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socratoteles · 3 years

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A year to get Ph.D in letting go

The last time I was here, I wrote that perhaps it was time for me to go out and just enjoy the world. And amid the global pandemic, I sort of managed to do that. It was such a lifesaver in a year of goodbyes. I`ll get to that, but let me begin with my coronavirus scare.

On March 4 last year, I was away in Bandung, aware but not worried of some obscure virus that triggered a total lockdown in some Chinese cities. That very same day was also the time when my colleagues came in contact with a man who later confirmed of having contracted COVID-19.

That was how close I was of contracting the virus. Had I not taken a paid leave to write last year’s essay in the city where I was born, chances were high that I was another case as well, at that early stage of the pandemic too. I`m still familiar with the helplessness that came after I checked in to a hospital only to being denied the test (the nurse reasoned that the contact with my colleagues, who might catch the virus from the confirmed man, cannot be categorized as close contact).

And that experience, of confusion and fear of infecting loved ones, left a lasting impression that shaped my behavior going forward. After all, it takes a pandemic to make wearing mask and washing hands could made the difference between life and death.

Covid-induced isolation meant that I spent most of my time being holed up in my room for the past 12 months. To this day the side effects of this solitary existence is still beyond my full grasp. On one hand, this situation had brought out my inner resiliency, resourcefulness and adaptability in the long days and night when things were just so dark. On the other hand, it also forced me to deal with unresolved traumas and numerous intrusive thoughts, which I will get into later.

People get really creative during the long locked-down days, spending it doing viral social media challenges one after the other. Videoconferencing become a thing on its own and for some reason loads of folks played a game named Among Us too, perhaps to remind themselves of the interactions cruelly torn apart because of the virus.

There was also a newfound awareness on class too, because the coronavirus disproportionately affected different individuals with different income level. At least on my part, I was lucky that essential workers (the pandemic elevated the phrase into such a buzzword) near my place were safe and somehow never contracted the virus. It is worth mentioning that I definitely cannot survive this long if not for the minimarket workers, ride-hailing drivers and dozens of cooks, all of whom must have worked in long hours, despite knowing the risk, just to keep their families fed.

Others, however, were not so lucky. the SARS-CoV-2 had infected more than a million Indonesians a year after it was officially detected in these shores. Millions have lost their jobs as economic activities ground to a halt. The place I currently work was not an exception. Massive layoffs would have happened in my office had the shareholders have enough money to properly compensate their workers.

It was an obviously eye-opening experience to calculate my own severance pay and make sure I could survive on that for as long as possible. The prospect of losing your income during the pandemic –which should be that particular time for anyone to hold on to their what-ifs money– was really awful.

This is the paragraph where I say that I wish nothing but the best for those who left the company simply because they deserve nothing less than that.

But there was another reason why I signed up for a help from professional therapist last year. In the latter part of last year, things got very, very grim. At the risk of oversimplification, let’s just say that I was unable to express my feelings properly to a girl that I really liked, right at the most critical moment when probably both of us needed support from each other. She eventually left with another guy.

Days before that fateful event happened, I was quietly bearing my own burden. After years of convincing myself that I was okay, I was, in fact, not okay, at least mentally. Years of trauma have caught up. It’s too personal to even spell that out here but I`ll just quote this Youtuber just to describe a fitting metaphor.

“You see, human identity is like a house of card. One that’s always expanding. A story that is ever developing and always referred back to because every memory becomes a new card. Trauma is when a card doesn’t fit because the experience itself is so painful that it’s incompatible with everything else and if you become obsessed with making it fit the whole house of cards can fall apart and you lose the confidence to build anything new.”

Basically, my house of cards came crashing down, hard. At a time, it reduced me into this insecure soul who were unsure that people will accept me for who I was.

The last time I felt this way was a couple years back when my parent’s divorce was formalized. A girlfriend turned ex-girlfriend at that time too. Apparently, the universe has a cruel sense of timing to combine existential crisis with a relationship one.

The road to recovery was rocky, to say the least. I know something fundamental must be addressed, hence the therapy session.

I`m grateful for the company of my friends, either offline or online. (yes, I had become quite loose in terms of isolation because I know I had to prioritize my mental health; COVID-19 be damned). I`m also glad to say that because I talked with my friends about this issue, some of them were also encouraged to seek professional help.

At the height of my despair, I watched La Grande Bellezza (probably for a half a dozen time already) again and found this quote, spoken by the protagonist Jep Gambardella:

“We’re all on the brink of despair. We can only look each other in the face, keep each other company, kid each other a bit. Don’t you agree?”

Someone was kind enough to upload the entire scene on Youtube.

I decided that all bets are off, so I purchased books, many of which had been on my to-read list for years because I know I`ll have to read it when I search for a catharsis. That was how I finally read the Camus’ Myth of Sisyphus, from which I managed to understand what he meant by the absurdities of life. Into the Wild, excellently written by Jon Krakauer, broke my heart too because of Chris Mccandles’ tales somehow mimicked my own, minus the grand adventure part. I finally read Alan Watts too, from whom I learned that efforts to avoid from pain is painful in itself.

And music, a constant part of my life as I know it, helps too. I was saved because Fleet Foxes released a life-affirming record that fittingly spoke about relief, gratitude, and seasonal rebirth. During the darkest days I was just alone with my guitar in my room, terribly singing out the words that these musicians carved out of their soul to release my emotional burden. I was particularly grateful for being reminded time and again that “no one gets it right” but “we’re all supposed to try”.

I made a playlist containing songs that for me served as a reminder to be gentle for myself. You can check that here.

All of that was a roundabout way to say that I indeed, was able to go out amid the pandemic. On one afternoon I just said fuck it, I need to go out and see things. That led me to a weekly socially-distanced walk around the neighborhood, which was therapeutic in itself because the walks allowed me to be fully present and be sensitive to the sights and sounds and smells around me. Nothing is more liberating that allowing your feet to go where it you to go.

I don’t have the full answers yet, but as I wrote his essay, I`m glad to be able to say that I have rebuild my house of cards, with some of the bad cards included as well. It was quite a bumpy ride but when I looked back, this particular tweet was eerily prescient because it rings true today as was the day I tweeted it.

But I walked away from the depths of that bottomless pit not only with knowledge, but also of understanding the parts that made me who I am. I`m also humbled after I saw the abyss for the second time because it suggests that there might be another time when I found myself on the edge of despair.

I`ll never forget the fact that these hard-won lessons came on the back of years of pain, grief and suffering. But it also came on the heels of moments of simple walk in the setting sun and feeling the breeze on the beach too. In fact, I have made it my mission going forward to acknowledge both good and bad things as they are. Because forcing yourself to remember all the bright things when you were in the dark, and vice versa, is a form of self-torture. I hope this essay somehow do that mission justice.

I have said goodbyes to many things in life as the crisis comes and goes, but 2020 goodbyes were simply different. So much so that I thought I have a PhD in letting go already, however absurd that idea is.

#age #birthday #essay

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merakiaes · 4 years

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By Your Side - James Conrad

Pairing: James Conrad x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: I didn’t include very much interaction between James and reader in this, sadly, so send in more requests for James please, I love him😭 Not proofread so sorry in advance for any mistakes in grammar or spelling. Leave a comment and tell me what you think, hope you enjoy it xx

Wordcount: 3513

Summary: You get separated from James in the crash and are forced to leave your post and head out to find your way back to him and the others alongside Jack Chapman after almost being killed.

You thought you were done with this kind of life. Both you and James did.

After James’s mission-gone-wrong in Malaysia in 1965, on which he was supposed to rescue Jenny, the seven-year-old illegitimate daughter of a Malaysian woman and a British embassy worker, who was kidnapped and held for ransom by a unit of rogue Indonesian soldiers, only for both the girl and two of his five men to be killed in an ambush, he hadn’t been the same.

The failure of the mission marked the beginning of his disillusioned outlook, as he lost trust in his government and country as well as himself.

It was his last mission as a soldier in the British Special Forces. Ever since then, he had cautiously accepted freelance missions only when he felt the odds weren't stacked against him, said missions only getting scarcer and scarcer as he settled down with you.

Before the mission, you had been in Vietnam alongside him, to teach jungle warfare and survival techniques to American troops.

You were both trackers, specialists in survival and recovering lost people. You were basically the same person, with very similar backgrounds and reasons for choosing the way in life that you had, and hit it off immediately, your professional relationship taking a more intimate turn.

You hadn’t been there with him during the Malaysian mission, you had never been right in the action, not even once, but you saw the effect the last mission had on him and decided right then and there that you were done.

You were okay with him going on easy missions every once in a blue moon, but you weren’t ready to let him go put his life in danger.

Luckily, he didn’t even want to do those kinds of things anymore in the first place, turning down every offer that would be too great a risk to never be able to see you again. Not that you knew about the last part.

But then Bill Randa showed up with an offer to accompany him and a large crew to an uncharted island, thinking that James’ raw courage, survival skills and understanding of nature could represent the expedition’s best shot at making it off the island alive.

You had been the first to protest and James hadn’t been far behind, shaking his head and turning him down. But the more money they put on the table, both literally and metaphorically speaking, the more tempted you could see him become.

As you might have guessed by now, he accepted, on the one condition that they recruited you too, saying you wouldn’t go without each other.

A closed deal and some time later, you were sitting in the back of a chopper, heading straight into the ruthless storm surrounding the island.

You were in the chopper with Jack Chapman, while James was in a chopper with Mason and Slivko.

You had been planning to go together in the same chopper, but James had come out later and you had already been in the air alongside the rest of the choppers by then.

Storms had never been much of a problem for you, seeing as you were a survivalist and an expert in anything having to do with nature.

You weren’t worried for a second, not even when the strikes of lightning struck right next to the open doors, and before you knew it, the storm was over and you were safe.

At least that what you had thought.

But then it happened.

First the bombs, dropping into the ground and leaving loud, bright explosion in their wake, and then a tree shooting through the air like a big arrow, trunk-first and heading straight for one of the choppers, smashing through its windshield and sending the flying vessel to the ground.

It all happened so quickly after that, and at the same time, everything around you was moving in slow motion.

You had wasted no time in searching for James’s hand beside you, only to realize with a panicked whimper that he was in another chopper.

Bringing your hand back to your lap where you clenched both hands into fists, you took a peek outside, your heart hammering in your chest at the sight you were met with.

Together, all of you watched the giant shadow that stood in the distance, standing as tall as the sun, completely blocking the view and its big, hairy fist shooting out in first of many hits, striking the side of another chopper inside which you could see the soldiers struggling to hold on as it fell.

Once it had made contact with the ground, the creature picked it back up, holding it above its head, roared, and swallowed the soldier.

It was all chaos from there on forward, the comms going wild.

“On guard, Fox Five! Fox Eight is down! Fox Four is down! Respond, Fox Three!”

“Oh, my God!”

“Fox Seven moving into position, three o’clock.”

“Does anybody know what that is?”

“I don’t know, man. God damn…”

“Three klicks west of Red LZ.”

“Jesus! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Set a perimeter of three-hundred meters. Do not engage.”

“Roger. Climb one eight-hundred.”

“Is that a monkey?” Chapman’s voice came from the front of the chopper you were currently sitting in the back of, but you could only focus on the giant gorilla standing in front of you, wearily taking note of the way it was getting more and more agitated the more you circled around it.

“What the hell is that?”

“Somebody talk to me, man.”

“Turn right, heading two-five-zero. Contact approach.”

“Fox Leader to Fox Group. Form a perimeter. Ready gunner positions.”

“Holy shit! Look at that thing! I’m freaking out here!”

“Fox Leader to Fox Group. Fire at will!”

You had been so engrossed in watching and inspecting the foreign creature that you had tapped out of the comms for a minute, only getting pulled back to reality when you heard Packard’s final order, moving back inside the chopper and yelling out a loud “No!” to Chapman and his copilot.

But it was already too late, the gorilla letting out a mighty roar just as the first bullets flew.

To a start, it just brought its arms up to its face to cover himself, but soon, the more you circulated and the more you shot, the more aggressive he got, standing up straight and hitting at any chopper that came too close.

Your chopper came across James’, and your eyes met for the briefest second, both wide-eyed and chests heaving up and down in the panic of not being able to get to one another, and then before you knew it, your chopper was struck in the side, the flying vessel instantly starting to jerk.

“Fox Six, we got nominal control. We are going down.” Chapman spoke into his comms, before turning his head around to look at you, yelling out. “Hold on!”

You did as told, pushing your back into your seat and holding on to your seat belt as if your life depended on it, which you guessed it kind of did.

The chopper was spinning and jerking and you started getting dizzy and disoriented in no time, a deafening roar drowning out the sounds of the propellers above you just as you hit the first tree-top.

And then silence, and then darkness, as you braced for impact and crashed into the forest.

You had no idea for how long you were out, but when you came back to consciousness, your ears were ringing loudly, your entire body aching and as you regained your composure, you realized, being pulled.

Forcing your eyes to open, the first thing you were met with was a sharp, pounding pain in your head, your hand instantly moving up to the sore spot.

The second thing you realized, when pulling your hand back in front of your face, was that you were bleeding.

Third, you realized that it was now eerily quiet all around you, the sounds of the choppers’ propellers no longer there, and fourth, you realized as you looked up, that Chapman had just dragged you out of your crashed chopper, the soldier helping you sit up with your back against a fallen tree.

Once he had made sure that you could sit by yourself, he knelt in front of you, grabbing your face in his hands and twisting it to the side.

“You hit your head pretty bad.” He wasted no time in informing you, and you winced as he reached up and pressed a dry cloth against the wound on the side of your head.

But you said nothing, letting him clean you up while looking around. “Where are we?” You asked, taking in the thick forest and taking note of how you were the only ones there.

“At the west side of the island.” He replied, leaving the cloth at your head for you to hold.

When you took over for his hand with your own, your eyes flickered over to the crashed and burning chopper, your throat growing thick at the sight of the pilot inside, hanging upside down. “Is he-“ You trailed off and Chapman nodded, sighing.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” You cursed, using your free hand to push yourself up on your feet, a familiar face suddenly popping up in your head.

“James.” You breathed, stumbling after Chapman who was moving to grab a walkie-talkie. “I have to find James.”

“You will. I promise.” He answered, sparing you a glance over his shoulder and showing you the radio. “But right now, our first priority is to get in contact with the others and find out their locations.”

You sighed, but nodded, and just then, as if on cue, the radio buzzed, causing both of you to turn to look at it.

“This is Fox Leader to Fox Group. Anybody with ears, come back. Respond. Over.”

“Fox, Chapman.” Chapman wasted no time in replying.

“Fox Six, Chapman.” The voice over the radio came again. “Say again, your last.”

“Four klicks west, highest peak November Alpha three-zero-zero. Over.”

“Roger that, Chapman. West highest mountain peak. Over.”

“Fox Six confirm, we’re at the Sea Stallion. (Y/L/N) is here with me.”

“Roger that. Hold your position. We’ll come to you. There’s enough munitions on that Sea Stallion to kill this thing. Survey your perimeter. Locate possible ambush sites. Over.”

Jack kept talking into the radio, repeatedly pushing and letting go of the button to give people on the other side a chance to respond, but no more words came through, only wavering static.

He sighed at that, standing up and turning to you. “Are you okay? Can you walk?” He asked and you nodded.

“Yeah, my legs are fine.”

“Good.” He nodded back, clipping the radio to his belt and heading over to the chopper, bending down to pick something up before turning back to face you. “Do you know how to shoot one of these?”

You stared at the rifle in his hands, sighing, but nodded. “I don’t like it but yeah.”

“Good.” He said again, holding it out.

You walked up to him and took it into your hands, adjusting your grip into the correct one while he bent down to pick up a rifle for himself.

He then grabbed his notebook and a knife, shoving the book into his pocket and the knife into its holster, before grabbing the radio from his belt and bringing it to his lips.

“Chapman to all stations. Recon environment.” He spoke into it, letting go of the button and waiting for a reply.

When he got none, he simply put it back into his belt and started walking without another word.

You moved to follow, but stopped yourself short when catching sight of a red flare gun lying on the ground, quickly reaching down to grab it and shoving it into the hem of your pants before jogging to catch up to him.

You walked for a long while, in complete silence in order to be able to focus undividedly on your surroundings.

While Jack scoped the area for any possible threats or dangers, you analyzed everything else, trying to get a good perception of the flora, fauna and more or less everything around you in order to be able to track your way back to James.

After a good hour of just trekking through the thick rain forest, the trees around you started thinning out and soon enough, you were walking into a clearing of thin, pale, peeled tree trunks, with no green leaves in sight.

You guessed that it was time for a break when Chapman suddenly stopped and stabbed his knife into one of the trunks, hanging his belt with all of his stuff on it, including the notebook.

He sat down on a trunk on the ground, one that was much thicker than he others, but you stayed on your feet, continuing to look around.

“Fox Leader, this is Chapman. Fox Leader this is Chapman, over.”

Once again, he only got static in response and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Dear Billy… Sometimes life just punch you in the balls.” He mumbled, slacking his shoulders and putting the walkie-talkie down. “Damn it.” He rubbed his eyes.

Suddenly, the trunk he was sitting on started moving, having him up on his feet in no time.

“What the-“ You started as you watched a face and four legs start to emerge from the trunk, or what you had believed was a trunk, at least, but got cut off by the loud sound of shooting, your eyes widening as the strange creature let out a wail of pain.

Jack stopped firing at it once he understood that it wasn’t going to make an attempt on his life, and it walked away as if nothing had ever happened.

Your eyes met each other’s but before either of you could say or do anything else, or even react, an animalistic gurgle reached your ears, and you quickly widened your eyes.

“Watch out!” You yelled, sprinting forward and shoving Jack to the ground just as the lizard-like creature pounced on him.

The two of you wasted no time in opening fire, its screeches deafening.

But the bullets seemed to do nothing but slow it down only briefly, and the only reason you escaped with your lives intact was because you, just a few seconds before it was about to eat you whole, remembered the flare gun, rushing to grab it and from the hem of your pants and firing it straight into its mouth.

You were a survivalist and you did know your weapons, more than capable of shooting a gun, but unlike James and the rest of the soldiers you’d come there with, including the one you were currently with, you were no fighter, so all you could do was run and try your hardest not to fall to the forest floor in a panic attack.

You must have been running for at least half an hour, your lungs on the verge of bursting by the time you finally slowed down into an easy walk, figuring that the coast was clear and that you weren’t being chased.

“What- What the hell was that?” “ Jack stumbled to a stop, taking support against the trunk of a tree and struggling to catch his breath.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” You replied, leaning your hands on your knees and spitting on the ground in an attempt to get rid of the strong taste of iron in your mouth. “It looked like some kind of lizard.”

“A lizard?” Jack quickly whipped around to face you. “The thing was as big as a fucking dinosaur!”

You said nothing, focusing on catching your breath and leaving him to do the same thing, looking around.

You were back in the rain forest now, tall, green trees towering above you, and your interest was instantly piqued when you saw the small, white dots on the ground, quickly rushing over and crouching down.

Jack, taking note of your behavior, pushed himself off the tree, following you. “What? What is it?” He asked, and you reached your hand out.

“Mushrooms.” You mumbled.

“So?” He asked in confusion, and you stood back up, turning to face him.

“Where there’s mushrooms, there’s water.” You said, turning your head to the side and nodding. “This way.”

“We were supposed to stay close to the Sea Stallion, wait for them to come to us.” He argued quickly, and a glare instantly made its way onto your face as you whipped back around to face him, no doubt taking him by surprise judging by the way he stumbled back.

You couldn’t care less, simply staring him down.

“You want to go back there? Stay around and wait to be eaten? Then be my guest.” You snapped. “But I’d very much like to get back to James and get out of here alive. I don’t take orders from Packard, I don’t have to do shit. You make your own choices.”

The determined look on his face fell, and after a moment of silence, he nodded.

“I’ll follow you. Do your thing.” He said quietly and you took a step back, nodding your head and dropping the glare, turning around and starting to walk away without another word, leaving him to follow.

You were on your guard the entire time that you walked, guns held securely against your chests and fingers at the ready at the triggers.

Around you, it was completely silent, aside from faraway animals’ sounds, that you couldn’t quite figure out.

Other than that, the only sound that could be heard was the jangling and clinking of Jack’s dog tags, and the crunch of the leaves under your shoes.

However, just as you were walking into a small clearing, your ears picked up on a rustle; one that didn’t come from your feet.

“Stop, wait. Did you hear that?” You whispered, your arm shooting out in front of Jack to stop him in his tracks.

“What, hear what?” He asked back, looking around frantically while raising his rifle.

Another rustle came from the bushes a few meters away from you, causing you to raise your gun too.

Exchanging a wary look, the two of you hunched down slightly and began creeping toward the source of the sound, light on your feet and your fingers ready to pull the trigger.

Looking at each other once more, you raised your hand with three fingers up, silently beginning to count down and mouthing the numbers as you went.

When you reached the last finger, you lowered your hand to the rifle again and moved to burst through the bushes and attack, but just as you did so, another person appeared through the twigs and leaves, instantly raising his hand in defense when being faced by the barrels of two guns.

“Whoa, easy!”

“Oh, my God.” You breathed out, your face falling in disbelief. “James.”

Beside you, Jack slowly lowered his rifle at the familiar face, wasting no time in reuniting with his fellow soldiers who weren’t far behind, while you dropped the rifle completely to the ground and shot forward, straight into James’ open arms.

“Oh, thank God. I was so worried.” He breathed back, wasting no time in hugging you close to his chest, his hands cradling the back of your head and his lips pressing against your forehead.

You squeezed your eyes shut at the familiar feeling of his arms around you, your cheek pressed against his chest. “I thought I lost you.” You whispered, tears starting to sting your eyes.

When hearing you sniffle, he unwrapped his arms from around you and moved his hands to cradle your face instead, forcing you to look up at him.

“I’m here, darling. I’m not going anywhere.” He said, shaking his head and swiping his thumbs over your cheeks.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment longer, before his green ones flickered up to your head, his eyebrows knotting together with worry. “You’re bleeding.” He noted, beginning to raise his hand to your injury.

But you stopped him, catching his wrist and bringing his hand back down, intertwining your fingers with his. “It’s nothing.” You assured, honestly having forgotten all about it until it had been brought back up.

He gave you a doubtful look, and you flashed him an assuring smile. “I’m fine now.” You said. “Just… don’t leave me again.”

His face softened and his eyes, too, and before you knew it, he had pulled you into another embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you and his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Never.” He promised, holding you close.

You could’ve stayed there in his arms forever but unfortunately you had no time to waste, having to hurry off to stop Packard from burning the entire island down and from killing Kong.

James kept his promise and didn’t leave you again, the two getting off the island with your lives intact and continuing on with your lives, side by side and now completely retired from anything life-threatening.

#james conrad imagine #james conrad x reader #james conrad #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston imagine #kong skull island #loki

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Galactica, Chapter 15 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: ! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Bang Time.

This Chapter: It’s party time when Fame finally approves the new Spring line. Also: Trixie paints, Courtney gets a windfall, and an out of town visitor stops by.

Reminder: Indonesian is indicated with brackets [like this.]

***

On Thursday morning, a roar sounded through Galactica, as Fame had finally approved the last of the changes to the spring collection. Trixie blasted “We Are the Champions” on repeat as he popped several bottles of champagne, serving it to everyone in everything from empty Starbucks cups to glass jars as they were finally, finally, finally free after more than three weeks of constant soul crushing hope smashing hard work.

“Trixie, it’s Alyssa for you,” Kandy told him, pointing to the phone beside him, line one flashing green.

He rolled his eyes and picked up. “Hello?”

“Sir. Please turn off that hideous straight boy noise and bring your team upstairs to join us for a real party,” Alyssa said. “We still have almost an hour before the meeting and I think a little dancing is in order.”

“Fine, fine,” Trixie laughed. “We’re coming now. But I really don’t think you can call Queen ‘straight boy noise.’”

“Whatever. Just come up!” Alyssa gave him a definitive tongue pop before hanging up the phone.

Trixie turned to his employees. “Party upstairs in marketing!”

“What about the Fashion Week meeting?” asked Blu anxiously.

“That, my dear, is a problem for our future selves.”

***

Pearl sat in her office, her legs on her desk as she folded paper planes and then threw them into her trash can, while listening to The Clash, trying to drown out the disco that was blasting from the bullpen.

Pearl didn’t respond to the knock on the door, but Trixie opened it anyway, a smile on his face.

“The Clash? Really?”

“Shut up, I’m heartbroken.” Pearl held up her hand, flipping him off before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes, turning up her music.

Trixie signed.

“You’re not heartbroken.”

“Am so.”

“Stop pouting, Pearl. You know how many girls you’ve been a dick to? So this one doesn’t want you. Well, serves you right.”

Pearl cracked an eye open, her nose crinkling into a frown.

“It does! So come on...we’re going to join the others, and you’re gonna have a couple of drinks and get over yourself. Fashion Week is coming up and we need you to be on your A game.”

Trixie held open the door, beckoning her to follow.

With a groan, Pearl begrudgingly stood up and followed Trixie out of her office.

“Shut up, I’m always on my A game.”

“As if.”

They both laughed, Trixie putting his arm around Pearl as he ushered her towards the celebration.

***

“No, you can’t go.”

“But Violeeet,” Courtney whined, laying over her desk, looking at Violet with gigantic puppy dog eyes. Everything in their office was basically shaking along to the rhythm of “It’s Raining Men” from the floor below. “Pleeease.”

“No.”

“Why do they get to party, and not us? It’s not fair!”

“Because it’s our time to work now, so be quiet and get to it, there are a tough few weeks ahead.”

Even though Violet’s words were harsh, Courtney didn’t feel cut by them; she didn’t even feel intimidated by the fact that Violet apparently didn’t think of the last two weeks as tough. She was too proud of the fact that she’d finished all of the packets for the marketing meeting--and early, too.

She closed the final folder with a flourish.

“All done!”

“Already? Good job.” Violet stood up and walked to her desk, picking up one of the folders, brow wrinkling. “Why is it so light? Did you forget one of the sections?” She opened the folder and began to look through.

“No, it’s all there! I triple-checked!” Courtney chirped happily.

“Courtney.” Violet closed her eyes. “Did you print the meeting materials duplex?”

The way Violet spat out the word, it sounded like a slur, and Courtney was confused. It made perfect sense to her to print everything double-sided. She’d saved over two reams of paper that way.

“Well, yeah. I figured we’d save a ton of paper if-”

“Did I ask you to print duplex? Huh?” Violet demanded, slamming the folder down.

“No, but I thought-”

“Well luckily for all of us, it’s not your job to think, because you’re not very good at that, are you? It’s your job to follow instructions!”

Courtney nodded slowly, the light in her completely turned off compared to the happy, bubbly girl she had been only moments before.

“I’m sorry, Violet. I’ll redo them.” Courtney picked up the master documents again, biting her lip.

Violet instantly felt bad, like she had kicked a puppy.

“You know what? It’s fine. Maybe no one will notice,” Violet sighed. “Why don’t you go join the party while I prepare the boardroom for the Fashion Week meeting?”

Courtney lit up, the smile reappearing on her face.

“Really?! But you just said-”

“Yes really, now go before I change my mind. Have fun. You have 30 minutes.”

“Thank you!”

***

Pearl was in a horrible mood. The boardroom was filled to the brim with people from every department. There were even a few interns squeezed around the perimeter of the conference table, and it made the room cramped and uncomfortable to be in.

Pearl had been fuming on the inside since last Sunday where Violet had closed her door right in her face. No one had ever done anything like that to Pearl, and what was worse, she didn’t even know why.

Violet was tripping around the edge of the boardroom, clearly anxious since she had little to no control of the situation. Normally everything would have been perfectly crisp, neat and organized which were not the words anyone could use to describe the situation they were in now. Pearl smiled, satisfied, to herself when she could see Violet practically scream on the inside when Kim Chi dropped part of her meatball sub on the table, using her meeting agenda to wipe the sauce away.

Pearl leaned back in her chair, everything suddenly a lot less irritating now that Violet was officially losing it.

***

“Alyssa, I want invites sent out as soon as possible, you can borrow Laganja to get it done. Trixie, I know you have worked incredibly hard but I need you through the home stretch. Prepare a backstage team for Fashion Week, I want everything double and triple checked. Pearl, find every contact you can and make them aware of our show. Violet confirmed the location yesterday and has found a garden team that can hopefully transform our venue into the tropical jungle we wanted. Ivy, I expect you to run the style department for the next few days while we rebook our models, and yes Trixie, we will try to stay close to your vision. Raja is pulling in favors right now and we hope we can get everything confirmed Monday. You’re dismissed. Oh, and Kim, please clean up after yourself before you leave.”

***

Trixie stepped out of his taxi, looking around as he put his wallet into his fanny pack, then feeling guilty about it. Katya swore up and down that the Bronx neighborhood where she taught was perfectly safe, but he always found himself a little nervous there regardless. Nothing could ruin his mood today though, he was finally free after weeks of constant sewing, of spending countless hours in the fabric district looking for just the right shade, to endless phone calls with their suppliers, tailors and the long discussions with the botanist at The Royal Botanic Garden in Kew in England trying to get a hold of Marianna Norths original drawings.

He went through the side gate into the playground, heading for Katya’s classroom when he spotted her. She was on the east side of the schoolyard, her blonde hair collected in a high ponytail, her feet in wellies and a pair of overalls on, painting the wall in front of her. Right now Katya was working on a giant sun, so her hands, clothes and hair were covered in yellow and orange shades of paint.

“Hey Miss! I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

“What?!”

Katya turned around, hands on her hips, trying to cover up a clearly amused expression with her most serious Scolding Teacher face, until she realized that it was Trixie who had called to her.

“Sugarbutt!!” Katya ran over to Trixie, her shoes making a whoosh sound with each step before she jumped into Trixie’s arms, covering the both of them in paint. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re finally finished with the collection, so I came to see you.”

Trixie laughed as Katya clung to him like a tiny koala cub, the two of them enjoying being in each other’s company again after way too long without actually seeing each other.

“What are you up to here?” Trixie smiled, looking up at Katya, kissing her nose and the paint there.

“I’m painting! Look!” Katya wiggled until Trixie put her down. She pointed to the wall of the building, which was half gray concrete and half an explosion of color.

“I’m painting the ocean.” Katya smiled brightly. “This will be the coral reef and over here is the sunken ship with the scaaaarry ghosts and then way over there.” Katya pointed, “I’ll make Atlantis with all different kinds of mermaids!”

Trixie looked around, the wall was truly gigantic, his own smile matching Katya’s. “So you finally got the budget?”

“Well, not exactly.” Katya had grabbed her paintbrush again, continuing on the sun. She’d been lobbying her principal for the last year to get funding to decorate the courtyard where the youngest students spend their breaks.

“What do you mean not exactly?”

“We didn’t have the funds to buy the paint or hire a painter, so now I’m doing it myself!”

“Katya, are you committing vandalism on your own school?!”

“No, no of course not!” Katya held up her hands. “ I made a deal with the principal. I pay for the materials and do the painting myself.”

“And what’s his side of the deal? What do you get?”

“Um...a pretty wall for the kids?” Katya smiled, clearly unbothered by the free labor she was doing if it would brighten her students’ day.

“Well, in that case...” Trixie smiled, picking up one of the brushes. “What part do you want me to work on?”

“We need a colony of clown fishes over there.”

“Colony of clown fishes coming right up Ms. Zamolodchikova!” Trixie did a mock salute, immediately starting to fill out the sketches that Katya had done.

“Hey Trixie...”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

Courtney was sitting at her computer, absentmindedly checking Facebook and drinking a coconut water, enjoying the rare peace and quiet even though she knew she should be working; Violet had given her a spreadsheet with a massive list of names to confirm for Fashion Week, and she was only a third of the way through.

But on the other hand, Violet was out of the office, taking a trip to the tailors for Fame, who was at a charity function with Patrick, so the office was completely quiet. And there was no harm in a tiny break, right?

The door opened and Courtney jumped, quickly minimizing Safari and pulling up the Fashion Week Spreadsheet, pretending to be working.

“Hey Courtney.” Ivy smiled, the other’s teal shirt making her red hair look stunning.

Courtney breathed a sigh of relief that it was just her, even though she’d never been fully at ease with Ivy. She had just never met anyone else who was as genuinely sweet and upbeat as the girl who was standing in front of her.

“Hey Ivy!” Courtney smiled as soon as she got herself under control. “What’s up? Fame isn’t here right now, and neither is Violet…”

“Oh, I know.”

“You do?” Courtney wrinkled her brow, looking at the overflowing shopping bags Ivy had placed on her desk. “Then what’s all of this? Are they for Fame? Should I store them here?”

“No Courtney,” Ivy laughed, pushing the bags towards Courtney. “They’re for you.”

“Really?!” Courtney looked into the bags and squealed happily. “Ivy… These are… These are real designer things!”

“I cleaned out the Warehouse, and most of this is too out of date to use for the website or shoots, so you’re welcome to take whatever you want.” Ivy smiled at Courtney’s enthusiasm, not telling her that the bags in front of her were mostly filled with the clothes that no one else wanted. But Ivy knew that Courtney would appreciate it--she’d seen the young assistant repeat articles of clothing enough times to know that her closet was nowhere near as full as most of their coworkers.

Courtney grabbed a purse. “Oh my god! This is Marc Jacobs! And what are these? Banana Republic pants!” Courtney smiled, her enthusiasm making Ivy laugh while Courtney emptied out all of the bags, acting like a kid on Christmas as she clapped her hands in happiness over the Stuart Weitzmen shoes and Badgley Mischka dresses. And best of all, loads of Galactica pieces that she would never have been able to afford on her own. Finally, she’d be able to really fit in--and toss the tired black pencil skirt from Target that she’d worn about 4 times over the past few weeks.

Courtney looked up at Ivy, tears in her eyes.

“Thank you… Seriously… Thank you so so much Ivy.”

“Don’t mention it, we girls gotta look out for each other.”

***

SUTAN: Hey. Are you there?

VIOLET: Yes, why?

Sutan smiled and leaned back into his chair. It was a little after eight, and Sutan was pretty sure he was the only person left in the office, not that he minded. His days often going by in a blur of everyone and their mother needing something, so it was nice to have the place to himself, giving him time to think.

SUTAN: Dinner at Annisa tomorrow?

VIOLET: Can’t. Busy.

Sutan wrinkled his brow. Busy? He stood up, getting a cigarette from his drawer before he opened the window, leaning out of it as he returned to his phone.

SUTAN: How hard is Fame riding you over there if you can’t go out?

VIOLET: I think the question is how you’re not busy, Fashion Week is in 10 days?

Sutan snorted. Fashion week was indeed in 10 days, as if anyone would let him forget it.

VIOLET: I want to have time. I promise.

***

“To Karl!”

Fame laughed, the sounds of the groups glass clinking together filling the bar, Karl was smiling brightly as they toasted the man clearly enjoying the fact that he was the center of attention for the night, everyone treating him like a wayward son, even though he had been in New York two weeks earlier.

“So, what’s new in London?” Raja smiled, easily falling into conversation with Karl, who adored entertaining.

Fame loved drinks night with her friends. When they were in their twenties they had met up several times a week, but by now it was a miracle if she could get all of them together once a month for a weeknight cocktail or two.

Juju and Detox hadn’t been able to make it, but with a teenager and twins toddlers, they were somewhat excused.

Fame took a sip of her drink, allowing herself to just sink back and fully enjoy the sounds and laughs of her favorite people talking and laughing together, the sounds of her husband’s chuckle next to her feeling like a warm blanket as she leaned against his side.

“So is no one else going to point out what’s going on with Sutan?” Bianca asked.

Everyone turned their attention to Sutan, who looked up from his phone, a smile quickly fading from his face.

“What?”

“Why do you look like that?” Bianca smiled, the woman clearly beyond entertained as she leaned on her hand, her finger twirling on the stem of her wine glass.

“Look like what?” Sutan put his phone down, and it didn’t escape Fame’s notice that he made sure to flip his screen to the table. Maybe he did actually have something to hide.

“I don’t know, weird,” Bianca said.

“I don't look weird, you look weird,” Sutan retorted childishly, which made Bianca cackle and attempt to kick him under the table.

“She's right,” Raja said, head tilted. “You do look weird. You're all…”

“Smiley?” asked Karl, taking a handful of peanuts from the table.

“Yes! That's it! It's creepy,” said Bianca.

“My smile is not creepy!” Sutan groaned. “Why are we even talking about me?”

“Don’t listen to them.” Karl smiled, which earned him a squeeze on his arm from Sutan.

“Thanks, Karl.”

“It is a little bit creepy,” Raven chimed in.

Fame giggled.

“See?” asked Bianca. “Even Raven agrees, and we all know her favorite pastime is arguing with me.”

Raven threw her hair over her shoulder, and Fame was very pleasantly surprised that she wasn’t going to argue that point. Bianca and Raven were almost always throwing insults at each other, and while it was entertaining most of the time, it also got very draining in the long run.

"Raven, remember that I'm your boss.”

"Manager," she corrected.

"Boss. Now pack up the attitude." Sutan folded his arms, feigning seriousness, but a hint of his dopey smile remained.

Fame leaned forward, telling him, “I think your smile is beautiful, Tan.”

“Thank you!”

“Yikes,” Raven muttered, making Bianca snicker.

“You know what, it is beautiful! Fuck all the rest of you, except you Karl, you can stay.”

“Thanks man.” Karl gave Sutan’s cheek a kiss, which made him roll his eyes and growl.

“See, now you look normal,” Bianca declared, gesturing to his now sullen pout, no one noticing the flash of hurt on Karl’s face.

***

[So.] Sutan almost wanted to sigh at the sound of his sister’s voice, Raja sliding in next to him at the bar. [What’s going on with you?]

Raja was stunning in her black jumpsuit with a green top underneath, heavy golden jewelry on her arms, her long hair styled with tiny braids that made her look like a warrior goddess.

[Nothing is going on.] Sutan picked up his beer, hoping that his sister would leave him alone, but he was never that lucky.

[Please.] Raja smiled. [You’ve never been able to lie to me, Tantan.]

[I don’t know what you’re talking about.]

[You’re seeing someone.]

[Wha-] Sutan groaned, realizing that the battle was probably lost for good. He sat down, and Raja took a seat next to him, his sister flagging the bartender for a drink. [How did you know?]

[Are you asking me that?] Raja raised an eyebrow. [I know you, brother dear. The smiles, the texting, the fact that you suddenly couldn’t make dinner last week-]

[I told Raven at work-] Sutan guessed that he had technically told Raven in passing, but what was a sister in law worth if he couldn’t send messages along.

[So who is she?] Raja smiled.

Sutan opened his mouth to explain Violet, the ever mysterious, beautiful weird new girl in his life, but then realized he couldn’t. And further, he didn’t want to. He was enjoying having her all to himself right now, and not terribly anxious to break the spell.

[Let me keep this one.]

Raja raised an eyebrow. [So it’s serious?]

Sutan shrugged, and Raja kissed his cheek.

[I love you,] she said. [Even when you’re pretending to be mysterious.]

Sutan smiled.

[I love you too.]

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bvnshcc · 4 years

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&& whoa little songbird, still your breath and bite your tongue - your fight is far from over, your life has only just begun.

〔 LULU ANTARIKSA, 21, CIS FEMALE 〕╰ DAPHNE OPHELIA WRIGHT just came over half - blood hill . you know , the child of APOLLO who was claimed ten years ago ? i’ve heard chiron say that she is OBSERVANT & COMPASSIONATE , but if you ask the aphrodite kids , they’d say they’re RETICENT & WILLFUL . i’d say they remind me of messy buns and yoga pants with a grin that says ‘i haven’t slept in a week’ , empty pizza boxes with poems and lyrics scribbled across them , coffee cups forgotten on windowsills , whispered apologies as the sun sets , pushing yourself to your feet no matter how hard you fall , fingertips moving over the strings an old and well-loved guitar , especially since they’re NEUTRAL/FOR THE NEW CABINS .

basics .

name : daphne ophelia wright . nicknames : oph , lia , wright , banshee ( only her sibling can get away with calling her this ) . birth date : nov. 20th, 1999 . gender : cis female . pronouns : she / her . ethnicity : indonesian / white . nationality : american . hometown : santa monica , california . demigod abilities : - curse creation - can curse others to speak in rhyming couplets for a time . - archery expertise - naturally skilled with a bow . - vitakinesis - can heal herself and others ( to heal others she must sing to her father ) . - audiokinesis - control of sound waves and music . - excels in the arts - musically inclined and excels in all forms of art cabin number & godly parent : cabin seven , apollo . how did their godly parent meet their mortal parent? : ophelia’s mother knew what she was doing , had purposely surrounded herself with people she knew would attract the god . she herself was talented with a violin , the sort of talented that never grew famous but left a lasting impression on those that heard her .

muse appearance .

faceclaim : lulu antariksa . height : 5′2 . hair colour : dark brown / black . eye colour : golden blue . dominant hand : right hand . distinguishing features : her eyes , which are typically blue . dress style : casual or athleisure is the best way to describe her style . she generally wears jeans , shorts , or some sort of leggings paired with a worn-out t-shirt or hoodie . only wears shoes when she has to .

camp - related .

go - to weapon : a bow that was a gift from her father , a xiphos that is the only thing of her mother’s she kept . ambrosia : a fresh funnel cake drizzled with chocolate and caramel , covered with powdered sugar . favourite camp location : the north wood , deep enough in that most other campers don’t come around too often . their opinion of their godly parent : she loves her father and is as close to him as any demigod can hope to be with their godly parent . age they were claimed : eleven years old . how they were claimed : ophelia’s childhood was an unusual one , even for the child of a god . she knew very early on that she was a demigod, but never knew who her father was - that changed not before her eleventh birthday , when events occurred that would’ve left her orphaned in the eyes of the mortal world . her father came to her in person , leaving her in the care of an old satyr that would take her to camp half-blood . the satyr left her to walk through the woods to the camp alone , refusing to get too close and ultimately making it nearly impossible for the girl to convince anyone that she already knew her father and had no reason to stay in the hermes cabin. it would be the next morning that she was claimed, after a night of refusing to sleep in the hermes cabin and instead spent sneaking around camp. stance on the new cabins : for the new cabins / neutral . reason for their stance : she understands why people would want their own space , especially with so many of the demigods being fulltimers at camp , but hasn’t really given the whole situation much thought . their opinion on lyssa pentelute : she does not like lyssa , at all, full stop . even if ophelia did understand why lyssa was acting out - which she doesn’t - she can’t stand her on a personal level . quests : several ! the last of which took place when she was 16/17 and didn’t go very well for her .

personality .

positive traits : observent & compassionate . neutral traits : tenacious & ardent . negative traits : willful & reticent . mbti : infp . alignment : neutral good . hogwarts house : gryffindor . kinsey scale : 2 . archetype : "the wise old man” self & “the innocent child” persona . what candle scent are they : black cherry merlot . goals & desires : her main goal is just to help people whenever she can . fears : turning out like her mother . hobbies : singing , playing with whatever instrument is close at hand , drinking more coffee than any one person ever should , painting/drawing on things that probably shouldn’t be painted/drawn on , hanging out in the tops of trees . habits : humming under her breath , drumming her fingers against her thigh when nervous or stressed .

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

so this is ophelia, my newest kid. below you’ll find some Fun Facts™ about her. feel free to hit me with any questions you have <3

- TRIGGER WARNINGS: child abuse/neglect, death/murder, all just mentions but just to be safe <3

- ophelia’s mom? not a good woman by any stretch of the imagination. - she was a demigod with a minor god for a divine parent, resented the gods and camp. - had two demigod children - ophelia & her older sibling ( will be a wanted connection ) - with two different gods, was raising them to be weapons. - she never told the kids who their other parents were, taught them twisted versions of stories that made the gods and heroes out to be much worse than they were. - she named ophelia ‘daphne’ because she thought it was funny to name the girl after one of the people apollo could never have. ( info on the myth of apollo & daphne ) - ophelia and her sibling were homeschooled. - her stepdad was good to her and her sibling - as much as he could be anyways. took them out to have fun whenever their mom would go on ‘business trips’. - this is how the kids actually ended up learning about the gods a little better, and were able to at least guess at who their parents might be - it helped that when they asked, their stepdad didn’t hide it from them. - their mom found out and was pissed. she killed the kids’ stepdad, it didn’t go according to plan tho and instead of being the well-trained soldiers she’d been raising ophelia and her sibling retaliated - they’d tried to act fast enough to save their stepdad, but they couldn’t save him. - ophelia had struck the killing blow against their mom, narrowly missing her sibling with the arrow but she’d trusted that she’d hit her mark. - she sang in their stepdad’s final moments, something in her gut telling her it was what she should do - but even a child of apollo can’t heal all things. - her dad showed up, some things happened that i’ll explain someday, and the kids were on their way to camp. - she was claimed at dawn the day after arriving at camp. - when she was 16/17 she went on a quest that didn’t go as planned - one of the heroes that was with her turned against the other two, badly wounding the other that was with them before going down. they had no ambrosia which left ophelia, and she only had the strength to save one of the two in that moment, already worn down from the quest and having to heal herself. she made her choice, saving one and ending the other’s suffering. - she refused to go on more quests after that, and left camp when she turned 18 with no intention of going back. - she was living in manhattan when the battle happened, had two mortal roommates that had fallen asleep when the spell washed over the city. she very nearly stayed out of it, but her heart just wouldn’t let her sit by if she could do something to help. - she... technically fought on the side of the gods, but only attacked monsters, while helping demigods from both sides. - she came back to camp to help after the war, and has stayed for some reason she can’t quite figure out. - her sibling calls her ‘banshee’ bc she’s always had a habit of singing or humming sadly when things die/are dying.

#ambrosia:intro #ambrosia:task001 #&& 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝; 𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑨 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 #i didn't change her url bc i like all of them too much and ojioedsa #also this is a bit long i apologize

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scrumptiousalpacadeer · 4 years

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A Note on the ‘F’ Word - Freedom is Shooting Hoops up John Pears Playing Fields..

Good morning dear readers....well it’s a drizzly Wednesday morning here in deepest green Sussex. The birds are chirping; the lawn is drinking in all the rain from last night. There’s the very occasional mild whoosh of a car driving down the lane our cottage sits on. You’d never know the world had been frozen for four months and was just starting to spin again....that freedom was in the air...

I don’t know about you, but this bit feels really hard. It’s like, for so long I’ve been yearning for pubs and cafes to thrust their doors open...and now it’s allowed; but not really. Going to a pub sounds about as much fun as visiting a friend in the slammer -

It was kind of easier in the good old days; those early insane lockdown weeks when we all knew that we were completely trapped, incarcerated within our ow homes with one stroll allowed; there was a certain liberation in knowing that we had to stay in and make the best of it - when the best we could hope for was a wave with a truck-driver or road-worker from afar, or that smile from a complete stranger walking their dog down the lane that I sometimes got....the smile that said ‘this is crazy, right - but it’s ok. I can still walk my dog. We can still smile at each other.’ (I did that a lot...its gets lonely out here in the sticks...!).

There was a certain Halcyon bliss to those April days with Boo spent watching Fawlty Towers and howling in laughter all morning; and then doing real weird stuff like acting out a play together with costume changes and everything...I mean, it was nuts, and it was scary, but boy we were imaginative. Boo had me drinking Brandy as a stressed out Queen, then quick costume change to become a humble male servant... She had me acting out that frickin’ play four times some days...but somehow by having to dive inside coz there was no-where else to go it felt like the sky was the limit. There was a certain liberation to seeing my neighbour Pete across the fence and knowing deep down in the kernel of my heart that I wanted to hug him, because I wasn’t allowed to; a certain glowing awakening in feeling my love for Pete - all the hotter for the restriction

Didn’t we dream of the world opening up again, of noisy pub gardens; festivals; reclining with large groups of homo sapiens on picnic rugs. Didn’t we dream hugging our friends...Didn’t we dream of the end of fear?

And now the borders are opening again...so why do I feel like a toddler who’s been told she can run like the wind only to feel the reigns tugging and pulling me down..

It really is a W.O.P.E. (whole other post entirely) as to why the Powers have given the go ahead to pubs, cinemas and churches but not to theatres and other arts spaces. It’s too depressing and hypocritical to write about right now and it’s raining besides.. Maybe the rain will just keep on coming and England will sink; just have a nice long bath, a good long think, drown all the Parliamentary dandruff and come again with a beating heart in Westminster. But in the meantime...

I’m gonna tell you the story of my Sunday afternoon in the local park and why, perhaps, Freedom Is Shooting Hoops up John Pears Playing Fields with a Kick-Ass Extended Indonesian Family Basketball Team.

So I meet David and Boo up John Pears - its basically a large field, a kids play ground and a small basketball court with two hoops just up the road. I’ve been shooting hoops lately; a re-call to my sporty youth when, as a skinny twelve year old, just budding breasts and entirely un-cool, I tried to rectify the situation by playing for my local basketball team back in the Bedfordshire suburbs. Apparently I wasn’t too bad; I could be quite aggressive, charging down the court and leaping the lay-ups.

So anyway, I’ve been hooking up with David and Boo with my basketball. And what do you know, I’ve still got it. I can still get it in the net BAM! I’m twelve again, and it feels good.

However, this Sunday, we have competition. The court is FULL; and these cats look serious. By some strange and wonderful miracle, this particular basketball court in a rural playing field in southern England, has been filled with between 10 and 15 very accomplished Indonesian basket-ball players. This is a thing of wonder; from whence did these visitors come, with their urgent tongue, joyful laughter, luminescent orange trainers and, frankly, some seriously good hoop skills? They range in ages - young men to an elder ‘grandfather’ figure - and three boy kids runn with no tops on and lopping the ball to the puffy white clouds above. They’d set up camp next the court - women sit on camping chairs tapping their phones; there are babies; music; at some point pizza arrives..

Boo sulked that the court had been taken over, but we were all transfixed by this wonderful happening before us; this serious playfulness. How a large extended Indonesian group of family and friends - over 20 in total - came to this white out-post of England on a sunny Sunday afternoon for basket-ball battle, is a glorious mystery.

But it signalled a wonderful freedom to us...this beautiful over-riding of the ‘State rules’; of taking a Sunday afternoon for one’s own, to be spent with loved ones in play and rambunctious competition; melting away any rigid boundaries of age or court lines or government stipulation with dizzying speed. Its ironic and comical and also vastly insane that the children’s playground right next to the court has a huge padlock on its gate.

At one point a distinguished looking white-haired lady approached with her dog; ball catcher in hand. My cynical head predicted war: she was gonna call the cops; or at least have a word with these imposters... But standing near the court, instead a steady smile spread across her face, and she stood awhile, taking in all the joy and laughing along with the players when the ball fell short of the hoop...sharing their happy disappointment. This was a blessing; a lesson that we all needed and she soaked it up in abundance. Perhaps her younger self would have jumped on the court and taught the guys a thing or too.

In the end Boo plucked up courage to ask if we could share the court - and so we did. Two nations; two tongues; two races; two families - our small, trembling triangle of three, alongside a much larger model, but nonetheless just shooting hoops on a Sunday in full respect of each other. Though with our considerably deficient hoop skills their respect was all the more generous. No-one was being hurt; no-one endangered; no-one threatened with slow death; we gave each other appropriate space without any need for rude-ness or stand-off. We clapped at each other’s successes and commiserated the failures.

This, surely, could be the Summer ahead of us.

It struck me that maybe this is a bit was this weird post Lock-down transition wobbly faze has to look like. We need to take things outdoors; taking full possession of our freedoms; safely; kindly, in our own way, playing and hooping.... We need to set up our own games; our own pleasures; under blue skies; sharing these paces with loved ones and setting an example of...well, how to have a good time.. Coz it sure beats going to the pub right now.

Have a wonderful Wednesday - love from Christine x

#post covid freedom #outdoors #social distancing #personal freedom #basketball

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umbralich · 5 years

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Never ending survey

RULES: Repost, do not reblog. Tag 10 blogs!

Tagged by: @lareine-kira and @paleshadeofrose

Tagging: @hangedemperor , @istolin , @maximiloix , @trahja-tia , @eorzeasfrozenknight , @charm-in-spades , @thorcatte , @haila-wetyios , @a-sharlayan-abroad

---

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Varg Blacksoul, formerly Timur Oronir NICKNAME: Varg-Varg (given by Lareine), Stiffy and Grumpy (given by Silke) AGE: 54 BIRTHDAY: 9th sun of the 1st astral moon ETHNIC GROUP: Xaela Au Ra NATIONALITY: Othard, Ishgard LANGUAGE/S: Common, xaelic, ishgardian SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Demisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single and not looking for company. HOME TOWN / AREA: Dawn Throne, Azim Steppe CURRENT HOME: Pillars, Ishgard PROFESSION: Paladin, medic/healer at Ishgard’s service.

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Long and silvery grey. EYES: Black with white limbal rings, small irises. FACE: Angular features, long nose, high cheekbones. LIPS: Narrow, often cracked, slightly darker than his usual skin color. COMPLEXION: Grayish purple BLEMISHES: Dark circles SCARS: Lots of scars which he keeps hidden at all times. Two thick, long ones are visible and almost go across his right eye. TATTOOS: No tattoos. HEIGHT: 210cm WEIGHT: Slightly underweight BUILD: Slender but masculine, somewhat toned. FEATURES: Black markings around eyes, and naturally thick, black claws. ALLERGIES: None USUAL HAIR STYLE: At work or formal meetings it’s combed back either completely or with some locks on his temples left loose. In more casual situations he mostly just lets it be. USUAL FACE LOOK: Calm, focused, narrowed eyes. USUAL CLOTHING: Full, dignified heavy armor or parts of it combined with a long coat, formal robes, jodhpurs, vests, blouses and high-heeled boots.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Imprisonment, being held or tied down, physical pain, betrayal. ASPIRATION/S: To be successful, self-sufficient and powerful until the end, to bring as many as possible wrongdoers to justice, to find an heir, and catch people still on the loose who managed to escape his revenge long ago.

POSITIVE TRAITS: He keeps his word, doesn’t leave things unfinished, is a good motivator for slackers, aims for high-quality results in everything, is reasonable and logical.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Insensible towards most of people, logic always comes before his own or other people’s feelings, very straightforward, capable of cruelty if necessary.

TEMPERAMENT: Calm SOUL TYPE/S: Thinker ANIMALS: Gray wolf

VICE HABIT/S: Smoking. He hates it, but it’s the least harmful thing that calms his nerves down, and he’s addicted. He tries to limit it though, and use it only in worst occasions, since he doesn’t want the side effects affecting his health or work. If things get especially grim, he also has full stashes of potent liquor and intravenous sedatives.

FAITH: Science usually comes first, but he’s also spiritual in some way. It’s one of those topics he doesn’t discuss with anyone. Some of his duties include working as a cleric, so it may have something to do with Halone. Or then it doesn’t, and it’s just another job.

GHOSTS?: Has seen them with his own eyes so can’t deny their existence. AFTERLIFE?: He hopes it exists, for reasons. REINCARNATION?: It’s a possibility.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Generally neutral, but on demand would choose the side of underdogs: ignoble, the poor and the sick, minors etc. Wouldn’t show his alignment publicly if it was a threat to himself. Would also pretend to be supporting the oppressor, only trying to sabotage their work at every opportunity. Even I’m not sure would he actually die for anyone else or some common cause. He has fled once to save his own hide and he could do it again. Knows main points of what’s going on and where around the world for the sake of common knowledge, but is only interested in topics that concern himself. Has been a target for racists since arriving to Ishgard as a teenager, so he despises them from the bottom of his heart.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Learned

FAMILY.

FATHER : Not relevant MOTHER : Not relevant SIBLINGS : None that he knows of EXTENDED FAMILY: Iris Ymir (patient and protege) and Arsene Dreadeois (butler)

NAME MEANING/S:

Timur is a Turkic and Mongolic name which literally means iron. In Indonesian, timur translates to east and symbolizes hope by the rising sun.

All members of the Oronir tribe believe themselves to be direct descendants of Azim, the tribe's god of the sun.

Varg is wolf in swedish. Varg was also originally a nickname given by his friends at the Steppe. It was the only thing he kept after starting his new life in Ishgard and severing his ties with his homeland.

Blacksoul was given by his comrades in the army for being so ruthless towards enemies - both the ones on the battlefield and the ones captured.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None

FAVORITES.

BOOK: Science, mythology, swordplay, alchemy, etc. Everything that has something to do with his work or hobbies. DEITY: Halone seems to share most of his values. HOLIDAY: Doesn’t celebrate any. MONTH: September and October. There isn’t many little things in life he gets pleasure from, but fall colors is one of them. SEASON: Fall and winter. PLACE: His estate, cathedrals, libraries and forges. WEATHER: Thick fog, rain and sunshine at the same time. SOUND/S: Fire, rain and musical instruments when someone who actually knows what they’re doing plays them. SCENT/S: Herbs, iron, parchment. TASTE/S: Whisky, tea, whatever Arsene makes. FEEL/S: Clean clothes, heat radiating from a fireplace. ANIMAL/S: Doesn’t like animals except for his chocobo, Mori. NUMBER: Doesn’t care about numbers. COLORS: White, black, blood red, gold, silver.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Accuracy of a chirurgeon, skillful with swords, managing to define a goal fast in any kind of surprising situation and being very patient and stubborn at achieving it. BAD AT: Admitting he has weaknesses, comforting people, having fun, small talk, relaxing. HOBBIES: Reading, studying, weapon maintenance, alchemy. TROPES: Antihero, tragic hero and mad scientist. Definitely could also be a villain. Depends on whom you ask.

QUOTES:

“Since you seem to be so worried of my… customers, perhaps I should take you along the next time I interrogate them. You would see with your own eyes what kind of delicate, exquisite and misunderstood individuals they are, when they spit on you, mock their victims and brag about the amount of people they have raped or murdered.”

“Today it happens. Make sure she is out of here before I return tonight. I am no longer even sure which one of them is the worse one.”

“It was a mere procedure. If procedures were considered intimate, I would be close friends with half of Ishgard by now.”

“Do tell me... If you work as much as you claim, how come you are always broke when we meet?”

“Very well. Play something for me. Let us see are you a man of your word.”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?

A1 : He’s been busy sticking his spoon into so many soups during his life that you could probably make a trilogy of his fooleries feats. The first part would tell about his early life in Azim Steppe and how he was forced to leave from there, the second part about how he found his soulmate and adapted to his new life in Ishgard, and how it all eventually ended up into a shitstorm, and the third one would be the current storyline. No clue about the name, though. The Soulforge would be perfect but too bad it’s taken.

Q2 : What would their soundtrack/score sound like?

A2 : Bloodborne, Dark Souls and Amnesia the Dark Descent OSTs are absolutely the closest ones you could get to Varg. Orchestral, choir, bowed string instruments, both epic and monstrous. Even if there were more peaceful pieces here and there, while listening to them you’d still have that same feeling of dread you used to have while playing the original Resident Evil and Silent Hill games and finding a safe room: you just barely escaped death but can’t stay in the safe haven forever.

Q3 : Why did you start writing this character?

A3 : He’s quite different compared to my Forsaken shadow priestess in WoW, whom I used to RP for... two or three years? Long story short: I wanted something else for a change. I also used to have an old Forsaken death knight, who was a lot more similar to Varg, but he was more evil. He existed pretty much only for occasions when someone needed a true villain for some plot. He was funny however and I always thought it was a pity I didn’t get chances to RP him more often.

Q4 : What first attracted you to this character?

A4 : He’s a mixture of four different OCs of mine, with a bit of his original spice ofc. One of them came into being in, uh, somewhat obscure conditions. Kept seeing him in my dreams when I was a kid, and he became one of my imaginary friends I used to have back then. And not just one of the many, but the closest one. Also generally in entertainment I couldn’t care less about Lukes and Frodos. Villains, tragic heroes and the like are my thing. They’re usually the most multilayered and interesting characters.

Q5 : Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 : Perfectionism. I’m similar and it sometimes drives me nuts to watch him neglecting himself while trying to achieve perfection. If I could physically talk to him I would go and slap him and be like “EAT. SLEEP. YES THE THING IS GOOD ENOUGH ALREADY. LEAVE IT.”

Q6 : What do you have in common with your muse?

A6 : Well, already kind of answered this one, but wait, there’s more: insomnia, nightmares, PTSD, misanthropy and cynicism come to mind first. And booze. How could I almost forget booze? I believe I know what misery is so I’m good at RPing miserable characters and make them look as authentic as possible. *lols like Alcyone from Magic Knight Rayearth* We both also have a strong sense of justice and nonexistent sympathy for those who use others as stepping stones. Aye I know, sounds a lot like a self-insert character, but it’s not like that. It’s more like... before meeting him/the OCs he’s based on, I used to be quite a scentless and tasteless kid. Similarities and peer support attract. And I’ve also learned from him.

It’s also a lot like me and Lareine. We became friends because we had 95% of the same interests and problems but perhaps that’s why we get along so well and understand each other.

Q7 : How does your muse feel about you?

A7 : He would probably hate and like me at the same time. Or couldn’t decide. We both like peace and quiet, doing our job well is fundamental and our basic values are pretty much the same. We would get along well if we worked in the same place. However, unlike him, I have some horrid procrastination seasons, crippling self-esteem issues, tend to put other people’s needs and opinions above my own and keep stressing about things for 7 billion souls instead of just myself. I’m suspicious of pretty much everything else except Lareine and our plushie crow Agatha, except that Agatha creeps me out sometimes as well when she takes out a knife and sits next to my bed at night, staring at me, can’t watch Hachiko without bawling my eyes out during the entire movie, love puppies and kittens and danger noodles and I’m addicted to video games. Very likely he’d kick me out as well.

Q8 : What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?

A8 : Varg would never admit it to himself, but I think he gets best along with people who are a bit silly in some way, and who get on his nerves by being too carefree and doing stupid things. Lareine and Iris, when they’re behaving. Arsene, who’s kind at everyone. Currently Shaura is my favorite. Varg himself is so uptight people like them help breaking his gray routines. Also a bonus: he doesn’t see them as a threat, so that’s probably the closest he’s able to get to relaxing among other people.

Q9 : What gives you inspiration to write your muse?

A9 : I’m a fan of my own characters. It doesn’t feel like I would’ve created them. I saw them with my third eye or something and I’ve just written for others to read what I’ve seen. I don’t plan RPs beforehand. I just let the hound loose and let him do whatever he wants. So far I haven’t got tired of my characters’ antics and could just write more. The only obstacles are limited hours per day, necessary evils like eating and sleeping, procrastination, trying to sort out my life, and the damn FFXIV. SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE IT OUT OF MY HANDS.

Q10 : How long did this take you to complete?

A10 : Ehh, maybe 4-5 hours.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #character info #au ra #never ending survey

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bangtanata-blog · 6 years

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Misha’s 100+ followers’ follow forever thing ft. Gudetama, a lazy ass 2 min edit done with shaking hands, suggested by Jenny and actually done after a pep talk with Heena.

I can’t really talk about how happy I’ve become after knowing about BTS and actually becoming their fan, bc some of their songs do... help, in a way. Like, 21st Century Girls, So Far Away, 4 O’Clock, Miss Right, etc--they have.... helped me, in going through some days. I just had a bad week, month, whatever, and I was a bit stupid today bc I researched some stuff that probably shouldn’t be researched... So I thought that maybe doing a positive thing will help today after hours of listening to music proven unsuccessful.

So... here it is, a list of people, both mutuals and non-mutuals. I’m sorry if my mention annoys you or bothers you, especially if we’re not mutuals. But I just want to let you know that by making these mentions, I wanna voice out how your presence in my dash actually help me a whole lot, and that is why I’m still upset that Indonesia has tumblr blocked.

bold - mutuals / normal - non mutuals / the list is not in alphabetical orders. i will mention mutuals first. / all mentioned people have something written for them. i’m sorry if some are too long or too short. jsyk i love you all.

@clairelions 💜 chiara 💜 thank you for following me back that day, it made me scream internally and eternally; i was really happy when i found out about it. i really look up to you! not only bc you’re older, but you’re also nice and sweet, not to mention polite, and i really aspire to be as kind as you someday. sometimes i still laugh at my mistake in sending that anon message without clicking the anon button, but it’s really sweet over how you take it so calmly and even still accepts my anonymous messages when you know that it’s me. i love your edits, i love your jikook aus, your hogwarts aus (the hogwarts aus have a special place in my heart... i haven’t forgotten that i want to write a fic for it someday!) and many others. i hope your redbubble stuffs get more purchases, and that you’ll have a great day, don’t forget to stay healthy and hydrated. ilu 💜

@yoonkia - So, this is the nice thing I was talking about. I like making people happy, so this is okay, I guess. The gudetama was made in a spur of moment and tbh Gudetama is a Huge Mood but anyway, thank you so much for messaging me. I didn’t think anyone would, and I didn’t even know why I made that post. I only realized I was shaking when I saw your message, thank you. (Also, I’m more eloquent now. This is actually how I talk usually!! dhklslshd i’m sorry you had to see that strange me). I actually really like seeing you on my dash, and I’m??? always happy to know we’re mutuals even tho we barely talked dshjkfjd I hope that we can talk more;; you need to know that i’m usually funny //hEH. again, thank you 💜

@jvnckles - jENNY HAHAHAHAHA I DIDNT END UP USING MY SKETCH OF TAEHYUNG IM SORRY BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE THE GUDETAMA ANYWAY WWWW 💜 Jenny jenny jenny ilu it’s such a happy coincidence when i saw you on Fahreen’s blog and when I found out you’re Indonesian I just have to follow you bc!!!! aaaa!!!! I don’t regret it one bit you’re such an angel and ilu and dont let mean pouty anons get in your way, you’re amazing and lovely and you deserve a lot of good things in this world hun 💜 i wish you the best of luck with the upcoming college days lmao i hope you dont suffer like i do 💜💜 ilu nak stay strong yah wwww

@jungcock - miaAAAAaaaa we don’t talk much but youre!! such!! a blessing!! in my dash your tags are funny your text posts are funny and your fic is great ilu even tho im worried about your health bc you’re high sometimes when i see you on my dash (it’s mostlikely a culture shock-- since we don’t really get high here. it’s basically illegal anyway) but you do you, buddy, just stay healthy and safe ok?? your writing gets me motivated to do some actual writing myself lmao i hope my weakass self can actually update something soon. ilu 💜

@kookieholic - i dont see u a lot in my dash... it’s probably a timezone thing :c but you’re a sweet sweet person and ilu and thank you for existing i hope we can be friends someday 💜

@cyphertaehyungie / @kikiwho - !!!!!! i’m still amazed that you’re... following me, tbh. I love your edits, i love your posts, you sound like such a sweet person and hdsshk yeHA thank you! 💜

@hosehok - 💜💜💜 We havent talked in a few but I always get pleasantly surprised whenever I see you back on my dash. Thank you for existing, I love you.

@kimtaehyungl - You’re a constant presence in my dash; it would seem weird for me if you’re suddenly not there, tbh. I love your posts, I love your contents and your tags and honestly thank you for brightening my day, every day 💜

@taegayhyung - I don’t see you a lot too :c A timezone thing? Mostlikely. I’m sorry we never really talk, but I’m sure you’re a gr8 person 💜

@faenam - I screamed when you followed me back, still scream when I see you on my dash. You’re so... chill sometimes and actually cool but also you’re??/ cute? I don’t know how to say this properly? Am I being creepy??? dhslsgjdks anYWAY thank you for being on my dash, I love you and your contents and I hope we can be friends 💜

@taehyungtrsh - bABY (i dont know why I said that, but oh well?) thank you for following me back and thank you for interacting with me whenever we’re able to! I’m too shy to really send anything else other than asks but you’re honestly very kind and fun and just!!! thank you, you made me feel at home and at ease when I first started this blog and you made me feel like I’ve made friends in this fandom. Thank you 💜

@hobisuki - 💜💜💜 First of all, I wish you the best of luck in your upcoming college years. I’m sure that whatever path you choose you can find something good out of it and that you’ll flourish; it’s okay even if it’s not your first choice, it doesn’t mean you’ve lost your path to a bright future. There are other pathways you can take and it’ll lead you there nevertheless. Tbh wow I can quote something from So Far Away right about now lmao but yeHA goodluck bb i’m sure you can do it!! Thank you for following me and thank you for brightening my dash, ilu 💜

NON-MUTUALS MENTION START HERE

@booptaegi - Hello! First of all, I’m sorry if this mention bothered you or anything; I just want to tell you that I love seeing you on my dash, your contents make me smile and sometimes your tags make me laugh. I love.. the taegi contents..... (I just love all ot7 dynamics but dsjkhd shhhh ilu) I hope that you’ll have an amazing day today; please don’t forget to stay healthy and hydrated, don’t forget to eat! 💜

@jhsmixtape - Hello, I’m sorry if this mention bothered you or anything, but I just want to let you know that sometimes i come in the form of an anon I love seeing you on my dash. You’re funny and your interactions with your mutuals and anons make me laugh everytime! Your tags and your text posts and others are so funny as well, so thank you, thank you, for making me laugh 💜

@yoonseok - hello, I’m sorry if this mention bothered you or anything, but I just want to let you know that I love seeing you on my dash. Your gifs and contents are top notch, and you’re actually nice and p relatable dsjkdfj I’ve seen some mean anons bothering you before, and I want to tell you that whatever they may say about you, please know that I do appreciate you and like seeing you on my dash, and that although you seem awkward and super blunt, you’re actually p sweet :’) Please don’t let the anons drag you down. You’re a kind person and you deserve many good things. Please don’t forget to eat healthy and stay hydrated (as a side note though... make sure never to take too much water again :’D), I hope you’ll have an amazing day!

@jimiyoong - Hello, I’m sorry if this mention bothers you! I want to let you know that you’re a sweet sweet person esp whenever I see your interactions with the anons, how patient and mature you are, etc. I love seeing you on my dash, and as I mentioned above, your presence actually makes me happy sometimes. Thank you 💜 I hope you’ll have a nice day, please don’t forget to stay hydrated!

@vanillalattaes - 💜💜💜💜 Okay you probably already know who I am thanks to my name HJDSGHKSJD aNYWAY yeah I can’t believe this is the Grand Reveal but hey at least it’s not a stray message like how it happened with Chiara dhsklsk Hello, it’s me, Cappuccino, and no pressure over finally knowing who I am (as in you don’t have to follow me back if you don’t want to!!!!). I’m sorry if this mention bothers you, but I just wanna let you know that I’m really really happy to have you as my friend, Fahreen. I can’t stress this enough, I’m so happy to see you on my dash, mostly it’s bc I know then that you’re healthy and safe 💜Thank you for listening to my rants whether that one time on the rabbit site or through the anonymous messages. You’re a genuinely kind person and I’m happy to have you as my friend 💜 You make me happy and feel loved and honestly you’re one of the reasons why I’m so content in staying in this bts blog and in this fandom overall. I love that we both love spicy foods, I love that we can bond over cake. You’re a sweet, sweet person and I hope that you’ll have a nice day. Please don’t forget to eat and stay hydrated! Thank you Fahreen, you’re appreciated!!!

#follow forever #as in: misha ranting about her love for everybody #misha rambles

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whaibque · 3 years

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bennettmarko · 4 years

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Fiction and Identity Politics

I hate to disappoint you folks, but unless we stretch the topic to breaking point this address will not be about “community and belonging.” In fact, you have to hand it to this festival’s organisers: inviting a renowned iconoclast to speak about “community and belonging” is like expecting a great white shark to balance a beach ball on its nose. The topic I had submitted instead was “fiction and identity politics,” which may sound on its face equally dreary.

But I’m afraid the bramble of thorny issues that cluster around “identity politics” has got all too interesting, particularly for people pursuing the occupation I share with many gathered in this hall: fiction writing. Taken to their logical conclusion, ideologies recently come into vogue challenge our right to write fiction at all. Meanwhile, the kind of fiction we are “allowed” to write is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we’d indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with.

Let’s start with a tempest-in-a-teacup at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Earlier this year, two students, both members of student government, threw a tequila-themed birthday party for a friend. The hosts provided attendees with miniature sombreros, which—the horror— numerous partygoers wore. When photos of the party circulated on social media, campus-wide outrage ensued. Administrators sent multiple emails to the “culprits” threatening an investigation into an “act of ethnic stereotyping.” Partygoers were placed on “social probation,” while the two hosts were ejected from their dorm and later impeached. Bowdoin’s student newspaper decried the attendees’ lack of “basic empathy.”

The student government issued a “statement of solidarity” with “all the students who were injured and affected by the incident,” and demanded that administrators “create a safe space for those students who have been or feel specifically targeted.” The tequila party, the statement specified, was just the sort of occasion that “creates an environment where students of colour, particularly Latino, and especially Mexican, feel unsafe.” In sum, the party-favour hats constituted – wait for it – “cultural appropriation.”

Curiously, across my country Mexican restaurants, often owned and run by Mexicans, are festooned with sombreros – if perhaps not for long. At the UK’s University of East Anglia, the student union has banned a Mexican restaurant from giving out sombreros, deemed once more an act of “cultural appropriation” that was also racist.

Now, I am a little at a loss to explain what’s so insulting about a sombrero – a practical piece of headgear for a hot climate that keeps out the sun with a wide brim. My parents went to Mexico when I was small, and brought a sombrero back from their travels, the better for my brothers and I to unashamedly appropriate the souvenir to play dress-up. For my part, as a German-American on both sides, I’m more than happy for anyone who doesn’t share my genetic pedigree to don a Tyrolean hat, pull on some leiderhosen, pour themselves a weisbier, and belt out the Hoffbrauhaus Song.

But what does this have to do with writing fiction? The moral of the sombrero scandals is clear: you’re not supposed to try on other people’s hats. Yet that’s what we’re paid to do, isn’t it? Step into other people’s shoes, and try on their hats.

In the latest ethos, which has spun well beyond college campuses in short order, any tradition, any experience, any costume, any way of doing and saying things, that is associated with a minority or disadvantaged group is ring-fenced: look-but-don’t-touch. Those who embrace a vast range of “identities” – ethnicities, nationalities, races, sexual and gender categories, classes of economic under-privilege and disability – are now encouraged to be possessive of their experience and to regard other peoples’ attempts to participate in their lives and traditions, either actively or imaginatively, as a form of theft.

Yet were their authors honouring the new rules against helping yourself to what doesn’t belong to you, we would not have Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. We wouldn’t have most of Graham Greene’s novels, many of which are set in what for the author were foreign countries, and which therefore have Real Foreigners in them, who speak and act like foreigners, too.

In his masterwork English Passengers, Matthew Kneale would have restrained himself from including chapters written in an Aboriginal’s voice – though these are some of the richest, most compelling passages in that novel. If Dalton Trumbo had been scared off of describing being trapped in a body with no arms, legs, or face because he was not personally disabled – because he had not been through a World War I maiming himself and therefore had no right to “appropriate” the isolation of a paraplegic – we wouldn’t have the haunting 1938 classic, Johnny Got His Gun.

We wouldn’t have Maria McCann’s erotic masterpiece, As Meat Loves Salt – in which a straight woman writes about gay men in the English Civil War. Though the book is nonfiction, it’s worth noting that we also wouldn’t have 1961’s Black Like Me, for which John Howard Griffin committed the now unpardonable sin of “blackface.” Having his skin darkened – Michael Jackson in reverse – Griffin found out what it was like to live as a black man in the segregated American South. He’d be excoriated today, yet that book made a powerful social impact at the time.

The author of Who Owns Culture? Appropriation and Authenticity in American Law, Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University who for the record is white, defines cultural appropriation as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission. This can include unauthorised use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

What strikes me about that definition is that “without permission” bit. However are we fiction writers to seek “permission” to use a character from another race or culture, or to employ the vernacular of a group to which we don’t belong? Do we set up a stand on the corner and approach passers-by with a clipboard, getting signatures that grant limited rights to employ an Indonesian character in Chapter Twelve, the way political volunteers get a candidate on the ballot? I am hopeful that the concept of “cultural appropriation” is a passing fad: people with different backgrounds rubbing up against each other and exchanging ideas and practices is self-evidently one of the most productive, fascinating aspects of modern urban life.

But this latest and little absurd no-no is part of a larger climate of super-sensitivity, giving rise to proliferating prohibitions supposedly in the interest of social justice that constrain fiction writers and prospectively makes our work impossible.

So far, the majority of these farcical cases of “appropriation” have concentrated on fashion, dance, and music: At the American Music Awards 2013, Katy Perry got it in the neck for dressing like a geisha. According to the Arab-American writer Randa Jarrar, for someone like me to practice belly dancing is “white appropriation of Eastern dance,” while according to the Daily Beast Iggy Azalea committed “cultural crimes” by imitating African rap and speaking in a “blaccent.”

The felony of cultural sticky fingers even extends to exercise: at the University of Ottawa in Canada, a yoga teacher was shamed into suspending her class, “because yoga originally comes from India.” She offered to re-title the course, “Mindful Stretching.” And get this: the purism has also reached the world of food. Supported by no less than Lena Dunham, students at Oberlin College in Ohio have protested “culturally appropriated food” like sushi in their dining hall (lucky cusses— in my day, we never had sushi in our dining hall), whose inauthenticity is “insensitive” to the Japanese.

Seriously, we have people questioning whether it’s appropriate for white people to eat pad Thai. Turnabout, then: I guess that means that as a native of North Carolina, I can ban the Thais from eating barbecue. (I bet they’d swap.) This same sensibility is coming to a bookstore near you. Because who is the appropriator par excellence, really? Who assumes other people’s voices, accents, patois, and distinctive idioms? Who literally puts words into the mouths of people different from themselves? Who dares to get inside the very heads of strangers, who has the chutzpah to project thoughts and feelings into the minds of others, who steals their very souls? Who is a professional kidnapper? Who swipes every sight, smell, sensation, or overheard conversation like a kid in a candy store, and sometimes take notes the better to purloin whole worlds? Who is the premier pickpocket of the arts? The fiction writer, that’s who.

This is a disrespectful vocation by its nature – prying, voyeuristic, kleptomaniacal, and presumptuous. And that is fiction writing at its best. When Truman Capote wrote from the perspective of condemned murderers from a lower economic class than his own, he had some gall. But writing fiction takes gall.

As for the culture police’s obsession with “authenticity,” fiction is inherently inauthentic. It’s fake. It’s self-confessedly fake; that is the nature of the form, which is about people who don’t exist and events that didn’t happen. The name of the game is not whether your novel honours reality; it’s all about what you can get away with.

In his 2009 novel Little Bee, Chris Cleave, who as it happens is participating in this festival, dared to write from the point of view of a 14-year-old Nigerian girl, though he is male, white, and British. I’ll remain neutral on whether he “got away with it” in literary terms, because I haven’t read the book yet.

But in principle, I admire his courage – if only because he invited this kind of ethical forensics in a review out of San Francisco: “When a white male author writes as a young Nigerian girl, is it an act of empathy, or identity theft?” the reviewer asked. “When an author pretends to be someone he is not, he does it to tell a story outside of his own experiential range. But he has to in turn be careful that he is representing his characters, not using them for his plot.” Hold it. OK, he’s necessarily “representing” his characters, by portraying them on the page. But of course he’s using them for his plot! How could he not? They are his characters, to be manipulated at his whim, to fulfill whatever purpose he cares to put them to.

This same reviewer recapitulated Cleave’s obligation “to show that he’s representing [the girl], rather than exploiting her.” Again, a false dichotomy. Of course he’s exploiting her. It’s his book, and he made her up. The character is his creature, to be exploited up a storm. Yet the reviewer chides that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell” and worries that “Cleave pushes his own boundaries maybe further than they were meant to go.”

What stories are “implicitly ours to tell,” and what boundaries around our own lives are we mandated to remain within? I would argue that any story you can make yours is yours to tell, and trying to push the boundaries of the author’s personal experience is part of a fiction writer’s job.

I’m hoping that crime writers, for example, don’t all have personal experience of committing murder. Me, I’ve depicted a high school killing spree, and I hate to break it to you: I’ve never shot fatal arrows through seven kids, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker, either. We make things up, we chance our arms, sometimes we do a little research, but in the end it’s still about what we can get away with – what we can put over on our readers.

Because the ultimate endpoint of keeping out mitts off experience that doesn’t belong to us is that there is no fiction. Someone like me only permits herself to write from the perspective of a straight white female born in North Carolina, closing on sixty, able-bodied but with bad knees, skint for years but finally able to buy the odd new shirt. All that’s left is memoir.

And here’s the bugbear, here’s where we really can’t win. At the same time that we’re to write about only the few toys that landed in our playpen, we’re also upbraided for failing to portray in our fiction a population that is sufficiently various.

My most recent novel The Mandibles was taken to task by one reviewer for addressing an America that is “straight and white”. It happens that this is a multigenerational family saga – about a white family. I wasn’t instinctively inclined to insert a transvestite or bisexual, with issues that might distract from my central subject matter of apocalyptic economics. Yet the implication of this criticism is that we novelists need to plug in representatives of a variety of groups in our cast of characters, as if filling out the entering class of freshmen at a university with strict diversity requirements.

You do indeed see just this brand of tokenism in television. There was a point in the latter 1990s at which suddenly every sitcom and drama in sight had to have a gay or lesbian character or couple. That was good news as a voucher of the success of the gay rights movement, but it still grew a bit tiresome: look at us, our show is so hip, one of the characters is homosexual!

We’re now going through the same fashionable exercise in relation to the transgender characters in series like Transparent and Orange is the New Black. Fine. But I still would like to reserve the right as a novelist to use only the characters that pertain to my story.

Besides: which is it to be? We have to tend our own gardens, and only write about ourselves or people just like us because we mustn’t pilfer others’ experience, or we have to people our cast like an I’d like to teach the world to sing Coca-Cola advert?

For it can be dangerous these days to go the diversity route. Especially since there seems to be a consensus on the notion that San Francisco reviewer put forward that “special care should be taken with a story that’s not implicitly yours to tell.”

In The Mandibles, I have one secondary character, Luella, who’s black. She’s married to a more central character, Douglas, the Mandible family’s 97-year-old patriarch. I reasoned that Douglas, a liberal New Yorker, would credibly have left his wife for a beautiful, stately African American because arm candy of color would reflect well on him in his circle, and keep his progressive kids’ objections to a minimum. But in the end the joke is on Douglas, because Luella suffers from early onset dementia, while his ex-wife, staunchly of sound mind, ends up running a charity for dementia research. As the novel reaches its climax and the family is reduced to the street, they’re obliged to put the addled, disoriented Luella on a leash, to keep her from wandering off.

Behold, the reviewer in the Washington Post, who groundlessly accused this book of being “racist” because it doesn’t toe a strict Democratic Party line in its political outlook, described the scene thus: “The Mandibles are white. Luella, the single African American in the family, arrives in Brooklyn incontinent and demented. She needs to be physically restrained. As their fortunes become ever more dire and the family assembles for a perilous trek through the streets of lawless New York, she’s held at the end of a leash. If The Mandibles is ever made into a film, my suggestion is that this image not be employed for the movie poster.”

Your author, by implication, yearns to bring back slavery.

Thus in the world of identity politics, fiction writers better be careful. If we do choose to import representatives of protected groups, special rules apply. If a character happens to be black, they have to be treated with kid gloves, and never be placed in scenes that, taken out of context, might seem disrespectful. But that’s no way to write. The burden is too great, the self-examination paralysing. The natural result of that kind of criticism in the Post is that next time I don’t use any black characters, lest they do or say anything that is short of perfectly admirable and lovely.

In fact, I’m reminded of a letter I received in relation to my seventh novel from an Armenian-American who objected – why did I have to make the narrator of We Need to Talk About Kevin Armenian? He didn’t like my narrator, and felt that her ethnicity disparaged his community. I took pains to explain that I knew something about Armenian heritage, because my best friend in the States was Armenian, and I also thought there was something dark and aggrieved in the culture of the Armenian diaspora that was atmospherically germane to that book. Besides, I despaired, everyone in the US has an ethnic background of some sort, and she had to be something!

Especially for writers from traditionally privileged demographics, the message seems to be that it’s a whole lot safer just to make all your characters from that same demographic, so you can be as hard on them as you care to be, and do with them what you like. Availing yourself of a diverse cast, you are not free; you have inadvertently invited a host of regulations upon your head, as if just having joined the EU. Use different races, ethnicities, and minority gender identities, and you are being watched.

I confess that this climate of scrutiny has got under my skin. When I was first starting out as a novelist, I didn’t hesitate to write black characters, for example, or to avail myself of black dialects, for which, having grown up in the American South, I had a pretty good ear. I am now much more anxious about depicting characters of different races, and accents make me nervous.

In describing a second-generation Mexican American who’s married to one of my main characters in The Mandibles, I took care to write his dialogue in standard American English, to specify that he spoke without an accent, and to explain that he only dropped Spanish expressions tongue-in-cheek. I would certainly think twice – more than twice – about ever writing a whole novel, or even a goodly chunk of one, from the perspective of a character whose race is different from my own – because I may sell myself as an iconoclast, but I’m as anxious as the next person about attracting vitriol. But I think that’s a loss. I think that indicates a contraction of my fictional universe that is not good for the books, and not good for my soul.

Writing under the pseudonym Edward Schlosser on Vox, the author of the essay “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Scare Me” describes higher education’s “current climate of fear” and its “heavily policed discourse of semantic sensitivity” – and I am concerned that this touchy ethos, in which offendedness is used as a weapon, has spread far beyond academia, in part thanks to social media.

Why, it’s largely in order to keep from losing my fictional mojo that I stay off Facebook and Twitter, which could surely install an instinctive self-censorship out of fear of attack. Ten years ago, I gave the opening address of this same festival, in which I maintained that fiction writers have a vested interest in protecting everyone’s right to offend others – because if hurting someone else’s feelings even inadvertently is sufficient justification for muzzling, there will always be someone out there who is miffed by what you say, and freedom of speech is dead. With the rise of identity politics, which privileges a subjective sense of injury as actionable basis for prosecution, that is a battle that in the decade since I last spoke in Brisbane we’ve been losing.

Worse: the left’s embrace of gotcha hypersensitivity inevitably invites backlash. Donald Trump appeals to people who have had it up to their eyeballs with being told what they can and cannot say. Pushing back against a mainstream culture of speak-no-evil suppression, they lash out in defiance, and then what they say is pretty appalling.

Regarding identity politics, what’s especially saddened me in my recent career is a trend toward rejecting the advocacy of anyone who does not belong to the group. In 2013, I published Big Brother, a novel that grew out of my loss of my own older brother, who in 2009 died from the complications of morbid obesity. I was moved to write the book not only from grief, but also sympathy: in the years before his death, as my brother grew heavier, I saw how dreadfully other people treated him – how he would be seated off in a corner of a restaurant, how the staff would roll their eyes at each other after he’d ordered, though he hadn’t requested more food than anyone else.

I was wildly impatient with the way we assess people’s characters these days in accordance with their weight, and tried to get on the page my dismay at how much energy people waste on this matter, sometimes anguishing for years over a few excess pounds. Both author and book were on the side of the angels, or so you would think.

But in my events to promote Big Brother, I started to notice a pattern. Most of the people buying the book in the signing queue were thin. Especially in the US, fat is now one of those issues where you either have to be one of us, or you’re the enemy. I verified this when I had a long email correspondence with a “Healthy at Any Size” activist, who was incensed by the novel, which she hadn’t even read. Which she refused to read. No amount of explaining that the novel was on her side, that it was a book that was terribly pained by the way heavy people are treated and how unfairly they are judged, could overcome the scrawny author’s photo on the flap.

She and her colleagues in the fat rights movement did not want my advocacy. I could not weigh in on this material because I did not belong to the club. I found this an artistic, political, and even commercial disappointment – because in the US and the UK, if only skinny-minnies will buy your book, you’ve evaporated the pool of prospective consumers to a puddle.

I worry that the clamorous world of identity politics is also undermining the very causes its activists claim to back. As a fiction writer, yeah, I do sometimes deem my narrator an Armenian. But that’s only by way of a start. Merely being Armenian is not to have a character as I understand the word.

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived. I reviewed a novel recently that I had regretfully to give a thumbs-down, though it was terribly well intended; its heart was in the right place. But in relating the Chinese immigrant experience in America, the author put forward characters that were mostly Chinese. That is, that’s sort of all they were: Chinese. Which isn’t enough.

I made this same point in relation to gender in Melbourne last week: both as writers and as people, we should be seeking to push beyond the constraining categories into which we have been arbitrarily dropped by birth. If we embrace narrow group-based identities too fiercely, we cling to the very cages in which others would seek to trap us. We pigeonhole ourselves. We limit our own notion of who we are, and in presenting ourselves as one of a membership, a representative of our type, an ambassador of an amalgam, we ask not to be seen.

The reading and writing of fiction is obviously driven in part by a desire to look inward, to be self-examining, reflective. But the form is also born of a desperation to break free of the claustrophobia of our own experience. The spirit of good fiction is one of exploration, generosity, curiosity, audacity, and compassion. Writing during the day and reading when I go to bed at night, I find it an enormous relief to escape the confines of my own head. Even if novels and short stories only do so by creating an illusion, fiction helps to fell the exasperating barriers between us, and for a short while allows us to behold the astonishing reality of other people.

The last thing we fiction writers need is restrictions on what belongs to us. In a recent interview, our colleague Chris Cleave conceded, “Do I as an Englishman have any right to write a story of a Nigerian woman? … I completely sympathise with the people who say I have no right to do this. My only excuse is that I do it well.”

Which brings us to my final point. We do not all do it well. So it’s more than possible that we write from the perspective of a one-legged lesbian from Afghanistan and fall flat on our arses. We don’t get the dialogue right, and for insertions of expressions in Pashto we depend on Google Translate. Halfway through the novel, suddenly the protagonist has lost the right leg instead of the left one. Our idea of lesbian sex is drawn from wooden internet porn. Efforts to persuasively enter the lives of others very different from us may fail: that’s a given. But maybe rather than having our heads taken off, we should get a few points for trying. After all, most fiction sucks. Most writing sucks. Most things that people make of any sort suck. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make anything.

The answer is that modern cliché: to keep trying to fail better. Anything but be obliged to designate my every character an ageing five-foot-two smartass, and having to set every novel in North Carolina.

We fiction writers have to preserve the right to wear many hats – including sombreros.

This is the full transcript of the keynote speech, Fiction and Identity Politics, Lionel Shriver gave at the Brisbane Writers Festival on 8 September.

#censorship #free speech

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abnahaya · 6 years

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#WakandaForever

The movie with (almost) no critics. Everyone seems to love The Black Panther! As it is said as the huge leap on Marvel’s superhero movies lane. Not only because it represents the first Marvel’s black superhero and all of the richness of the continent, but also as a movie filled with values and idealism.

Lemme tell you the plot shortly. After the death of T’Chaka, the king of Wakanda in the UN Conference—as it was potrayed in the movie Civil War— his son, T’Challa took the throne and therefore faced into political problems; as it was indicated early int he movie by his ex gf and the nation’s skilled spy, Nakia when saying that she couldn’t sit around—and be a queen when there are many of ‘their’ people suffered. Well, as a nation built on the most precious metal on earth—vibranium, obvs—Wakanda had been developed so well by its own, maybe even more than other countries in the world; but they kept it for themselves, disguising as a lowkey 3rd-world farming country. But little did T’Challa know that this matter wasn’t only the reason he didn’t have a queen by his coronation day, but also a part of (one of) his father’s dark secret.

Long ago, when T’Chaka was still in power, he had his baby brother as the Nation’s spy in California. Unfortunately, N’jobu fell in love with an American woman and had a child with her; and eventually got radicalized by the marginalization they suffered in the U.S. So in short, he was basically the source of the mess in Wakanda caused by a psychopath named Klaue who stole a quarter ton of vibranium. T’Chaka caught him red handed by the help of another spy, Zuri—who later became the shaman in the country—and ended up killing him. The kid N’jobu left—and both T’Chaka and Zuri did too, in order to keep the Wakanda secret safe—held a grudge and grew to a powerful man who swore to took revenge not only to the country, but to the entire world.

The rest is pretty clear. T’Challa met his new enemy, he got beaten up first—but survived and came back in style. There was a division in the country itself; when the military fully supported N’Jadaka —or better known as Killmonger, the abandoned kid. A CIA agent who was saved and gave his support to the previous throne, a genius baby-sister, loyal general, huge ass rhinos, and surprisingly-funny Head tribe of Jabari—which used to isolate themselves from 4 other tribes forming Wakanda. Believe me, I’d love to write about all of these amazing characters and how well they were developed in the movie, but my article would be an essay by then. And if you wonder how far I’d go with the spoiler: Black Panther wins.

T’Challa then made a new breakthrough for Wakanda: they are no longer hiding in the dark. Wakanda is going to lead other nation, not by colonizing, but by sharing their knowledge and resources; to build a better, kind world. So yeah, basically he also secures the queen’s place by doing it.

Do you feel it stings somewhere?

So, next I’m going to tell you why I love this movie to the point of writing about it in my personal blog. No, it’s not going about Trump and his walls; I’m also not going to talk about the social effects of this movie—like how it elevates the African culture and unites all the African descendants—since I’m not (yet) directly involved in such issues.

(Altho, regarding the African culture in the movie I’d say: I’d love to have all the mixtapes in the movie like, Zhuri’s lab playlist sounds so dope! I can literally dance through the whole BGMs during the movie.)

Since this is a personal blog, obvs, I’d talk about the relatable stuffs from my own life. And this movie speaks to me like the Lord’s Testaments!

First of all: parents are humans. Like Nakia said to T’Challa when he was in shock after learning about his father’s dark secret: “No man is perfect, including your father.” Preach, sister! I took it to the heart. And yes, T’Challa, I feel you. I live between the tradition that requires lots of respects to the elders. I don’t say that I disagree this, but sometimes the tradition shifts into worshiping the elders. I have a pair of wonderful parents, and I grow up believing in them and their house rules, they are so perfect in my eyes. And then disagreements happens, many of them, and I used to think that it was all on me; as if I has never been able to be a good daughter. Because ofc, the elders are always right. And just like T’Challa, I was so shock and sad and disappointed—and other mixed feelings so disturbing to describe when I learned about my parents flaws. I even came to a point where I was so angry I felt sick whenever my parents started talking to me. And then I realize that I am just growing up, and my parents are growing old. Means that I am filled with new individual experiences that my parents never have, while they are slowing down and tend to choose to be comfortable by repeating what they are familiar with. And whatever wrongs they did in the past, does not lessen their worth—or mine. For example: my dad didn’t like vacations, he thought the only reason we should go out is to learn. So we went to museums and exhibitions, but hardly ever to the amusement park or malls. I love traveling. When I found the joy of discovering an unknown land, even merely to laze around in the beach, I thought to myself, “how tf my parents never do this?” even now, my dad still prefers to stay home; and it’s okay.

T’Challa starts a revolution for his country, I can start one in my life, too. By the time he declares to step out from the dark and lend a hand to the world, one thing comes to my mind: global citizen. Yes people, today it is not about you and whatever surrounds you anymore. Globalization is here! We are able to know what happens in the other side of the world, and therefore expected to do something about it instead of just watching in the dark. Many things are coming and going to attack us not as a tribe or a country, but also earthlings. Wakanda took the chances, why can’t we? As if in my personal life, I’m preparing to leave my country and becoming a citizen of another country in the future. My children won’t be necessarily address themselves as Indonesian or Australian; they are both. Imagine what would happen to my great-great-great-great grandchildren? One thing for sure, they are going to be the citizen of the world. And I hope, by then, the people of the earth will no longer worry about the racial, economical or geographical differences like the noble speech T’Challa delivered:

"Wakanda will no longer watch from the shadows. We cannot. We must not. We will work to be an example of how we as brothers and sisters on this Earth should treat each other. Now, more than ever, the illusions of division threaten our very existence. We all know the truth: more connects us than separates us. But in times of crisis the wise build bridges, while the foolish build barriers. We must find a way to look after one another as if we were one single tribe."

And you wonder why this movie gets so many praises? Please.

#black panther #spoiler #movie review #wakanda forever #bananayue

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thirstyfortom · 7 years

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18C Apartment

I don’t usually write Vanderwood, but I had this idea and decided to give it a shot on writing a little fluff with glimpses of angst with him. Hope you guys like this!^^^

Vanderwood x MC

Fluff/Angst-ish

This is boring. Staking out is usually the most exhausting part of a mission, not because it involves effort, much on the contraire: there is no effort. Nothing happens, it’s boring.

Vanderwood sighs deeply as he takes another look in his binnacles once more. Nothing suspicious, just like all the other times he checked before. Ugh… why doesn’t this guy just start doing something shady already?

It’s hard to admit, but this would be way less boring if this wasn’t a solo mission. Agent 596 usually has some interesting stories from when he used to work for the government, agent 97 has some interesting gadgets like that lipstick pistol she loves to show off. Agent 707 would probably be making weird jokes and comments if he were here now. Weird and entertaining enough to get him out of his boredom, at least.

Seriously, if this had come to the point he misses 707’s quirks, it’s because this mission isn’t going anywhere. Is this guy really suspicious? He’s not doing anything for the last 8 hours, how can a lazy idiot like this be in charge of a scoop involving the police?

Vanderwood watches as the guy stretches in his chair and starts typing on his laptop. Oh… fucking finally! Some action here! Hum, not really, the guy is just looking for porn. For fuck’s sake!

It’s so quiet in the apartment that the sound of his stomach rumbling almost echoes in the tiny living room. Well, better grab some food before his hunger starts distracting him from his goal. Vanderwood gets up his chair and turns his back to the window. His reflexes send an immediate response as a figure falls from the top of the window, making him turn his head. He hears a metallic thud as something falls on the emergency stairs.

An attack? No, it can’t be, the guy couldn’t have noticed him. And even if he had, it would be really foolish of him to do something in a place where his neighbors and the ones in the building in front of his could see something.

And as he pulls his head out of the window to see a shattered vase with dirt falling over a bunch of yellow flowers, Vanderwood knows that there is no possibility of this being an attack, which doesn’t make him less curious on where did it come from.

“Shit! Are you alright?” he hears a female voice coming from above.

He looks up to find a woman looking at him. Concern and fear cross her eyes while she covers her mouth with her hands.

“Did it hit you?”

“If it had, I would be passed out, don’t you think?” She uncovers her mouth, and as he sees her curled lips, he almost regrets being rude. She looks legitimately concerned, and this was clearly an accident, no need for him to get so angry. “I’m okay.”

“Ah, I’m so glad.” She sighs in relief, giving him a little smile. “I’m really sorry, I was just watering the plants and this one was too close to the edge.”

“Why are you watering plants right now?” his question surprises even himself. Why would he care for the time she decides to water her plants?

“I know the best hour is in the morning. I just didn’t have the time today.” Why would she even care to answer him? Oh, maybe she is just polite. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, this vase could really hit someone, but he didn’t want her to keep feeling guilty, no, he just wanted her to stop apologizing and leaving him alone.

“So, uhm… can I get my flowers back?”

“What?”

“I can put them on another vase. Which apartment is yours?” Oh no… was she really considering to come here?

“No! I… I’ll take them to you. Which apartment is yours?” he spits the question back.

“Oh, that’s very sweet, but you don’t have to. I…”

“If mine is 17B, yours should be…” he looks down to count the floors and to the sides to count the apartments. “18C.”

“Yes!” she smiles sweetly, making him feel really amused at how surprised she got. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer, he needs to be quick! His target can start moving and… the flowers can die… no, but his priority is still his target! Vanderwood grabs a plastic cup and leans on the window to gather the dirt and the flowers. Before he leaves, he splashes some water on them. Better safe than sorry, right?

He rings the doorbell and listens to her unlocking the chain and turning the knob. She smiles sweetly as he holds the cup with the flowers. For a moment, he can imagine this as one of those moments when a boyfriend surprises her girlfriend with flowers at her door. Ugh… what is he thinking? This is stupid, and the flowers would have to be way bigger…

“Thank you!” she takes the cup from his hand , her nails touch his fingers lightly.

“It’s fine.” He looks away, scratching the back of his head. The flowers would have to be bigger, but the smile from the girlfriend would be as cute as hers right now… “ Chrysanthemums?” he asks, pointing at the flowers. What is he doing? He has a mission!

“Coreopsis. The name doesn’t do justice to their beauty. Coreopsis… doesn’t it sound like a name of a disease or something?”

“I guess. If you hear the word out of context, you would never think it’s the name of a flower.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Her smile is replaced by a surprised face when both of them hear his stomach rumbling again. God… so embarrassing! “Oh… I’m sorry, I think I interrupted your dinner…”

Could it be that his hunger is already making him get distracted? No, it’s her niceness that is distracting him, for sure. And even though he knows it’s wrong, he can’t stop wanting to see more of it.

He says that’s fine, that’s the only thing he feels like answering to her. She glances at inside her own apartment, then at him. “Wait here.” She says walking back inside.

He takes it as a chance to look at her home. It looks pretty neat, way better than the cold apartment below he rented. It could be even worse if he hadn’t clean it a little before starting his mission, but it doesn’t matter how much he cleans, it would never look as cozy and warm as the 18C.

“Here. As a thanking for bringing me my flowers.” She offers a plate with a slice of pie on it.

“No, you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. I just want to.” Wow, so assertive, who knew such a sweet woman could be firm like this? Well, if she insists… he takes the plate from her, their fingers touching slightly once again.

“The plate…?”

“You can give me back tomorrow. Don’t worry.” He nods, so sure that tomorrow he won’t be here anymore.

And he was right, turns out that he gathered some information in the middle of the night. If his deadline was a little longer, maybe he could wait until the morning to give her the plate, but it wasn’t the case. Well, at least he could keep the plate to remember how good the pie tasted. He felt ridiculous for thinking it, but the pie tasted as sweet as her smile… the smile that didn’t leave his mind not even a week later, when the boss asked him to go “encourage” Agent Seven to finish his work, the guy was really slow that time…

“Oh! You’re back, Mary! I was wondering when you were going to show up!” Agent Seven greets him, ignoring his glare for having to go through his crazy security system.

“What can I do? When your dirty clothes start turning into a mountain, I need to come so you will focus on your job. Are you done with the Indonesian case?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost there. Just chill, Mary.”

He can’t chill, not when this irresponsible prick is clearly lying on his face! What is he even doing looking at this camera with so much focus?

“What are you even doing?”

“Me? Oh, just some RFA matters.” Vanderwood stretches to see over Seven’s shoulder. It’s a security footage, and there’s a girl on it.

No, not just any girl. The flowers girl.

He tries to be discreet gathering the pieces of clothing spread all around the bunker, but his eyes keep coming back to Seven’s computer. What’s happening? It doesn’t look like the 18C apartment, so where is she? Agent Seven said this had to do with the organization he works aside… so she’s a part of this too? But why is she being watched? Did she do something wrong? Or worse… is she in danger?

“Something wrong, Mary?”

“”What? No, don’t be ridiculous! Just finish your job, agent!” he basically ignores him as he glues his eyes on the screen again, watching as the flowers girl is lying on a couch and reading. Yeah, it must be hard not to pay attention at this…

He charges the taser. He is here to make sure the younger agent finish his job properly and don’t get distracted. Well, this distraction is really tempting, but… life is hard.

It’s very hard, especially because he researched and found that coreopsis, despite of their dreadful name, represent joy, something that people like Agent 707 and himself can never have.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger fics #vanderwood #vanderwood x mc #luciel choi #mystic messenger seven

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rubyastari · 5 years

Text

His Almost Twin

Sometimes God works in peculiar ways. There are times when God simply plays the Universe to direct you where to go. Other times, that happens just to clarify what has been going on in your mind lately.

A couple of days before that Saturday, a friend asked you to go to a karaoke night party with her. She said she’d been stressed out lately, so she needed to blow off some steam. You realised you’d been feeling the same way too, so you agreed to go.

Hours before the karaoke night, you’d read your best friend’s post on his timeline and was immediately worried. It had been ages since you both really talked to each other. When his caption said something about ‘...facing challenges ahead...”, you couldn’t resist asking him what had been going on with him lately.

Since you have been best friends for so long, his answer wasn’t that surprising. Obviously, he wasn’t ready to talk about it, so you decided to wait. Still, you couldn’t get that off your mind.

So, how was the karaoke night?

You had to admit, it had gone well. People were having fun, so were you...that your original plan to leave early had been completely forgotten. It didn’t matter that your friend had to leave early. Somehow, you felt like still sticking around for another moment.

Then there he was, standing tall at the corner of the venue, talking to some other girl. The girl was sporty-looking with her fisherman’s hat, well-fitted tee, a checkered shirt tied to her waist, skinny jeans, and trainers. Her hair was dyed in a slight reddish ombre. The guy...you couldn’t believe your eyes at first.

He was almost the dead ringer of your big brotherly, hazel-eyed best friend! The greyish hair, stubble, rather fair complexion, and he was even wearing the same checkered shirt your best friend also has.

That was when your mood suddenly turned a bit darker. If it had been your best friend, you might have already rushed there just to give him a hug and ask him what had been going on. Instead, you carried on singing when somebody handed you the microphone.

The girl in a hat had dragged him to the centre of the venue when somebody urged the rest to gather for a selfie group shots. He bumped into you and you both exchanged looks. He smiled at you, so you returned the same smile. Then the group separated and you went back to your seat again.

So, what had made you guys finally talked to each other?

As the night wore on, more people left the venue. You decided to stand in the corner, since you’d been sitting practically almost all night. When you noticed him standing a bit farther from you, something inside you made you inch closer.

No, this is not one of those rare chicklit / chickflick moments, you silently told yourself. In fact, what you felt that night was far from that. You were still thinking about your best friend and he just looked so much like him. You felt something choke your throat inside.

He noticed you and smiled again. God, he had a really sweet smile that sparked warmth in his brown eyes (not hazel like your best friend’s). You automatically smiled back at him, because his smile was indeed infectious.

“Do you own this place?” No idea why that dumb question suddenly popped out of your mouth. Perhaps you were already so tired. You should’ve returned home by then. That random question had cracked him up laughing, though.

“What?” He had a distinctive accent, which was obviously not American, British, or Australian. Having been in the language business for quite some time, you immediately noticed that it was not a European accent as well – despite his looks. “What made you think I do?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed but not defeated by it. You were about to bail, when he suddenly asked you:

“Come here often?”

“No, this is my first time here,” you told him truthfully. “You?”

“The same.” Then he gave you that sweet, infectious smile again. “Nice voice, by the way. You’re a good singer.”

“Thank you.” That had warmed your heart. Then you ended up chatting. He wondered if you had come to such events more often and you said no. You told him that IRL, you were more like a very boring person. Now he was genuinely curious.

“Really? Like, how?”

“I love staying home, reading a book, or watching TV shows,” you explained. “Or writing.”

“Oh, that’s really good,” he seemed impressed. “Do you know Netflix?”

“Of course.”

“So, what do you write?” To your surprise, the conversation rolled over naturally. He told you his name and you told him yours. It was as if the two of you had been friends for quite a while. He was nice and friendly, not just handsome. He was also smart, working as an engineer. You weren’t too surprised when he also told you he was from one of the countries in the Middle East. His features were quite a dead giveaway.

Your conversation was interrupted when another girl handed you the microphone, asking you to sing again. He beckoned to you to carry on, so you belted out the lyrics on the screen. Despite the sadness of missing your best friend and worrying about him, you still managed to have fun that night.

After that, you went back to your conversation with him. He told you that, when he was not hanging out like that, he usually stayed home to watch Netflix or went to the gym.

Suddenly, you felt like blurting out:

“Okay, I have a really weird confession.”

He turned to you, looking interested. You held your breath for a while, before saying:

“You remind me of my best friend.”

He didn’t expect that, obviously. His smile widened as he clasped both hands together, as if praying.

“Aww, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No, really,” you persisted. “You really do look like him.” You pointed at the checkered shirt he was wearing. “I mean, he even has the same shirt – exactly like this.”

“Really?” His smile faded, his big brown eyes radiating more curiousity now. “Do you have his picture?”

“One moment.” You reached for your bag and took out your tablet. Once you found his pictures, you showed them to him. His brown eyes widened in awe.

“Oh, my God!” he gasped. You let him trace his fingers on your tablet screen, swiping pictures. Then he touched his own forehead. “I also have those lines here. The perks of being an engineer.”

You cracked up laughing. You realised that you were beginning to like this guy. He had a sense of humour.

“How old is he?”

“He’s 42.”

“Ah.” Then, completely out of the blue, that guy turned to you with a mischievous grin. “How old do you think I am?”

“Uh...the same?” You cringed, hoping not to offend him. You usually played that game and enjoyed people’s various reactions when they guessed your age wrong. “Like, in your early 40’s?”

He laughed. “I’m 33,” he finally admitted. He pointed at his chin. “It’s probably my beard.”

“I’m sorry.” And no, I have zero problem with your beard, you were tempted to add. You love beards, but you didn’t want to scare him off. That might have sounded too creepy.

“Nah, it’s okay.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I get that a lot. I’m kind of used to it.”

To be fair, you decided to reveal your age. Still, you couldn’t resist being a little too honest by saying: “Some people have thought I must have been in my late 20’s or early 30’s.”

“More like, in your early 30’s,” he stated, which was fine for you. Then he asked again, “Your best friend. Where did you guys meet?”

You memorised each fact like the back of your hand. Some years ago, at a workplace. You mentioned his name, his origin, and how you two ended up becoming best friends. You even talked about how your mother was also fond of him, that she allowed him to call her like a son calling his mother.

“Basically, he’s like a big brother to me,” you went on proudly. “I’ve always wanted one.”

“He seems like a nice guy.” The guy’s brown eyes softened as he smiled at you. Again, you felt that familiar warmth. You agreed.

“He is.” Then you sighed and looked ahead where the crowd were still singing and cheering before them. “I miss him so much.”

“Then keep in touch with him,” he suggested kindly. “Have you contacted him again lately? Where is he, by the way?”

“I have, a few hours before this event,” you told him. “He’s back home now, but he used to live here for about seven years.”

“Maybe I can be your big brother too,” he offered kindly. You giggled.

“No.” He was clearly amused and so were you. “You’re younger.”

You both laughed. The conversation went on. He asked if you liked singing karaoke style and you confidently said: “I’m a huge karaoke fan!”

“A huge fan, huh?” He smiled again. “Maybe next time we can hang out singing with the other guys and girls.”

“Sure thing.” You exchanged phone numbers. Since his name was pretty generic, you asked for his full name. He was grinning when he said it:

“My last name means ‘wrong’ in Indonesian and ‘right in Arabic.”

You gazed at him with your mouth open. “Like that football player?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It’s a common name back home.”

“Wow.” At first, you let him type his phone number on your tablet. Then, when you typed his full name, you joked a little: “If the guys I know see your name here, I’ll have to tell them: ‘No, this is not that football player’.”

He laughed.

It was past midnight when both of you stood waiting outside for your ride shares. You noticed that he was now smoking, which dampened your spirit a little. He noticed your expression and grinned, gesturing at the well-lit cigarette in his hand.

“I know,” he said, as if reading your mind. “My lifestyle is shit. I also go to the gym regularly, but I’m still fat.”

“No, you’re not.” Besides, it doesn’t matter, you wanted to add. Still, you chose to keep your mouth shut.

“Yes, I am.” He shrugged again. “I can’t be like that football player you mentioned.”

You smiled. “It’s okay.”

When his ride share arrived first, he looked at her and smiled for one last time that night. He said: “Nice to meet you. Be home safely.”

“Likewise.” You smiled back. “Take care.”

That night in your room, you replayed that moment and realised one thing before you finally fell asleep:

You’re still missing your best friend and worried about him...

Hopefully he is alright...

#writer@work #life #karaoke #night #nightlife

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