talker. For that I’m taking away your pie.”

“Hey!” Maggie protested, holding out her hands and making a gimme motion.

“Nope. When you’re done—if you’re good.”

“Mmm, now that doesn’t sound as platonic as the ad said.” When Alex’s cheeks colored, Maggie grinned triumphantly. “So what else do I get if I’m good?”

“Both kinds of pie,” Alex deadpanned.

“And if I don’t behave?”

Alex rolled her eyes. “You get thrown into a cell until you do.”

“Kinky.”

“Fuck off.”

“If it means I don’t have to do paperwork anymore…”

Eyeing the large stacks, Alex began flipping through them. “First of all, you’re close to done. Second of all, you’re moving slowly.”

“I’m reading the fine print! I don’t sign something not knowing what it says.”

“What if I tell you—help speed this process up?”

“You won’t lie?”

“We’re on camera if I do.”

“And? I know what happens when tapes get lost.”

“You have my word, alright?” Alex didn’t mention that she also had knowledge that Alex had threatened to kill over on more than one occasion, but Maggie seemed to understand that fact.

“Fine.” So Maggie sat back and began initialing and signing more quickly as Alex sped through the information they contained, reducing 400-page documents to a single sentence: “If you out Kara, the DEO will try to lock you up, but they’ll never find your body because I will have come for you first.”

“Says that in the packet, does it?”

“No, I’m giving you the honest version.”

There was something in the steely glint to Alex’s gaze that told Maggie not to push it—not that she ever had any intention of outing Supergirl anyway. She had enough alien friends and experience with forcible outings to know better. “I would expect nothing less.”

“Good.” And she genuinely believed Maggie for some reason.

Eventually they made it through the large stack, finishing much faster than Maggie ever would have if left on her own. “Well, you’re a free woman now, Maggie Sawyer.”

“I believe I was promised pie when I finished my assignment.”

“Mm, that you were…” Thinking back on it, Alex would never know what led her to suggest it—whether it was the knowledge that Maggie had stood up for her to her mother and, hell, to her own voice of self doubt, or if it was just the fresh memory of the delightful way she’d been such a dick to Mike, or maybe the reminder of Lucy’s words about just how cute the woman was—but Alex took a deep breath and turned to Maggie. “My mom dropped off the leftovers at my apartment, and I’ve even got a bottle of scotch there that I bet pairs well with chocolate pecan pie.”

Tilting her head to the side, Maggie tried to find some hint of sarcasm or a prank to get back at her for lying about her occupation. But Alex looked somewhat earnest, and, maybe Maggie was just projecting, but she almost seemed flirty. “You and me?”

“What? Yeah, I mean, I just, neither of us have anywhere else to go today. Though we could, you know, keep each other company.”

“Yeah—yeah, alright.” Even if she was fairly certain it was only her imagination making Alex’s offer sound distinctly sexual in nature, she was down for pie, scotch, and good company.

---

“You asshole, you were gonna let me break my hand punching an alien in the face?” Maggie cackled, the second or third glass of whiskey having loosened them both up. As she tucked her legs up underneath her on the sofa, she found herself feeling beyond grateful for the sweatpants Alex had let her borrow, even if they were a bit long.

“You’re the one that offered to punch him. I just didn’t say no,” Alex pointed out, snorting as Maggie yelled, “Semantic, Danvers! Semantics!”

Finally pulling herself up off the couch, Alex traipsed over to the kitchen where her mom had stored the leftovers. They probably should have started with food; maybe she wouldn’t be feeling the scotch quite as much as she was if they had. “What do you want?”

You, Maggie thought, shaking her head to get rid of that distinctly dangerous thought. “What are you offering?” she called back instead, thinking flirty suggestions were still better than outright propositions.

“There’s turkey, mashed potatoes—damn, Kara’s gonna be pissed when she finds out mom didn’t leave all of them for her—um, cheesecake, chocolate pecan pie, and some kind of cookie.”

“I was told that the pecan pie was the best in the galaxy—and now that I know that wasn’t an exaggeration…”

“Ugh,” Alex groaned, though she still cut a generous portion and dropped it onto a plate, grabbing a slice of cheesecake for herself. She topped off both of their glasses before settling back down on the couch a bit closer to Maggie than she had been before.

“Cheesecake, really? You gonna tell me you always dreamed of being on the Golden Girls?”

“What?”

“The Golden Girls—the show.” Alex continued to look at her in confusion. “C’mon, Rose, Sophia, Blanche, and Dorothy? Four old ladies living together, kickin it old school down in Florida. Really? Never seen it?”

“Why would I have voluntarily watched a show about senior citizens?”

“Because it was amazing. Duh.”

“Mhm, sureeee.”

“I’m serious! First of all”—Maggie held up her index finger, balancing her plate precariously on her knee—“it was so fucking progressive for its time. Second of all, it was all ladies as the main cast. Third, it’s fucking hilarious.” When Alex still looked unimpressed, Maggie waved a hand dismissively at her. “Whatever, you’re such a Dorothy.”

“What does that mean?”

“Guess you’ll have to watch the show to find out.” Maggie stuck her tongue out at her, not caring how childish it seemed.

“You’re the worst.”

“Nope, can’t be true. Cause I’m also the best.”

“How do you figure that?”

“It’s what all my ex-girlfriends said in bed,” Maggie teased, arching an eyebrow, challenging Alex to respond.

“Mm, find me a girlfriend who’s still your girlfriend to say it, then we’ll talk.”

Biting her tongue, Maggie managed to avoid offering to prove it right then and there. “If I had a girlfriend right now, you would’ve been out a fabulous fake date for the day.”

“There is that.”

“And if I hadn’t been your fake date, you wouldn’t be having this amazing night of tipsy fun right now.”

“I probably would have been tipsy.”

“Yeah, but c’mon, being tipsy with me is like, a bajillion times better.” As if to emphasize her point, Maggie topped off their glasses again, thinking that she should probably call it quits after that—no need to be completely hungover tomorrow, especially when she was sure to get called in for all sorts of Black Friday spats.

“Maybe.”

“Totally. It feels like—like back when you were younger, and at a sleepover, and it was beyond late, and everyone was just a little delirious, but it was so much fun. Like—that time of night when anything could happen ’cause all the grownups were asleep, and it was like you and your friends ruled the world.” She tried not to dwell on how she’d lost several years of those kinds of nights after everything with Eliza—too scared to let herself get close to any of her friends again, too jaded and bitter.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Maggie noticed the faraway look in Alex’s eyes. “So who was she?”

“Who?”

“The girl.”

“What girl?”

“C’mon, the one you used to have sleepovers with and spend all of your time together with—best friend-level status—but when you came out you realized that not everyone also wants to hold their best friend’s hand and snuggle and spend the rest of their lives together and maybe kiss each other.”

Eventually Alex relented, sighing, “Vicky Donahue.” Maggie patted Alex’s shoulder softly. “What about you?”

“Oh, uh,” Maggie stammered; she hadn’t thought this all the way through. “Um, Eliza—Eliza Wilkie. I don’t—I don’t really wanna talk about it, though.”

Sensing the abrupt shift in mood, Alex turned to Maggie, a grin playing about her lips. “Alright, well, fuck them—except, I guess, probably don’t.” Maggie snorted at that. “We still deserve fun sleepovers, just cause we missed out on some of them.”

Wondering if Alex had had something similar happen, or if it was more that all too common story—the fights that seemed to erupt with no explanation, the dissolution of long friendships when the other one suddenly found a boy to occupy her time—Maggie shrugged. “What do you propose?”

“Well you’re too fucked up to drive, that’s for sure.” Maggie nodded in acknowledgment; she hadn’t been planning on driving Gertie home that night. “So eating absurd amounts of dessert and playing stupid slumber party games?” Alex wasn’t entirely sure why she wasn’t ready for the night to end just yet, but Maggie was fun and, she thought, feeling a bit wistful, she hadn’t gotten to have much fun in a while. Sure, Lucy was great, but more and more she spent her time out at the desert base and her weekends with Vasquez. And Alex was happy for them—of course she was—but she couldn’t help but feel a little…lonely, and Maggie seemed like just the way to add some much needed fun back into her life. The whole day was absurd. Why not make it even more so? And then they never needed to see each other again.

“So, what, truth or dare?” Maggie laughed, but Alex just shrugged.

“Alright. Unless you’d rather I straighten your hair…”

“Truth or Dare, Danvers.”

“Dare.”

“Damn…jumping right in there with a dare.” Maggie paused; she’d forgotten how hard it was to come up with good dares, and the alcohol gave her plenty of ideas, but she doubted that any of them were useful. “Uh, I dare you to prank call Mike.”

“He knows my number.”

“You can use my phone. And god, Alex, you block the number, duh.”

Rolling her eyes, Alex accepted the proffered phone, dialing *67, then plugging in Mike’s number. It wasn’t until he picked up that she realized she hadn’t planned anything, and she definitely hadn’t prank called anyone in many, many years. “Um, is your refrigerator running?” Alex asked, fumbling for words as Maggie bit down on her hand to keep from laughing.

“What?” he asked. “Do I know you?”

Panicking, Alex tried to deepen her voice and yelled into the phone, “No! You’re dumb, and I hate you! Bye!”

As soon as she hung up, Maggie howled in laughter. “That was the worst prank call I’ve ever seen in my life.” She wiped away the tears of laughter from her eyes.

“Whatever,” Alex huffed. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“Why the hell do you advertise on Craigslist for Thanksgiving? Honestly.”

“I used to work the holiday every year, but the kinds of calls you get on holidays—god, there’s only so much you can take of them. This is a way to get a free meal and not have to deal with a reminder that I’m alone, that my own family would rather have an empty seat at the table than see me—all because if I ever brought a date, she’d be a woman.”

“Fuck, Maggie, I—that sucks.”

“It’s been a long time. I’m used to it. The holidays just—it’s nice to have a kind of absurd distraction, see how fucked up other people’s families are too.”

“Yeah? Got any weird stories?” Alex asked, hoping to bring Maggie’s attention away from the past.

“I should make you wait for the next truth, but…I’m feeling generous. Hmm, last year I went with a dude whose whole family was military—really strict. He was an artist, and nothing he did was ever right. I guess they were on his case about bringing a date, and so he figured he’d give them a big fuck you, so I came in there with my “Fuck Bush” t-shirt and talked about getting arrested for protesting the military.” Alex looked rather impressed. “We were asked to leave before dinner was even over, but I snagged a whole pie and a bottle of wine on the way out.”

“So have you ever made it through a full meal?”

“Once or twice. The time I proposed—well that one went almost 7 hours! They needed to know all about me.”

“Have you seen that person since?”

“Nope.” Fixing Alex with a hard stare, Maggie tried to keep a serious face, even as she popped another bite of pie into her mouth. “Your turn. Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“Hm…last significant relationship?”

“Uh…god, I don’t know. I tried dating some dude for a bit in college, but that obviously didn’t work out too well—my being a big flaming homo who just hadn’t admitted it yet.”

“Mm, that does put a damper on things.”

“Then grad school and work kept me too busy to do more than a few casual dates now and then.”

“Makes sense.” Maggie didn’t really see who wouldn’t be willing to put up with slightly crazy work hours for a woman as gorgeous and funny as Alex, but then again, women sure hadn’t been willing to stick around for her.

“Truth or dare.”

“Hmm, truth I guess.”

“Worst first date.”

Maggie thought for a moment. “Hmm…back in college I took this girl to see a scary movie—she’d said that she really liked them too. As it turns out, she hated them. By the ten minute mark, she was already crying, and when we left she yelled at me. Apparently I should have realized that she was lying.”

“That sounds…dreadful,” Alex snorted. “If you ever want someone better to go see a horror movie with, I’m your girl.”

Maggie hated the way her stomach flipped at the idea of Alex being her girl. “Is that so?”

“Kara sure as hell won’t go with me.”

“Let me guess: she prefers romcoms where some douche-bro has a nice little redemption arc.”

“Just the ones.”

“Figures.” A beat. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” Alex answered.

“Hmm…hold old were you when you lost your virginity? Even if it’s a social construct,” Maggie added.

“Twenty. You?”

“I guess we can call this my next turn—18. So now you go again.”

“Uh, dare, I guess.”

Maggie tried to think of something. “Uh, show me any tattoos you have?”

“Don’t have any. Truth or dare.”

“Ugh, you suck. Um, truth.”

“One of these days, you’ll have to choose dare.” Maggie just shrugged; she would…eventually. “Most embarrassing moment.”

“In thirty years, Danvers? Dear god, how do I choose just one?”

“Okay, just in college.”

“Ooh, it’s a toss up.”

“Between?”

“Got caught a little, uh, less than dressed in the library. And accidentally sent something to a professor that was very much not meant for a professor.”

“How did you do that?”

“A couple of shots and too many documents saved on my desktop with less than descriptive file names.”

“Ugh, you’re one of those people?”

“Not anymore,” Maggie laughed. “Alright, your turn: truth or dare.”

“I guess truth.”

“Celebrity crush.”

“Oh but there are so many…”

“Pick one!”

“Um, oh god, what’s her name?” It was on the tip of her tongue, but the scotch was making her thoughts a little fuzzy around the edges, and Maggie’s hand that had somehow made its way to her knee wasn’t helping. “Um, she played Wonder Woman?”

“Oh fuck, yeah, she’s hot. Totally get it.”

“Yeah, anyway, truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

Alex cackled gleefully before suddenly pausing. “Um…huh, this is harder than I remember.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well back with friends we’d do stupid shit, like make each other dress up in ridiculous outfits or go streaking down the block.”

“You want me to go run a lap around the floor of your apartment building in the nude?” Maggie teased.

“Wha—what? No!” Forcing herself to laugh, Alex tried to drive away thoughts of what Maggie might look like naked, hoping the other woman hadn’t noticed the way her gaze had dropped, though her smirk seemed to suggest that she had definitely noticed.

“So if not that, then what’ll it be, Danvers? What do you want me to do?” She definitely didn’t imagine the slightly strangled noise Alex let out at that particular phrasing.

Trying to think of the least sexual thing she could, Alex suggested, “Let me give you an absurd hairstyle, then you have to snapchat a selfie with it.”

“Deal. Maggie turned around so that her back was to Alex and pulled her hair tie out, letting her hair fall to her shoulders. It wasn’t until Alex was up on her knees, her fingers raking through her hair, that Maggie realized she hadn’t quite thought this through, hadn’t quite realized just how sensual it could feel to have Alex touching her, even if it was to give her an absolutely hideous new look.

Running her fingers through Maggie’s hair, Alex tried to ignore the small shiver that ran through the smaller woman’s frame, tried to convince herself that she imagined the small moan of contentment. Instead she focused on giving Maggie the closest approximation to Cindy Lou Who’s hairstyle she could come up with.

By the time she finished, Maggie nearly fell off the couch in her rush to get away from Alex’s hands, from the heat of her body, from the chance that she would do something stupid like turn around and kiss her frustratingly kissable lips. Luckily catching sight of her new do was enough to completely distract from the situation at hand. “Oh my god,” she cackled. “What is this?”

“You like? Maybe I should contemplate a career change.”

“Oh for sure. Totally worth the risk.” Alex laughed and shook her head, finishing off her cheesecake while Maggie sent the photo around to a few of her closest friends.

Over the course of a few more rounds, Alex talked about her gay awakening and was given 60 seconds to pull together the most ridiculous outfit she could find—returning in as much neon as Kara had left in her closet over the years as she could gather in the allotted time—and Maggie was forced to eat some hideous concoction of the first three ingredients she touched in Alex’s fridge with her eyes covered.

Once she was done rinsing her mouth out for what felt like a thousandth time, Maggie turned back to Alex. “Truth or dare?”

“Um, truth.”

“Hmm…got a crush on anyone at the moment?” Maggie hoped it sounded innocuous enough, like it could totally just be one friend asking another friend, not angling or hoping for anything in particular.

Swallowing thickly, Alex made a noncommittal noise. “Maybe.”

“Well that sounds promising.”

“I don’t know—just, someone new. She seems fun, like maybe she’d be worth the risk.”

“Is she cute?” Maggie wondered if she was more of a narcissist or a masochist, though really that depended on whether or not Alex was talking about her.

“I’d probably say hot, but yeah, she’s cute too.”

“Probably pretty cool and suave too, huh?”

“Meh,” Alex teased, wondering if Maggie knew it was her. “She’s kind of dorky, comes off a little weird too.”

“Bet she’s still one of the coolest people you’ve ever met.”

“We’ll see…” Alex took a sip of the water she’d switched to about the time of Maggie’s absurd kitchen dare. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

Bracing herself, Alex tried to look nonchalant. “What about you? Found anyone you like recently?”

“I think so…”

“That so? Think she likes you back?”

“I sure hope so.”

“What’s she like?”

Maggie couldn’t help the dopey grin. “She’s really smart—like, genius level, ya know? And she’s just gorgeous. And, sure, okay, a huge nerd and probably not the smoothest person out there, but I think she might—she might get me, like, she might not try to change me into someone I’m not.”

Alex nodded earnestly. Even if Maggie wasn’t talking about her, she deserved someone who would give her all of that, deserved someone who would more than make up for the family she’d lost. God, she chastised herself, this so wasn’t like her. She didn’t fall head over heels for random people she barely knew, even when they did stand up for her and look that hot holding a gun and a badge. Kara was the one who got butterflies, who imagined futures together on first dates, who fell heart first without constantly second-guessing herself.

“Danvers?”

“Huh?” Alex shook herself from her thoughts.

“I said truth or dare.”

“Oh, um, dare.

Maggie nodded, trying to gather her courage. “You know, um, dares don’t have to be done at this moment, right? Like, if circumstances aren’t right, of if you don’t want to…”

“Well obviously, you didn’t say that you double dog dared me,” Alex teased, trying to lighten the mood. It seemed to work as Maggie cracked a smile.

“Right, right. Just a normal dare.” Maggie forced herself to look up at Alex’s face. “Well then, first chance you get, I dare you to kiss that crush of yours.”

“First chance, huh?”

“First chance,” Maggie confirmed.

They both sat there for a moment, neither one of them moving, until Alex surged forward. She could have been smoother about it or tried to go slow enough to make sure Maggie really knew what she had dared her to do, but she knew if she didn’t move quickly, she’d lose all her nerve. So she pressed her lips to Maggie’s, just barely kissing her despite the grand lead up to it all.

Before Alex could panic, backing off and rambling apologies until Maggie left her apartment, she felt a warm hand cupping the back of her neck and dragging her forward, their lips crashing together. And somehow, dressed in a neon yellow t-shirt with lime green leggings on and hot pink knee socks—she still wasn’t sure where Kara even found these types of things or why she had left them all at Alex’s place—and half-straddling a woman in overly long sweatpants with her hair done like Cindy Lou Who, Alex felt like she was enjoying one of the most romantic holidays of her life.

#sanvers #crack #fluff #thanksgiving #craigslist girlfriend #alex x maggie #alex danvers #maggie sawyer #lucy lane #fanfic #supergirl #ao3feed #prompt fill

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stanowarb2 · 7 years

Photo

Domestic Portrait, After Mapplethorpe

Art by @baradokart, commissioned by @stanowarb2

Spoiler Alert: I didn’t commission this as a Grunkle BDSM headcanon -- but if that’s your thing, enjoy! Rather, the HC motivating it is one where Stan and Ford pay homage to Robert Mapplethorpe, the controversial and revolutionary American photographer.

CLICK “KEEP READING” to see backstory, reference image, and line art!

The photograph that inspired this commission is ‘Brian Ridley and Lyle Heeter,’ by Robert Mapplethorpe, 1979.

There’s an excellent write up about the photograph on the website of The Tate.

If you’re unfamiliar with the works of Mapplethorpe, please dive right in with the Wikipedia page about him.

In short, he was an astoundingly talented photographer who during his short life changed the medium of photography in all its genres -- fine art, portraiture, advertising, even porn -- forever.

During the 1960′s, 70′s, and 80′s, at a time when LGBTQ rights and diversity had yet to reach national visibility, he selected his subjects fearlessly. He courted controversy, and as his fame grew controversy grew -- even after his death.

In the summer of 1989, the Corcoran Museum of Art in Washington, DC, canceled the installation of a major retrospective of his work. At issue were photographs like the one above, and it sparked headline news and debates in the U.S. Congress. Many say it was the most important museum event of the 20th Century.

But Mapplethorpe didn’t live to see it. He died in early 1989, at the age of 42, of complications due to HIV/AIDS. He was one of millions of voices and visions lost to the disease, and we need to remember them.

If you’re interested, watch the 2016 HBO documentary, Robert Mapplethorpe: Look at the Pictures, or read the amazing memoir, Just Kids, by his best friend, rock-and-roll superstar Patti Smith.

And if you know an LGBT person who lived through the AIDS Crisis in the 1980′s and 1990′s, sit down with them and ask them what it was like. Ask them who they lost.

So, back to the HC...

For those of us who headcanon Stan as gay or bi, it’s pretty easy to imagine that between getting kicked out of the family house in Glass Shard Beach and showing up at Ford’s shack in 1982, he met a lot of people and had a lot of sex with men along the way. And he arrives in Gravity Falls right around the time national newspapers carry their first stories about AIDS.

You don’t have to veer very far off-canon to imagine that dozens of the friends Stan had made on the road eventually succumbed to the disease. There wasn’t a test for it at the time, so for years men who'd been with guys who later died of AIDS endured the torture of wondering if they were themselves infected.

That fear drove change. People took to the streets in protest groups like ACT UP, but just as importantly they took to the labs of the CDC and hospitals around the world, and to the board rooms of corporate America to get the word out that this wasn’t a gay problem, it was a global problem.

For decades AIDS was a death sentence. Today’s maintenance and PrEP drugs are miraculous by comparison. And for as silly as it might seem, when I headcanon my two favorite characters of all time, I think of the AIDS conversation Stan has to have at some point. I imagine Ford saying, “So, what have I missed since 1982?” and Stan saying, “We should probably sit down for this. I’m gonna need a box of Kleenex and a bottle of whiskey.”

Some months later, after Ford has had time to catch up -- and you just know his research will be encyclopedic -- he’ll say to Stan, “What can we do to help people remember all that was lost?”

Stan will chew his bottom lip and look at the floor, then out the window, then across the spines of books on his book case. He smiles. “We can remind people about Robert Mapplethorpe.”

He grabs his tripod and camera and starts moving furniture.

“Hey Sixer, help me move this deer-antler side table. Sixer? Hey, what’s with the face?”

“Stanley, why do I get the feeling I’ll be naked before this is all over???”

#stancest #Stancestival #tw: incest #Robert Mapplethorpe #AIDS/HIV #Mapplethorpe Cosplay?#Grunkle Stan #Grunkle Ford

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whopooh · 7 years

Text

Miss Fisher and the art of swapping bodies or roles – April’s fic prompt

So, who am I now?

I would never have believed beforehand how fun the trope body swap/role reversal would turn out to be. I thought it would be almost impossible – but just like the soulmate trope in January, there is something about inserting an odd and unnatural element in a story that not usually has that, and then thinking about how you could make sense of it, that is incredibly rewarding. For me, that even meant contributing with more than one story, which is a little odd when doing the summary, but I’ll just have to manage anyway.

The wonderful thing with these tropes is that they can go in so many directions – and in a group of writers like ours, they also do. Taken literally or metaphorically, used as a trope or a theme, being predominantly humorous, sexual, or emotional – each fic simultaneously brings the enjoyment of that separate story and its idea, and adds to the larger enjoyment of the fics taken together. This makes these joint challenges so much fun -- and also the creation of these overview posts.

This is the structure I have made for this post: I will start with the use of body swap written as a theme, then turn to the weaker kind of swap, the role reversal, going through half-swaps, before ending with the body swaps proper.

The body swap used thematically rather than as a trope is the case in @scruggzi, “Ring of Roses”. The idea of body swap is very well used here as part of the case fic, tying it to a medical condition, the Capgras Delusion, where the ill person becomes a murderer from a belief their loved ones have been body swapped and replaced by something threatening. Making the murders a personal tragedy in more than one sense fits so well into the world of MFMM. The sadness of the case is woven together with the emotions and humour of the relationship between the detectives, and a lovely amount of snarky Mac on the side.

‘A serious scholar always seeks to improve himself Miss Fisher and you did appear to appreciate my firm grasp of German.’ ‘I do like a studious man.’ She smirked up at him, leaning in to straighten his tie. Good God, thought Mac, it is far too early in the morning for these two. You would think the presence of an over-ripe corpse in the room would put them off, not that it ever has before.

There is also a very serious side to the treatment of mental illness that Phryne and Mac pick up on in a wonderful exchange, that we meet in an italicised retrospect:

‘Of course, people will come up with all manner of ridiculous reasons for locking women away.’ The doctor observed with distaste. ‘Sadly true.’ Phryne had agreed. ‘I suppose we should be thankful neither of our families have ever paid too much attention to our lifestyle choices or either one of us could have ended up on the wrong end of a spurious diagnosis.’ ‘Well between my unnatural appetites and your shameless pursuit of cock, there's clearly something wrong with us.’ Mac responded, dripping sarcasm into her whiskey as she drained her glass. ‘Unnatural appetites and the shameless pursuit of cock’ had become a favourite toast between the two of them for months after that conversation. Faced with the trembling, defiant face of Samantha Brown, it suddenly seemed far less of a joking matter.

Awkwardness in morgue.

Another thematic fic is @kidnthehall, “Jane D’oh” -- a fun one-shot that is centred on Awkward Mac. Phryne and Mac being best friends is often explored with Mac commenting on Phryne’s relationships, and I love when the opposite happens and Mac is in the centre – like here, where Phryne uses all her detective skills on her friend:

Mac feels the Fisher radar scanning her and feels exposed so she grabs the manila folder and stares at a spot on the floor behind it. Phryne tilts her head, damn it, she'll start sniffing like a blood hound soon, and moves towards the body draped in a white sheet.

Flipping Mac into the centre can be seen as a narrative role reversal (although not in their friendship, that is decidedly already equal). Then we also get the dialogue’s amusing way of mistaking whether they talk about the victim in the morgue or Mac’s lover, and finally there is a literal body swap at the morgue, due to Mac’s distraction. It is all fun, and to top it all up, also Jack is awkward, and this is commented on with the stunning image of “his whole being is sort of reluctantly turned towards Phryne like a moderate heliotrope”.

A third way of doing the swap thematically is @longlineoftvdetectives, “The Most Vivid Dream”, where the body swap is in a dream, and Phryne envisions herself as another of Essie Davis’s roles, Elizabeth Woodville in “The White Princess”. It’s a deliciously meta oriented vignette, with Jack proposing that Phryne is such a wonderfully alive person that she might “occasionally have to overflow into other consciousnesses to express that life force…”.

Wait, isn’t this my desk now?

On to the trope of role reversal, then, that is dominated by reversals between Phryne and Jack. This is such an interesting trope, opening up for many thoughts about canon and character -- especially in a world like MFMM where equality and power dynamics are already so interestingly made -- and on how those can be transposed while still keeping the character’s gist – to also in the reversal keep true to the characters. That gives so much enjoyment to the reader to try to follow.

First I must mention the magnum opus of role reversal in this fandom, @promisesarepiecrust's “City that works”. It is an incredible story, the role reversal set in a modern AU, where Phryne is a policewoman and Jack is a PI leading a liberal life. I am so impressed with how it changes the roles and the gender, but is very far from turning into some stereotypical male/female behaviours. It is a treat to explore the relationship through this lens – every thing the one character does, I as a reader first have to read like it stands, and then double back and consider how it would sound with the genders swapped back. In this challenge, we had the pleasure of a vignette from this AU, @promisesarepiecrust’s “Light and True”. From the perspective of Phryne, the restrained detective, we have a a musing about their different ways of being:

She knew her appeal, in fact had very strong evidence of her appeal, and felt confident in it. It was simply that the currents around her were somehow tighter and more intense; it was that people got close to her and then were more interested, while the currents around him were broad and inviting, and nearly irresistible from the start.

and then:

He was the only person she knew like this, someone with a seemingly boundless affection that was both deep and true but also light and easily shifted. And she did believe that he felt actual affection for the people around him. (---) ‘Light and true,’ she mused. She knew she could work with ‘true’; but could she work with ‘light’? Was it only possible for it to be light?

Another version is @loopyhoopyfrood’s “What’s in a name?”, that explores the reversal by making Phryne suggest that they switch roles for an undercover mission, so that Jack would be the wealthy Mr Fisher and she the accompanying Miss Robinson. The vignette is all about the setup and their banter:

“Miss Fisher, I am not pretending to be you.” “Not me, Jack, don’t be ridiculous. I thought we’d already established that fans wouldn’t work for you.”

And it’s about Jack, overruled by the energy of Phryne, finally finding at least one small part where he can stand his ground.

In @whopooh's “The Inspector Is In”, the role reversal is pulled through as a punishment from the Commissioner. He decides to punish Jack for going against his orders in the tennis case; when the Commissioner forbade Jack to collaborate with civilians he made Phryne an Honorary Constable. And so the Commissioner makes Phryne an Honorary Inspector with the power to take over City South station and become Jack’s boss.

While Jack has to struggle with this development, the reversal makes them inhabit the other’s role, take over aspects of each other, and stretch into each others’ spaces – Phryne taking over the office and making his chair hers; Jack inviting her home for a nightcap and feeding her; Jack coming across one of her crime scenes randomly so Phryne has to rise from a crouch to face him. They also realise some things about why the other behaves in certain ways, and balance between the two:

She realised there was a distinct difference between having a nightcap at her place and at Jack’s. (...) She could feel her heartbeat accelerate and her stomach constrict. Or wasn’t it because of the setting? Was she just experiencing what it meant to be Jack Robinson?

As Phryne is at Jack’s house at a nightcap, she realises that “If she was to be Jack Robinson, she could at least make him a little bit bolder than he usually was.” The Commissioner didn’t really realise what kind of avalanche he actually set off when he appointed his Honorary Inspector.

Who’ll come after whom?

An incredibly emotionally satisfying version of the role reversal is @ladyroxie, “When Fortune Leads" , that hinges around the idea of reverting the very end of season 3 and the “Come after me” exchange: what if Jack was the one leaving Melbourne? As he is so much depicted as a pillar of his city, this becomes a very special move. Jack accepts a job offer in Sydney and comes to tell Phryne about it, and she attempts to celebrate it by champagne – probably the most disastrous champagne scene in the whole fandom, since none of them is the least in the mood for celebrating. Jack does not want to ask too much from Phryne, afraid she might feel caged – Phryne doesn’t want to be anything but supportive about him pursuing his career and making his own choices – thus none of them speak about their feelings, but instead try to suppress them and pretend that everything is fine, which is inadvertently another way of caging the other, not allowing them to choose what they want to be, without realising that.

Sometimes, he was sure she had changed; sure that the ripple of attraction that was there had grown into something more for her, not just him. Once standing in her parlour, he'd made himself known, and he lived with that, surprisingly simply. He loved her, and she knew. He would not ask for more, for doing so would have him become the very person she needed him not to be.

The upheld facades and the rolling emotions behind them are a glorious contrast, the certainty in them both that it is all over, and a very short, fumbling kiss goodbye. Then the explosion of understanding and recognition in the end is like bathing in joy and happiness -- this fic could easily be put in the hurt/comfort trope of May. It forced me to make a ridiculously long comment on AO3, so I won’t try to encapsulate it all here.

Over to the category that isn’t so much body swap as some kind of out of body experience, a half body swap perhaps, without the full switch.

@missingmissfisher & comeaftermejackrobinson’s “I wander all the while” explores Phryne out of her own body, while she is in a coma – working from the setup that it was indeed she who was in the car accident of Blood at the Wheel, though she didn’t die but turned unconscious. Her life force, though, is so strong and lively it cannot be contained by her unconscious body. Instead she finds herself walking around in her world – at Wardlow, and seeking out her friends – and seeing it depopulated, desolate, and in mourning. Phryne is completely isolated, just an onlooker, while no one can see or hear her. Or, as it turns out, almost no one. Jane can, but she is afraid to tell anyone because she fears they will conclude she has inherited her mother’s insanity. She recognizes Phryne’s character:

But I think you’re trapped there, inside your own head. Your soul, your spirit… It has always been, well, restless and reckless. It wouldn’t like being trapped, right? It wouldn’t like being caged, unable to express itself.

It also turns out Jack can see her, but it takes work to make him believe he isn’t just dreaming. And then Phryne’s unconscious body suffers a heart arrest. It is a very emotional journey for Phryne, and for her makeshift family, as they face the possibility that she will never wake up again.

“Are you in here, Jack?”

Another take of a half-swap is Jack coming into Phryne’s body, but she’s still there and they need to come to terms with that closeness, in @ollyjayonline & @whopooh's “Show Not Tell”. The two detectives have fallen out and are not talking to each other, when a case they have been working on, separately and unbeknownst, goes wrong. Phryne is captured and Jack is badly wounded, and when he wakes up they realise he is there with her, in her mind. They can have no secrets for each other as they can sense both the other’s thoughts and feelings – which means they can freely banter in her head, but they cannot hide anything as the other is feeling what they feel while talking. This is a moment of understanding the other’s way of thinking and behaving. Jack, sure that Phryne doesn’t really love him, encounters her emotions about him:

“Do you believe me now?” “Yes,” he said, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. “Thank goodness. It was getting quite ridiculous my having to argue that I knew my own mind.”

But he is also there when she flirts with their guard in order to get them out of the mess:

“Who are you?” Phryne said in her best 'little girl in need of help' voice. The man crouched down to help her sit up. ‘My God, I can’t believe that actually works.’ ‘Shush!’

All their internal bantering and realisations happen while they need to think fast and get out of captivity, to save the wounded Jack before it’s too late.

So, who’ll lead the waltz?

In the category of body swap proper, three fics explore one of the most intriguing possibilities of the trope – Phryne and Jack swapping bodies, and therefore also gender, while being in a relationship.

@gaslightgallows’s chapter 517 of “You asked for it”, "Incomprehensible”, explores this idea in drabble form – the forceful meeting of bodies when they are inhabiting each other’s, and in a beautiful way describing the meeting so it doesn’t really matter who is who – it all blends together: “This body knows what to expect, even if you don’t.”

@jeneenp/Collingwoodgirl “Perks” is a very humorous and tongue-in-cheek version, exploring the idea that Phryne, sexually intrigued by having a male body, would have problems to reign herself in, not at all managing to be a selfless lover but quite the opposite:

He’s annoyed with her but can’t help wincing in empathy as he watches her wrap a large hand around her softening cock, a hiss on her lips. “You promised you would try,” he pouts, unnerved further by the higher pitch of his voice and how much better it's suited to pouting than he is accustomed to.

The swap here is voluntary, they have decided to try this out for fun -- and then Phryne is so caught up with her bodily sensations that she becomes completely selfish. The characterisations are about yielding to pleasure or resisting, about being turned on by the other or by oneself, and also about being affected by things you couldn't foresee. Phryne is narcissistic in a very fun way:

“It’s just that I… I mean… you. You feel so good. I don’t know how you control yourself.” He barks a laugh. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because you just called yourself irresistible, Phryne.”

It is intriguing as a reader to try to understand and follow all the implications of them having swapped gender: ‘He isn’t surprised that she knows exactly how to touch her body like this but he had not expected to crave the roughness of his fingertips. “Not fair, Phryne.”’

In Sassasam/ @phrynesboudoir‘s “To Climb Into Your Skin” (only available for registered users), the sexual exploration of the body swap is used empathically (even as Phryne has difiiculties not reacting sexually to the thought of inhabiting Jack’s body). The two detectives are in a relationship and have a row, where Jack retreats:

"Perhaps we should end this then, while the hurt will still be minimal," she’d finally snapped. "If that's what you want." "What do you want, Jack? You never say. You never give anything away." "I want you to be happy." "That's not an answer."

The two swap bodies during the night, and the reader gets to follow them in the morning as they slowly realise that something is wrong, trying to make sense of what has happened and how to inhabit the other’s body – and then in meeting their own. Jack wakes up to Dot wanting to help him to dress and is forced to encounter how Phryne is treated by some men; Phryne gets to encounter having superiors. They truly have to walk a mile in the other’s shoes, and see what they encounter. At the same time, they cannot resist exploring having the other’s body. Finally, they meet up and make a joint sexual exploration, in a way that is emotional and close, and where the reader has to keep on toe all the time to follow with the changed bodies and pronouns:

Jack felt his body flush and flood as Phryne’s masculine lips found his feminine ones. She was slightly rough but the body he was inhabiting ignited like dry tinder. Was this how she felt when he kissed her?

Wait a minute here, who’s who?

I conclude with two body swaps that aren’t between Phryne and Jack. In @whopooh's “The Honourable Miss Fisher Is In” Phryne has – and I am spoiling it a little bit now but otherwise it’s impossible to talk about it – swapped bodies with Mac. Jack is unaware of this as he comes to Wardlow, determined to finally lay his heart out for Phryne. Mac tries to make as good a Phryne imitation as she can, attempting to not turn Jack down, while Mr Butler tries to help her along.

Phryne, in Mac’s body, comes to find Mac in Phryne’s body in an embrace with Jack:

“Jack!” she exclaimed, horrified. “And… Phryne?” Phryne stared at Mac; they were both immobile. Then Phryne shook herself into action. “It’s not what it seems!” she said, loosening herself from Jack’s arms. Jack’s eyes left Mac for Phryne. “What do you mean? Isn’t it exactly what it seems?” “No!” Phryne said. “Well, yes! But no!” The last words were for Mac.

Jack realises something is very wrong, though of course he cannot guess the real reason but has to resort to other interpretations of the problem, while Phryne and Mac are intently trying to communicate with each other without speaking.

Last, but not least, @ollyjayonline‘s “A Day In The Life Of Senior Constable Collins” creates a body swap between Dot and Hugh, and again this gives a glorious opportunity to walk one day in the other’s shoes. This is a wonderful setup where Dot is rather certain about the providential nature of the swap -- “she felt there must be some deep purpose for this strange turn of events. Could it be to help Hugh understand the role of the modern woman?” -- which will of course come back and bite her, because maybe Dot needs to learn something about Hugh’s life. Dot decides to go to work at City South, being Hugh for one day, and it’s lovely to follow both successes and problems, and she also gets to see another side of working with Jack Robinson as a boss.

The confusion is wonderful:

Dot looked at the uniform that had been spotless this morning, there was now a rip at the cuff and the mud at the knees would take a special soak. My goodness she was going to be mad at herself when she got home and saw the extra time she would need at tomorrows laundry tub, not to mention the needlework. Perhaps she could rub the mud off and then she’d never notice? It occurred to her that, in a day full of the unexpected, this was probably not the strangest conversation she was going to have with herself.

Dot excels in some parts of the job, and has problems with others. When she is made to drive the car, as they have arrested a man, the Inspector tells the suspect: “I’m sorry about that, I hadn’t intended to torture a confession out of you.” Dot gets to see the interactions at the station, with the Commissioner and Jack, and when she, as Hugh, makes excuses for Dot not coming to work at Miss Fisher’s that day, she fumbles so it sounds like she is pregnant, while it’s really a more serious case of having another person inside your own body.

That was all for the April prompt (here is the full fic list). I know there might be someone coming in late with their fic, and I’ll be happy to add it to this post if that happens.

Here are the earlier prompt posts: January (soulmate), February (miscommunication), March (bottle episode).

I’m looking forward to see what fics might emerge from the May challenge that is a much broader one -- hurt/comfort. Thank you to @firesign23 for organising the trope challenges! And I would love to hear your thoughts, please feel free to comment!

#mfmm fanfic #reading miss fisher #MFMM year of tropes #body swap trope

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elise-by-year · 8 years

Text

Written on the body: 2016 in photos.

,(This is the latest I have ever written this post, but the theme of 2016 has been “please be patient with me, I’m doing the best I can,” so it seems sort of appropriate.)

New Year’s Day

“What has been really nice about this year, I think, is that I kept a lot of it to myself. I spent time with the people that mattered to me and I didn’t feel like I needed to explain why things were important to me.”

This is how I wrapped up the end of my 2015 post. The first hour of 2016 started with a boy yelling at me outside a bar, demanding to explain why I would want to be alone when he was willing to be my boyfriend. I went back to Moira’s apartment with Mae and Katie, where we snuggled up in one bed like we had done so many times in the nineteen years behind us. Later that day, Frank came over and fulfilled my Christmas wish for girl power and a gypsy curse (Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl and a rusted sailor’s compass that spins around despite sitting still are sitting on my desk at this very moment). We had a horror movie marathon and killed a bottle of Jameson while we ate baby carrots and screeched on my couch.

So, really, the first morning of 2016 started with this thought: Don’t let people who treat you unfairly stick around. Take a self portrait and move the hell forward.

January

Photo: Juliette Sandleitner

Photo: Alyssa Roth

The rest of January was really good to me, despite some hard stuff.

I went on a secret date with a mutual friend that turned into a lot of dates. I was advised by a lot of people not to, but I’m still glad I did and hope he’s glad too. I went to a housewarming party that ended in me standing outside my ex’s house while it rained sideways and I tried to reason with myself. I don’t remember why you ran outside or what we talked about, but I remember hoping we wouldn’t have the opportunity to talk again so I wouldn’t need to keep choosing over and over. I decided that there is no real time to say good bye and that the things you love will eventually just stop showing up.

A big snowstorm hit. I spent the better part of it walking through the streets with Frank and Finley, drinking bad whiskey from the fish flask and being grumpy old men. I drove up to the Ghost Ranch the moment the roads cleared and spent the day drinking basil gimlets in a snow fort and shoveling out people’s cars.

I went to Maria’s house to have a silly afternoon of shooting and eating burgers with her, Alyssa, Juliette (who I had not seen in over two years), Annalise, and Eden. All of the snow from the week before had melted almost overnight and it was warm enough to walk around without a coat.

Other things about January: Mae and Katie and I founded B.Y.O.M. (bring your own mom), which basically just meant getting blitzed off $2 margaritas with our moms. I went to visit Max and saw the “woods behind my house” that I had been hearing about for the better half of the year and watched The Prisoner. Mae and I went to brunch a lot and got a matching pair of parking tickets. I started working at a tequila bar with Frank.

Most importantly, maybe, was the beginning of the thought that I wasn’t doing what I should be doing.

February

“Rabbit, Rabbit”

February was another big month. I housesat for my godfather and spent a week and a half with my golden retriever babe counterpart, Mollie. Mae and I got accidentally-on-purpose mimosa drunk and met Cory Booker at a Clean Ocean Action rally. Max came to visit; I cut his beard and showed him Pershing Field, where we saw the best sunset I’ve ever seen in person. I took my shoes off and broke some pieces of ice in the ocean with my bare toes.

I made a weird (but, in retrospect, funny) mistake, had a bad day, and saw a different sunset in the same spot with Frank. Mae and I got into a fight and made up. It snowed again. I made a bunch of Star Wars valentines. I went to Max’s birthday (X-Files pennant in tow) and met twenty people in one night. Meg and I hung out alone for the first time and got a little drunk at a Bond St. music video filming while making new friends and dragging egotistical boys.

I went on the worst! Date! Of all! Time! It’s my favorite anecdote now. I’m still convinced I was on a prank show somewhere.

Frank and I saw Jenny Lewis perform her Rabbit Fur Coat ten year anniversary show, which ended up being one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. I watched Jenny Lewis, tiny and string and mighty, reduced a sold-out 2,900 seat house to pin-drop silence when she sang Happy without a mic.

Frank and I saw another show a week later (Mary Lattimore/Julia Holter) and ate clementines and giggled about the secacu pail tation and decided that most things in life can be sorted out in the morning (unless you sleep through work the next day, which I did).

This was also the drunken movie night couch sesh that ended with a reprimand from my mother because she was worried Frank was going to drunkenly freeze to death in the snow walking the two blocks back to his house. To this day, Frank claims my mother is the only one who has ever worried about him actually dying in a ditch.

Excessive amounts of laughing and drinking with Frank aside, I started spending a lot of time alone and celebrating that. I started a little series about documenting my life alone vs. with a partner, as this was my first year alone in almost four years.

I went to the Cold War Surf party with Brie and Dave and spent most of the night talking to their friend about PA school. I hadn’t seen Dave since the summer and I hadn’t seen Brie so happy in a long while. I went on a date with a photographer the next day and left early because I felt sick. He said leap days cause bad luck and universal unsteadiness, but I told him it was just a hangover. It was the flu.

March

Spent the first week of March melted to my couch with the flu. I shook myself out of it just in time to make a job interview and meet Vicky for her week back in America. We spent too much money on burgers in Crown Heights, but I was so happy to see her and so sad to say good bye. She played me a love song she recorded on her phone while I battled my way through Brooklyn traffic to drop her off.

My flight for Anna Kate’s wedding in Georgia was the next day. It was my first time taking a plane on my own and my first time being a bridesmaid. It feels a little cheap to write about this now, honestly- I think I felt better in four days than I’d felt all year. I finally got to see my best college friend’s town and house and family and meet her in-laws. Everyone was so kind and warm and accommodating (even the Georgia weather) and I really felt a great deal of sadness when I left.

Back at home, it snowed a little more and I showed Frank and Finley my secret beach. The tide was too high to make it to the voodoo bunker, so we stuck a pin in it. The pin’s there for now, along with other things. We started spending a lot of nights in his backyard raging with the fire pit, baby carrots, and a witch of the wood.

I spent a lot of March in a weird place and living in terms of “this time last year.” It felt like there were a million other Elises living their lives differently just out of my periphery. Still with Alex, still in school, someplace I couldn’t imagine. I knew I didn’t want any of those things, really, but I got caught up in the missing and the wanting instead of trying to change my life.

I was still seeing a person I shouldn’t have been seeing, letting myself feel guiltier and guiltier. I went to Meg’s show in West Long Branch and drank a milkshake (because I wasn’t through pretending I wasn’t lactose intolerant) and it was sick-sweet and I sat on a barstool sick and sweet and sad, a stomach to match a mood.

Brighter side: Mae and Frank and I went to see Girlpool, found a Jurassic Park themed bathroom in a pho place, and didn’t get ticketed parking in Brooklyn. My two best friends got along so well and it made me feel appreciative and lame and lucky.

I think March is when I started seeing a reporter, but I’m not sure now.

April

April was good and bad. I went on a lot of interviews for jobs I didn’t want, went on a lot of dates with a reporter I liked, and went for a lot of walks with different people. My anxiety was mean, uncontrollable, and manifested physically most days. Wilco got sick at the beginning of the month and I spent a lot of time curled up in bed with him, which was something I needed almost as much as he did. We were both tired out and needed each other.

I turned 24, and it was the first birthday I wasn’t sad about for a long time. Mae, Brie, and I celebrated two birthdays at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and had the nicest day. Mae made me a Twin Peaks necklace on the laser cutter and I don’t think I’ve ever been more careful with another piece of jewelry.

I had lunch with an ex and they asked me to come back, which I could not bear to consider.

Still, I was happy. Things were nice, and I was happy and appreciative. When things were good, I felt like if all of life were that nice, I wouldn’t appreciate anything. The bad days made the good ones, if that makes sense. If I woke up miserable and cranky, I knew I’d be better for it, because every nice thing might feel even a fraction as good as a truly good day. It’s a backwards way to live, but it was how I was living at the time.

I saw Colin Hay with Mike, the reporter, and Frankie Cosmos/Eskimeaux with Frank. The Frankie show was the first time we were one of the oldest people in the audience, and we celebrated by eating Cracker Barrel and wearing plastic sandals. We also spent a lot of time raging in the backyard, firing up Finley, and witching in the woods. One day I met all three cats, hung out with his whole family for the first time in the longest time, and we found out worms move really fast. Like, really fast, guys. Also, a tub of pretzel rods that had been moving between our houses finally met it’s bitter end.

I don’t know how I forgot about this until now, but Frank and I also saw Rihanna the day before my birthday and then followed it up with a visit to the Wonder Bar on my birthday, which was much less eventful and involved leaving Frank to talk to someone from high school while I danced. If a human look could convey that shriek R2D2 does, that would be the look Frank was giving me at that moment.

I went to visit Max again. We split a turkey sandwich, helped his mom set up a printer, and went off-roading in the pine barrens.

Erica and I tried to go biking at Sandy Hook, but I popped my tire shoving my bike into the trunk. We walked up and down the bayside of the hook, flew kites, and visited the voodoo beach before it got dark.

Went on a few brunch dates with Mike, accompanied by some of my friends and then his dog and then alone. He was a good sport when Mae and Taylor accused him of being a murderer for having two phones and his dog’s name started with an L and that is honestly and truly all I can remember about this person I knew for the better part of two months.

May

The Dead End Kids \m/

May was filled with work and friends and more work. Starting with work: I began my stint with the escape room, which proved to be a nonstop hell ride where I met a handful of really good pals, including Shayne and Laura. It’s also where I started put all of my weird feelings and doubts to bed, which was a good feeling after a long time. I also started working at Stone Dog, a female-founded scenic shop that had just moved to my hometown. It was good to be doing carpentry and design nonstop with patient and fun coworkers. At this point, I was already making plans to go back to school, so the enormous pressure I had felt at my previous creative jobs had up and vanished. I felt nervous, free, excited for my life, and happy with a secret. I was still at the tequila bar, but I was working most of my shifts with Frank and had hit a happy groove with my routine.

My mom and I got drunk at mother’s day brunch and my dad needed to pack us into the backseat to drive us home. I was still seeing Mike at this point, I think, and other Mike (my favorite bartender) asked me about him. We broke things off a week later for lack of feelings, and I wish every conversation could be as easy as that one.

Katie graduated, which left me in happy, proud tears. She came home and slept for a full day.

I went kayaking with Erica and her (at the time) new boyfriend, Timmy. It was the last time I saw her with blue hair and the first time I saw her so happy with a partner. They’re still together and, while I don’t see her as often lately, I’m happy when I think about where she is in her life.

Waj joined the Peace Corps and had a going away barbecue before he left for China. That was one of my favorite nights of the summer. Mae and I decided to bike (which was a way better decision when we were sober and not drunkenly trying to get uphill so we could go to bed at 2 am). We started a wheels gang called the Dead End Kids with Jake, Nick, Luke, and Paul. Little did we know, we’d be starting the summer’s most potent curse, but more on that later. Anyways, it was nice to reunite with people I really, really loved while saying good bye to one of our best.

I had many more backyard nights with my great aunts / wiz bang gang / goo goo dogs (Frank + Finley).

June

When you realize you matched your outfits and your ice cream cones

June started off in Annapolis, Maryland, where Stone Dog had sent me for a set install. I would go on to install an MTV set a week later and throw up in a gender-neutral bathroom between raising Hollywood flats a week and a half later.

Robbie graduated, which was one of the best days. We had a graduation party two weeks later with our whole family, which was weird and surprisingly nice. Colin and Ashley also had a barbecue to celebrate their new house and engagement.

Mae and Frank and I went to our second big concert together (well, Northside Festival). We saw Wolf Parade, ate vegan ice cream, played with tiny hands and street sharks, and laughed way too much and often. We also all matched outfits like any proper girl gang.

The biggest update of them all came in June: telling my family about my intention to go back to school and become a physician’s assistant. To save time, here’s my post from June about it:

“After a year of working perfect, career-making carpentry and set design jobs, I’m realizing the reason I’ve been miserable for five years hasn’t been because my personal strides in life and mental health haven’t been good enough. It’s because I truly hate what I do.

I love carpentry, and I love art and design. I feel the small rush of job satisfaction every once in a while, but it shouldn’t take a 24 hr Thanksgiving Day Parade shift to give me joy. This career has only made me feel small and useless, and my contempt for feeling like what I’m doing doesn’t matter has only grown over time. I’m twenty four. I shouldn’t be so consistently unhappy with what I’m doing. I should have been feeling joy when I was nineteen and going to school for set design, not utter annihilation.

I can blame my professors or that one summer or sexism in the workplace, but I can’t make excuses for all of those nights when I was eighteen and nineteen and wishing I had gone into the medical field. I can’t ignore being twenty two and twenty three and twenty four and feeling like my life was over and that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I’m so young and I have so much velocity and I will never, ever have as much energy as I do now to make a change.

I’ve had the best possible run in the art field and will continue to do so while I complete the undergraduate prerequisites required to pursue being a physician’s assistant. I know this sounds like a big announcement, but it really isn’t- I just need a small outlet (this blog) to take a baby step and feel like I have a little support while I transition into a new part of my life.

I feel good. I feel so good. While I was in college, I didn’t plan for growing up and being an adult with a career. I planned on being a girl who would die from depression before I ever needed to make longterm plans for happiness. The past few weeks of planning have been some of the happiest days of adulthood I’ve ever felt. I feel so renewed and I can’t wait for it, all of it- studying and volunteering and going into a new career humbled and vulnerable and ready to learn.

Anyways, there it is- somewhere.

It’s time to lean the hell in.”

So, there it is. I was finally moving forward, registering for prerequisite classes, and seeking out EMS shifts for my volunteer hours. I’d been planning it for months, but I knew I wouldn’t have much time to think once I started. I was keeping up my hours at escape room, working on designs for a new room, and counting on that job to carry me through classes.

Other things: Getting close and then very far away from a coworker and friend, putting all of my trust in the wrong people, a drunk girl reading my palm from the sidewalk outside the bar, and the end of a long soreness while I watched someone I cared about very much fall in love.

July

I didn’t take a single photo with my camera in July. July was a rush of plastic bag cellphone photos, cherry-stained teeth, and fourteen hour work days. Work at the escape room was both really good and really bad. I was getting closer to Shayne and Laura, managing my own schedule, and had a constant influx of weird projects and challenges. It was, however, coming at a cost: growing anxieties about being around people who both wanted and despised me, dealing with our crook of a boss, spending too many hours and too much money, and not prioritizing other things. On the bright side, I did get a perfect grade in my first responder respiratory class.

It was around this time that Frank and I started talking seriously about moving in together, which is sweet and a little dumb in retrospect. I had just agreed to take on five more years of school, so I don’t know why I thought shaking up my living arrangements could be in the cards for me. We also had an incredibly uncomfortable third of July, giggled about handwrittens, and saved the backyard witch from burning.

Mae moved home and started working on the boardwalk, so I spent a lot of time running her hoagitos and taking walks up and down the boardwalk alone until she was done closing up shop. Thoughts on Mae at this time: “Super thankful all the time for a best friend who constantly makes me feel like I deserve everything, even if I don’t feel like I deserve her when we’re apart.”

Also: Modest Mouse x Brand New at the Mann in Philly, which involved mixing Mae / Brie / Dave with Shayne. Also saw the Dolphin clan (and actually, now that I think of it, this may have been the last time I saw Max).

Frank had to drop out of our Panorama plans last-minute, so Mae and I had an unbelievably cool day on Randall’s Island. We ate popsicles, stood in lots of lines, and proved that we could find a pair of hammocks in literally any environment. We saw The Front Bottoms, Kurt Vile, and (in one of the few self-actualizing moments of my short life) LCD Soundsystem. It was a hundred degrees, but it turns out Mae’s longtime wet neck bandana trick had actually become a fashion staple in 2016, so we fit in with the best of them.

Also: Went on a few dates with the local candy factory owner’s son, was still too old for me, can never visit Old M’ Candies again.

Also also: Started the most ill-advised project with Shayne and Luke at escape room. The only positive was getting to build things (like a glow in the dark table) and a lot of gin and tonics.

Also also also: Ill-advised lifeguard stand kisses at Birthmae, starting another cycle I do not regret.

Also also also also: Wishing I had listened to A and kept someone at an arm’s length.

August

August was mostly good, partly bad. The “mostly” is the things that happened and the people I spent my time with, the “partly” is everything I let myself get caught up in.

I met a girl in a bar that told me ghosts come in intervals of three years, and I thought about that a lot in the coming weeks. Felt raw and wide open to things that were far behind me and let myself get caught in that cycle of grief.

Was still at escape room every day, fighting the good (and sometimes petty) fight. Shayne and I started taking turns throwing knives into the wall and spackling the holes back up a lot, at least. We also packed in a car to Pennsylvania to see Frank and Sarah in their play.

I went to Colorado with my family and saw landscapes I hadn’t ever seen, took too few pictures, and spent most of my time profoundly distracted by my future.

Mae and I saw a lot of movies on the roof of the Baronet, Dave and I finally saw our overdue Night Vale live show, and I made more and more ill-advised decisions I just cannot regret.

I finally drove up to visit Loretta after a year or two of phone conversations, KFC and white zinfandel in tow (her request). I was only the second visitor she had since moving into the nursing home a month and a half prior. I didn’t know how to explain her to my friends- “my dead friend’s grandmother” just didn’t seem appropriate, but “a friend almost four times my age” didn’t either.

I also had my first friend date with Laura. We split a basket of fries with a dog on the patio of Bond St. and then waited patiently after that dog fell asleep on me, went to a show at the Parlor Gallery, visited Mae on the boardwalk, and got our futures read by a group of chain-vaping psychics. My psychic said I was full of darkness and stone and that my sister’s name started with a K. Laura’s psychic said she would marry someone soon and we both cackled our way down the boardwalk.

Had my last backyard rage night with Frank in August. It feels stubborn to write it down, but. He was falling in love and that was a good thing.

We got sushi and sake drunk and he decided to go fully vegetarian, so that was Frank’s last memory of fish.

September

(One day before breaking my foot)

The very first things that happened in September: becoming the fourth victim of the Dead End Kids summer of ‘16 curse. After that polaroid was taken, Nick broke his collarbone long boarding, Jake broke his entire body long boarding, Paul broke his elbow longboarding, and I broke my foot in four places longboard jousting. (I named my longboard Lance, both for the 90′s gay undertones and the jousting). Mae and Luke made it through the rest of the year unscathed.

So the rest of the fall happened on an air cast, which was weird and embarrassing and my second time on crutches in two years.

I started Medical Terminology, my first class since my decision to go back to school. I was tired and broke and broken, but that class made me feel like my life was moving in a good direction.

Luke and Shayne and I were close to finishing up our escape room, exhausted and dead inside. This is probably the last time I’ll mention it. An entitled boy made me uncomfortable and unhappy at every opportunity. Work in September was the most negative part of my life (my year) and I don’t really care to think about it more than that.

Shayne and Laura and I continued our Monday Fundays, playing lots of shuffleboard and drinking too much gin for a weekday. In a weird way, I made more friends in a cast than I did without one. Alex started showing up, which was easy and weird and nice. We spent some time talking about a girl we both loved a whole lot and I remember feeling like it was a stroke of unbelievable, overwhelming luck for life to work out this way.

The second annual Maker’s Fest happened, in a new location and three times the size as the year before. Mae was doing henna, so I bopped (clunked) around catching up with vendors and talking to new ones.

Mae and I celebrated our twenty year anniversary living across the street from each other and being best friends. I get real sappy talking about this and I’m trying to keep this all business, so here’s some thoughts on that: “My best friend has been my best friend for 5/6 of my life and that fraction is just going to become wider and deeper as we get older. Mae is one of those people that make you marvel at the capacity of your own heart and wonder how you could ever love someone more than you do right now and I am so, so profoundly lucky to have her in my life.”

Frank and I saw Bruce Springsteen play his longest show in history, a record he broke the next day and the next. He sang every favorite, every B-side, every song we’d driven through downtown Freehold blasting at 3 am since we were 17. It was unbelievable. It was also the last significant period of time I spent with one of my best friends, so I think about that night pretty often.

Also, I spent a lot of time on the beach shivering and finding the seven sisters.

October

“Your chest is wide open and yawning and you heart fills the room it inhabits and I wonder how you aren’t eroded away to dust by now.”

October was getting to know someone new, really trying to make myself a little more open to make space for all of the new people I cared about, missing my best friends, and trying to take pictures. Despite the good stuff, I was feeling very emotionally spent.

Became closer and closer with Shayne, was happy and appreciative for life throwing me a person so good. Thought about the cyclicality of my life and relationships, how I was making another dent in another passenger seat as my space in another faded away.

We left the bar one night and kept driving and ended up on the dirt JCP+L road I had found a few summers before. We watched fog roll over the pond and parked in the middle of the woods to look at the stars. I marked “star night- shayne” on my calendar so I wouldn't forget it, but it seems cheap to try and write about it now.

Shayne and Laura and Alex and I went on a last-minute vacation to Sleepy Hollow on Halloween weekend. I don’t think Elise from a year ago would believe that, and if she did, she wouldn’t buy that I had a genuinely good time. We watched bad horror movies, had an outdoor fire, and worried about getting murdered by our preppy Airbnb host. Apparently Hillary Clinton was walking around those same woods that very same weekend, but we didn’t see her.

Dan and I went to a Devil’s game and took loads of embarrassing pictures. I stared to realize that I was slowly becoming a partner.

Mae and I went as Neve Campbell and Bruce Campbell for Halloween, the closest to a couple’s costume we had ever gotten. It was the first time I had seen her all month. Halloween was a weird night for me ultimately, but Mae was the best part.

November

“the earthly and obvious parts if me are touching your face and repeating a strumming “this is a person who loves you”

but there’s a loop, a pause, a gap in the human condition

endless separations and connections, tidal and vascular

falling out of orbit is much easier than fighting your way back in”

What can I say about November? Trump won the presidency, Dan and I spent the weekend hiking, I broke up with Dan, and I spent a lot of time alone on the beach. I got my cast off, put my bare feet in the sand, and waited for clarity.

All of my siblings were home at once. Frank and I went on a walk, I worried that Finley would not recognize me, Finley knocked me over. There’s a lot to say about fish flasks and nerves and secrets multiplied into a shared burden twice the size, but I won’t say any of it. It had been a long time and I felt sick and sad and nervous.

I took a self portrait I really, really liked. It was one of those portraits where recognized myself.

Still, November was a month of disconnect and I wondered how many hearts I would dig through before I found my own.

December

December was long and happy and lazy.

I made two knives, applied to jobs, babysat my golden retriever counterpart. My siblings and I were in the same house all at once. I got strep throat and spent four days glued to a bed. I got the highest grade in my medical terminology class and my teacher asked me to apply to the school she worked at when the time came. I missed Frank, Mae came home.

Lexi came to New York with Jesse and Carl. I took eight pictures, learned how to play pool, and talked about my hometown too much.

I wrote this, and it’s all I can bring myself to say about the rest of December/my overwhelming luck:

“sometimes I feel so pitch-black, so lacking and longing

you are so unconcerned with my surface and shortness and shortcomings and I just do not know how you are so gasping and wide open, so ready for me at any moment

and I think of the constant draft, the tiny bites on rawness that you must feel to be so vulnerable for me at all times”

What can I say about 2016? It already feels so far behind me. I guess there’s a simple logic to doing a year in review in 2016 and not nine days later. Time is pushing ahead and I am too. It’s the same belief that keeps me honest with my loved ones: “Say it all now, because you are running out of time.”

I never know what to do here. Usually I get to the end of my review and feel heavy with loss or exhaustion. Sometimes I’m angry, and I can feel smoke ribbons coming out from between my teeth and making knots in the air around me. It’s hard, digging up the evidence of your life month-by-month and trying to put words to the sum of your parts. You think you have the shape of it, that you’ve smoothed it out into something you can understand, and then a sharp edge catches your finger and you’re bleeding all over again. It’s hard to be honest, to look your past in the eyes until it blinks first, and it’s even harder to be surprised by it. I am so many different moving objects all at once, flickers and beats and wanting. My past isn’t going to stay still just because I want it to.

This year feels different. Does distance grant clarity, or does change? Was this an easy year, or was it just productive? I went into this year looking over my shoulder, waiting for the things I had pushed aside to catch up to me. I realized that the thing I feared had already happened to me and was getting further and further away as time moved on. I realized that making a mistake did not mean I needed to waste my entire life trying to adapt to it. I started to let people grow on me instead of holding them at an arm’s length. (Actually- I really, really loved the people I loved and started to love myself just as much or more.) I let myself make mistakes, indulged in tiny failures, and built a lot of furniture. I hustled, I planned, I rode my longboard. I got good grades (grades!) and got stoked about school. I feel weird and good, even if things look a little shaky and transitional written down.

Here’s how I ended my 2015 year in review:

“Anyways- 2015 was really, really good to me, and I was really, really good to myself. I don’t have expectations for 2016, and I don’t have any goals besides pushing forward. By this time next year, I want to be looking back and remembering 2016 as hard and good progress into a life I want.”

And here I am. I already know 2017 is going to be about hustle, change, and working for the things I want.

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samanthasroberts · 7 years

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Hunting Bigfoot: 4 Things You Learn Chasing Fiction

I recently moved to a snowier, woodsier part of the world and noticed one day while taking a shortcut home that Bigfoot probably lives near me. There are a lot of trees and foreboding areas that look like the sorts of places in which gentle folk like me are made into the forest brides of beast-men. But how could I know for sure?

If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s finding the worst bar in any given town and making it my own. I easily located this town’s scruffiest bar that featured dead animals mounted on walls, and in no time had found no less than one man who claimed that he had heard from someone several years ago that there was a guy who saw Bigfoot around here once. Hot damn! A solid lead!

On the promise of picking up his bar tab and also returning to the bar later and picking up more of a bar tab, I got this guy to join me on a hunt in the woods. Now, you may be asking, “Felix, did you just pay a drunk stranger to take you into the woods alone?” And to that I say: You forgot that I got him to bring a gun.

This is Dan. He’s loaded with beer and ammunition!

#4. Drinking Outdoors Is Fun

My new friend Dan isn’t the sort of man who appreciates small talk, pop culture, or me. But I bought road beers and we were pretty much set to have an adventure. We drove about 20 minutes out of town to a massive swath of forest that Dan told me had a big lake somewhere in the middle of it and was the place some people said Bigfoot had been spotted. Already it had grown from maybe one guy to some people. I was super psyched.

In preparation for our journey, we packed not just beers but several snacks, an emergency flare (lest Bigfoot abduct us while a helicopter is flying overhead), and outdoorsy crap like a compass, a small hatchet, some matches, and a mickey of whiskey.

I’m not much for hiking but luckily neither is Dan, so we were in the woods for a solid 15 minutes before we stopped to have a drink. Our brew of choice was a fine Canadian ale known as Flying Monkeys Smashbomb Atomic IPA. I bought it solely based on the silly name, but it was actually pretty fantastic and I solidly recommend it for all your Bigfoot-hunting needs.

It’d be better if there were actually monkeys serving it, but other than that, A+.

Dan and I had a good sit in the woods, during which Dan proceeded to tell me about his younger days in a biker gang and a variety of related activities I won’t relate here, because I’m dumb but not that dumb. This was some secret-keeping beer we were having, and Dan may not have been the best tour guide in retrospect, but here we were, in the woods, with a gun. A gun and stories of Dan using a pool cue to destroy an entire room full of men in the most brutal, Deadpool ways possible. I’m glad I met this strange fellow.

Several beers later and Dan and I were having a pretty decent time, still within sight of the road. But alas, this was no joke expedition … or, well, it was, but I was still looking for Bigfoot. We had work to do.

#3. Losing Yourself Is Easier Than Finding Bigfoot

We set out in a direction I will call straight ahead. I know we packed a compass, but it was packed and, honestly, would it have made a difference to know if we were headed north or east? How could it have? We were looking for a legendary man-ape.

Dan told me as we walked that coyote activity in this area has been very much on the rise lately. There’s just a huge population of them. I’ve never seen a coyote outside of a Warner Bros. cartoon and was having a hard time reconciling my image of a cartoon wielding an anvil with an actual wild dog that probably has rabies tearing open my scrotum. Dan assured me they rarely attack humans unless they’re starving or in large groups, then, without missing a beat, added, “Or maybe not.” I almost forgot Dan is not a woodsman, merely a fellow drunk I met at a bar, and I am about as much an expert on what we’re doing as he is.

“I eat a lot of Jack Link’s, though.”

We stumbled upon a number of tracks that could have belonged to Foot, but definitely not Bigfoot, unless I have been grossly misled regarding sizing in this matter. Most were probably squirrels and assorted other woodland turds, but there were definitely some deer tracks as well, and in my mind that was close. The bigger the animal, the closer to Bigfoot. If we found moose tracks we’d be pretty much where we needed to be.

We trudged on through snow-covered underbrush, slightly tipsy and with no clear direction. Dan had brought with him a 20 gauge shotgun, which he said would probably work for taking out Bigfoot if we got him to stand still long enough. I’m no gunsmith and assumed any shotgun was probably good for blowing a Bigfoot’s leg off, until Dan told me this was his rabbit-hunting gun. He had a license only for small game this year, and he wasn’t going to get fined by bringing a higher-powered rifle into the woods when it wasn’t season for hunting something like elk. Dan had no faith in our expedition. Although he did point out that, if we shot Bigfoot with the 20 gauge it’d probably slow him down enough for some photos, so I should be fast with my phone and snap a pic or two. Maybe see if he’s down for a selfie.

#2. Winter Is Stupid

The worst time to do anything is winter time. According to my phone, it was about 4 below zero. For you Celsius types, that’s 20 below. Why the hell would Bigfoot be out in this silly-ass weather? Even bears have the intelligence to hibernate. Bigfoot should be snoozing under a pile of tarps in an old fishing cabin.

There was a brief moment when I encountered a smell that could be best described as unwashed skunk vagina somewhere out in the woods. I heard a rustling in the underbrush, and I thought we might be on to something. For those who doubt the veracity of my claims, I have photo evidence:

Got wood? Ha ha ha! Ha ha! Ahhh …

Like all good photos of Bigfoot, this one mostly requires you to be as drunk as I was when I took it and to have a lot of faith that I know the sight/smell of Bigfoot’s dick when I see it. But for real, do you see that in there? I know it looks like a twig, but I ask you, what do you think Bigfoot’s dick would look like? Probably a big, veiny twig, right?

Before I string you along anymore, I’ll let you know that was a twig. Bigfoot’s dick, even if it is twig-like, is probably attached to a Bigfoot and not a tree like this one was. But did you feel the suspense there for a second? Now you’re living in my world. The world of a Bigfoot hunter!

#1. Bigfoot Is Not Real

Let’s assume for a moment Bigfoot is real, the title of this section notwithstanding. He’s generally considered a “he” right? Not to point out the sex so much as the singular. There’s just one. Bigfoot’s a lone wolf, him and his veiny twig-dick, wandering the woods and stealing forest brides and whatnot. Most Bigfoot sightings have been in Washington state, California, and Oregon. He’s basically a West Coast kind of guy. I’m on the East Coast, so right away my chances are pretty pathetic. Sure, New York and Ohio have some sightings, but so does Russia. Point is, I’m in the wrong neighborhood, and I’m looking for one guy. One big, hairy guy who makes a point of never being found, because no one’s ever found him. Do you know what the odds are of me finding him?

I actually calculated the odds on this for you, in case you’re not good at these complex, veiny equations. Keeping in mind the time of year Bigfoot is most often sighted in these various locations, as well as the time of day and methods used for tracking Bigfoot and the actual odds of me finding him here, at this time, were fuck no. Fuck no I can’t find Bigfoot, because he’s not real.

Consider that humankind has found the coldest natural object in the entire universe, fossils from the first living veiny beasts on Earth, that stupid affluenza kid, and numerous missing plane crashes. If there were a race of hairy man-beasts populating the Pacific Northwest or anywhere else in North America, there would have been some kind of definitive evidence proposed by people who are not named Bubba or Cooter.

Dan and I finished our beers in the woods. We found one track that was probably mine.

Size 11 … ladies. Or guys who want to buy me shoes.

I also found a frozen turd that really made me laugh but the picture turned out pretty blurry due to my laughing as I took the photo. It wasn’t a Bigfoot turd, probably a raccoon or something. Still, that’s hilarious to me.

Dan decided he’d had enough of being in the woods with me, and I couldn’t blame him. I’d mostly wasted our day and provided little to no purpose for our journey other than the laziest attempt ever to discover a cryptozoological legend. Fortunately, that made my attempt just as relevant as anyone else’s, because come on. What would be a “serious” attempt at finding Bigfoot in 2016? Some kind of thermal-imaging drone and satellite tracking? That seems like an expensive prospect for a big fatty waste of time.

Dan called his wife to pick him up once we got back to the road. She seemed like a nice lady who could fight me and win with little effort. Neither of them offered me a ride. As I watched them drive off, I wondered if perhaps Bigfoot was now watching me from the trees and feeling a kinship with me as I, too, was now alone. But of course he wasn’t, because remember, he doesn’t exist. He and that veiny dick I’ve been asked to keep writing about are full-on fiction. No, the only stranger watching me from the woods was a friendly serial killer or public wanker.

I wondered why it is that so many people seem enamored with the idea of Bigfoot. Is it the mystery? The idea that, in a world of smartphones and WiFi and driverless cars, we could have somehow overlooked a man-beast living right under our noses? Possibly. Mostly, I think, it’s what I like to call Dorf Contrarianism. This is the idea that a stupid person will dig in like a tick when confronted with something they feel threatened by, in an intellectual fashion, telling them they’re wrong. The person doing it may not be trying to intimidate our Dorf, or even patronize them or talk down to them in any way, but that is how Dorf perceives it, because Dorf is not smart enough to know why it’s happening but is smart enough to know they’re being corrected. And they don’t like it. So they outwardly refuse it so thoroughly they must embrace the very opposite. They must hunt Bigfoot, simply because he is not real. They must drink that moonshine because it could make them go blind. They must fuck that cousin even if the baby’s going to always be leaning a little to the left. Such is the contrarian nature of Dorf. And that’s what keeps Bigfoot alive.

Check out other mythical monsters of lore and bull crap in 5 Myths That People Don’t Realize Are Admitted Hoaxes, and fear the shelled back of The Beast of Busco in 7 Monsters That Bigfoot Hunters Are Too Scared To Believe In.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel to see why ghosts are definitely real in 6 Most Eerily Convincing Ghost Videos On YouTube – The Spit Take, and watch other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also follow us on Facebook, and see if you can find Bigfoot in the comments. We hear he’s a fan.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/hunting-bigfoot-4-things-you-learn-chasing-fiction/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/03/14/hunting-bigfoot-4-things-you-learn-chasing-fiction/

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jimdsmith34 · 7 years

Text

Hunting Bigfoot: 4 Things You Learn Chasing Fiction

This is Dan. He’s loaded with beer and ammunition!

#4. Drinking Outdoors Is Fun

It’d be better if there were actually monkeys serving it, but other than that, A+.

#3. Losing Yourself Is Easier Than Finding Bigfoot

“I eat a lot of Jack Link’s, though.”

#2. Winter Is Stupid

Got wood? Ha ha ha! Ha ha! Ahhh …

#1. Bigfoot Is Not Real

Let’s assume for a moment Bigfoot is real, the title of this section notwithstanding. He’s generally considered a “he” right? Not to point out the sex so much as the singular. There��s just one. Bigfoot’s a lone wolf, him and his veiny twig-dick, wandering the woods and stealing forest brides and whatnot. Most Bigfoot sightings have been in Washington state, California, and Oregon. He’s basically a West Coast kind of guy. I’m on the East Coast, so right away my chances are pretty pathetic. Sure, New York and Ohio have some sightings, but so does Russia. Point is, I’m in the wrong neighborhood, and I’m looking for one guy. One big, hairy guy who makes a point of never being found, because no one’s ever found him. Do you know what the odds are of me finding him?

Dan and I finished our beers in the woods. We found one track that was probably mine.

Size 11 … ladies. Or guys who want to buy me shoes.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel to see why ghosts are definitely real in 6 Most Eerily Convincing Ghost Videos On YouTube – The Spit Take, and watch other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also follow us on Facebook, and see if you can find Bigfoot in the comments. We hear he’s a fan.

source http://allofbeer.com/hunting-bigfoot-4-things-you-learn-chasing-fiction/ from All of Beer http://allofbeer.blogspot.com/2018/03/hunting-bigfoot-4-things-you-learn.html

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