#instead i need to save every cent i make for the next four years just to have what cis people r born with

[vamptastic]

time to make some online purchases and not be nervous about it at all not even a little bit

[just-late-roman-republic-things]

Today I am thinking about weaving.

I can knit and crochet, but those crafts didn't exist in Roman times. Any historically accurate Roman cloth must be woven. So when a little potholder loom jumped into my shopping basket for 50 cents, it felt like a sign I should learn.

One potholder that was 50% yarn and 50% weird gaps later, I looked up a tutorial, and realized why the damn thing was 50 cents. I needed a better, more adaptable loom. And, because I am a cheapskate and slightly loony, I decided to make one instead of buying it.

So, how does this thing work?

First, you string the warp threads up and down, around the pegs. Here, I made a zigzag shape. Then, you use a needle or shuttle to weave more yarn over and under the warp, horizontally, back and forth. This produces woven fabric.

Some looms weave from the top, some from the bottom. This Greek urn shows two weavers working from the top. The left weaver uses a rod to compact the woven fabric upward, keeping it even and sturdy. The right weaver is passing an oval-shaped shuttle through the warp threads to form another row.

Most Roman looms would have looked like this, with the finished cloth at the top. Unlike my looms, these are warp-weighted. That means you keep the warp yarns taut by hanging weights at the bottom, rather than through a bottom row of pegs.

Warp-weighted looms also have a big advantage over my little potholder loom: you can easily create multiple sheds.

A "shed" is a temporary gap between lifted strands and non-lifted strands. Instead of having to go over and under each strand individually, you raise the entire shed, then pull the shuttle or needle straight through. This saves lots of time! Then, to weave the next row, you close the shed, lift up a different set of threads to create a new shed, and send the shuttle/needle through the other direction.

On a warp-weighted loom, the sheds are opened by loops called heddles (H), which are attached to a heddle rod (G). When the rod is down, shed (1) is open (middle diagram). When you pull the rod up, shed (1) closes and shed (2) opens instead (right diagram). Most warp-weighted looms also have a pair of forks you can rest the heddle rod on, to free your hands.

Here, there are three heddle rods and sets of forks, the heddles are white, and the warp thread is red. This gives you four different sheds, and the potential to weave very complex patterns indeed. Not bad for a device invented over 6500 years ago!

I liked the multiple heddle-rod design so much, I tried incorporating it into my DIY loom, too. I've tested both yarn and paperclips as heddles:

I actually got both sheds and heddle-rods working, too. Which is pretty cool for a lap loom - every other lap loom I found only has one shed, so you have to go over-under the individual threads on alternate rows.* More time-consuming. However, the sheds here are narrow, and I'll need a smaller and smoother shuttle to pass through them smoothly. This wouldn't be an issue on a warp-weighted loom, where the warp hangs freely downward, and can move more flexibly with the heddles.

Anyway. I may get a "real" loom at some point, but I wanted to build one first, and I think it gave me more appreciation for just how resourceful ancient weavers were. They created technology, clothing, and artwork out of very basic materials, and civilization depended on these skills.

Now, I need to go finish the...whatever the hell it will be. Big thanks to Wikipedia and to the lovely Youtubers who make this craft easier to learn. I think it'll be a lot of fun.

(*Edit - found out a rotating heddle bar can make two sheds on a lap loom! Exciting!!)

[atlanticcanada]

Nova Scotians react to pending carbon tax

Delivery driver Emran Hassan is not just carrying food, but also frustration.

“I heard about the new carbon tax and it’s absolutely ridiculous. It’s like we’re playing a game of survival,” he said.

The 19-year-old hustles between three jobs to pay for university. He studies computer science at Dalhousie but today he’s facing a different kind of deadline. Before the carbon tax hits, Hassan wants to gas up.

When the federal Carbon tax kicks in on Canada Day prices will spike by more than 14 cents a litre and, go up nearly 4 cents the next weekend when the clean fuel adjuster comes in the following week.

Consumers will receive quarterly rebates. In Nova Scotia for example, an individual will receive $124 while a family of four will get $248 four times a year.

“Is this supposed to save the environment, is it supposed to just make us give the government more money?” asked Hassan. “I love Justin Trudeau for bringing me and my family here but all this stuff, this price of living he’s adding on, it’s getting ridiculous.”

Hassan wasn’t the only one gassing up. Others went to the pumps to try to get ahead of the price jump.

“It’s a big jump especially when you’re filling your tank up every two days, two to three days,” said Ave Trefry who works for a counter top company and travels across the province.

“To me it’s getting out of control.”

Holly Stevens thinks the government is doing what it needs to be doing but believes more needs to be done.

“And I don’t know what that looks like but if it’s carbon tax today it’s probably just a piece of it and we need to do more,” Stevens said.

The cost of heating oil is also going up.

“It’s going to bump the price up by 17.38 cents a litre which is a significant jump,” said James Farquhar, general manager at Scotia Fuels Ltd

Instead of waiting for scheduled re-fills, some homeowners are calling to get it done this week.

“The amount of call and deliveries this time of year is low but right now I would say we’re probably ten times what we would normally have for call and deliveries,” Farquhar said.

Hassan questions what his options are.

He knows some people deliver food on bikes but doesn’t think it would be very efficient outside of the downtown area. He’s considering driving less or investing in an electric car but points out that would mean buying a new car, which is expensive.

“Either buy an electric car or just stop driving. Drive less,” Hassan said. “Especially for people like us that’s doing Uber Eats or taxi driver or Skip the Dishes or DoorDash. You’re just going to have to find another job.”

For more Nova Scotia news visit our dedicated provincial page.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/9mQNwXz

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

Chapter 1 -- Perfect Harmony | Charlie Gillespie

Summary: Emily Fox is a talented 17-year-old with a passion for all things music. Her dream is to become a successful singer-songwriter one day. But to achieve that dream, she needs to get into one of the most prestigious music schools in her district – it’s all been part of her plan since she was six. Sadly enough, those schools cost a ton of money that her parents don’t want to invest. They don’t even want her to pursue her dream. So, now Emily’s hustling, working at the music store to save up to get into college. That’s until she meets Charlie, an annoying seventeen-year-old boy with the same dream as her. The only difference is, he’s just doing it. He doesn’t need a fancy college to pursue his dream to become famous with his band. He just writes his songs and books small gigs here, there and everywhere. Will meeting Charlie defer her from her dream college, or will he actually help her achieve the dream? 

Pairing: Charlie Gillespie x OC (Emily Fox) 

Warnings: mentions of death, the characters of Charlie, Owen, Jeremy and Madison are based on the characters they play on the show and i do not own their names, only OC are mine. The songs aren’t mine either, they’re all from the show except for one. 

Chapter One

~|Emily Fox| ~

As a seventeen-year-old, you should not be left to your devices. Unless you have no other choice. When you have a dream your parents have called unrealistic without ever listening to what you were actually capable of, you have no other choice but to move out and fend for yourself. Thankfully, I can stay with Uncle Mitch for a while until I’m off to college.  Since leaving my parents’ house at fourteen, my life has consisted of high school, working at the music store, write songs – if I have the time –, help Uncle Mitch around the house, sleep, repeat. It’s been a chore. But I just about manage. 

“Please, don’t touch the guitars without a supervisor, ma’am!” I say loudly from across the shop as I catch her hands rising up to pick up one of the acoustic guitars hanging on the wall for display. I rush over to her, dodging clients testing out guitars and pianos I’ve helped before. While the forty-something woman stares at me with an intense glare, I pick up the Gibson guitar for her and hand it over, offering her my fakest smile. “This one’s a nice one!” I tell her as she handles the guitar very clumsily, nearly dropping it. “What do you know about guitars?” she snarls at me. “Well, for starters, I work here, so I’m supposed to have some knowledge about guitars. Secondly, this is a bass guitar. Never just call a bass a guitar.” The woman rolls her eyes and when she casts her gaze on the strings, I roll mine. I’ve had my share of forty-something old women coming in here to buy something for their spoiled little sons, pretending they know more about guitars of any kind, pianos and drums while I have been brought up listening to Uncle Robert talking non-stop about all of his instruments. He taught me how to play each and every one of the instruments and brought me into the world of rock. If he were still here, I wouldn’t be working in a music store, trying to pay for my own apartment or my college tuition. He believed in me from the second he heard me sing and play piano. He still believes in me, I can feel it. Staying with Uncle Mitch – Uncle Robert’s husband, now widower, has been a lot more healing than it would’ve been if I still lived at my parents’. “I know that,” she grumbles, then looks back up at me. “If you know so much about everything, you little know-it-all, why don’t you tell me something more about this one?” I refrain myself from rolling my eyes again, and instead ball up my fists to put all of my anger there. “This is the Les Paul Junior Tribute DC bass. It’s actually a tribute to the historic Gibson EB-0 bass from the late 50's, but with modern features. The short scale length is actually chosen by many for its strong fundamental tone and sits perfectly in a track when recording. The mahogany double cutaway body and maple neck with rosewood fingerboard balances perfectly when playing either sitting or strapped on. It's equipped with a single expanded range LP BassBucker pickup with single volume and tone controls for simplicity. The volume pot has a push-pull feature to coil tap the pickup scooping the mids for further tone shaping possibilities.” I’ve explained this many a times, so it almost sounds as if I’ve learned it by heart. “Oh! And it comes in four different finishes; Worn Ebony, Worn Cherry, Blue Stain and Worn Brown.” The woman looks at me, clearly impressed at my knowledge of the bass in her hands. I’m pretty sure I could’ve told her anything and she would’ve believed me. “I want to speak to the manager,” she then says and pushes the bass guitar back in my hands as if handling a cardboard box. If my reflexes weren’t what they are now, we would’ve had a broken bass and I would be the one that had to pay for it. “What for?” I ask, my anger slipping through into a vicious snarl. “Just because you learn everything by heart, doesn’t mean you’re a good salesperson.” I open my mouth to say something, but I know I can’t win against a Karen. So, instead, I plaster on my best fake smile and say “Of course, give me a second.” I turn on my heel and make my way back to the cash register to get Ash, my manager who’s been nothing but an absolute gem to me. She wasn’t looking for any employees, but still hired me when she saw how desperate I was and how good I was with the instruments. She even lets me write songs after hours. “Karen alert?” Ash asks when she sees my annoyed face, at the brim of exploding. “Yep, at the bass guitars,” I tell her and take her spot to handle a paying costumer. Ash hops over the counter and makes her way to the Karen at the bass guitars. Only for her to leave the store in an angered rush without any bass guitar for her precious son. “That’s 44 dollars and 97 cents, please,” I tell the guy who’d come in for guitar strings, picks and some polish. He looks about my age. Dark hair gelled back, green almond-shaped eyes and rosy cheeks. He hands me the cash with a cute, nervous smile. “Thank you! And here’s the three cents change,” I hold out my hand for him to take the three cents, but he shakes his head. “Keep it,” he winks at me before grabbing his purchases and leaving the store. Leaving me all flustered and blushing. I hate when cute boys come to the shop and have the audacity to do this stuff to me. UGH. “Got rid of our Karen,” Ash tells me, “You can get back out there. I think the little girl over there at the piano could use some of your expertise.” She points to a fourteen-year-old gliding her fingers along the big wing of the white piano in the middle of our store. “Hi,” I say as I approach her, making her jump slightly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Emily. Can I help you?” She scans my face for a moment, as if assessing whether or not I’m trustworthy. I guess she decides she does when she opens her mouth and four simple words flow out of it. “Do you play piano?” I’m a bit taken aback by the question. None of the costumers have ever asked me that question. “Yes, I do, actually,” I reply honestly. “I want to learn how to play the piano, but my mother doesn’t allow me. Says it’s too expensive. The piano, that is. And lessons are expensive too, she says.” She stops talking for a moment as if thinking about what to say next. “Will you teach me?” “Oh,” I manage to bring out, “I—we don’t really offer any piano lessons in the store. We just sell them.” Her eyes water and she visibly swallows a lump in her throat. “Okay…” she whimpers, making my heart break just that bit more. “Will you play me a song though? I love hearing people play.” I take a deep breath as I think about how to turn this girl down. But then I remember my parents turning me and my dreams down. “Sure, I can play you a song. Any requests?” I ask as I sit down on the stool in front of us, patting beside me to invite her too. “Surprise me,” she says, shaking her head with a big smile on her face. I carefully touch the keys as I think of a song to sing. Once I’ve figured that out, I begin to play the right melody and then chime in with the lyrics I’d written with Uncle Robert when he was still alive. The song I cherish the most and wouldn’t share with anyone. But this girl reminds me too much of myself, and I think she might take something from the message. “Here's the one thing I want you to know You got someplace to go Life's a test, yes But you go toe to toe You don't give up, no, you grow.” The girl looks up at me with big Bambi eyes, urging me to continue. “And you use your pain Cause it makes you you Though I wish I could hold you through it I know it's not the same You got living to do And I just want you to do it So get up, get out, relight that spark You know the rest by heart” As I begin the chorus, I hear drums backing me up from somewhere inside the store, and when I look around, I find Ash behind a drum set with a smile on her face as she helps me out a little. “Wake up, wake up, if it's all you do Look out, look inside of you It's not what you lost, it's what you'll gain Raising your voice to the rain Wake up your dream and make it true Look out, look inside of you It's not what you lost Relight that spark Time to come out of the dark Wake up, wake up” By now, Ash and I have gained an audience. Most of the costumers in line don’t even mind having to wait to pay until we’re done with this outburst of ours. “Better wake those demons, just look them in the eye No reason not to try Life can be a mess, I won't let it cloud my mind I'll let my fingers fly” The girl next to me still has the same expression on her face. Eyes pooled with admiration and inspiration. Exactly the reason why I make music and why it’s been a dream of mine to make a career out of it. “And I use the pain 'cause it's part of me And I'm ready to power through it Gonna find the strength, find the melody 'Cause you showed me how to do it Get up, get out, relight that spark You know the rest by heart” I go for the chorus again, and then pop in with the bridge. The one I added to uncle’s song. The costumers in the store stare at Ash and me with smiles on their faces whilst swaying along to the song. “So wake that spirit, spirit I wanna hear it, hear it No need to fear it, you're not alone You're gonna find your way home” I close my eyes as I hit that high note, then stop playing for a second whilst starting the chorus for the last time. Even Ash backs me up with some backing vocals after having heard the chorus a couple of times already. “Wake up, wake up, if it's all you do” The both of us pick up the melody again, putting more power behind the rest of the song. “Look out, look inside of you It's not what you lost, it's what you'll gain Raising your voice to the rain Wake up your dream and make it true Look out, look inside of you When you're feeling lost Relight that spark Time to come out of the dark Wake up, wake up” I hit the last couple of notes on the piano before a roar of applause and cheers fills up the entire store. The fourteen-year-old beside me is clapping the loudest of them all. Her eyes still wide and admiring and full of life. “What’s your name?” I ask the girl, causing her to stop clapping. “Kayla,” she replies. “Listen to me, Kayla. Even if your parents don’t agree with your big dreams, please, never give up on your dream! If this is really what you want to do, go for it. You’ll find a way, I promise you.” A tear rolls down her pink cheek as her bottom lip trembles slightly. “Don’t give up, okay?” She nods her head vigorously. “Thank you, Emily!” she wraps her arms around me into a tight hug before hopping off the stool and rushing out the store. As I watch her run out, my eyes land on a guy. Somewhat my age, I think. I can’t really function for a second as his hazel eyes stare at me and with his mouth curled up on one side. When I finally manage to move again, my eyes scan him entirely. His brown hair sticks out from underneath an orange beanie, his nose fine and cheekbones defined. He’s wearing a flannel shirt over a grey muscle tank and ripped black jeans. I give him an awkward smile before heading back to the cash register. “Can you do register for a moment? I need to check something in stock,” Ash asks me, and I simply nod before helping the next costumer. After the fifth costumer, the boy who’d been staring at me before shows up in front of me. “How can I help?” I ask with my best customer service-smile. “By giving your number,” he replies coyly. I was going to give him the cute boy card until those words came out of his mouth. “Sorry, my number ain’t for sale,” I reply and look behind him, “Next!” “Oh, no, sorry! Uhm, I don’t mean it like that, I—” Before he can mutter another word, I interrupt him. “Are you going to purchase something, bro?” He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking like a goldfish. “Uhm… No… I just—” I interrupt him again. “Next customer, please,” I stare at him intensely, hoping that’d chase him away. He knocks on the counter before moving away, clearly defeated by the rejection. I can’t believe douchebags like him still exists in this generation. People need to learn manners. “Hi, how can I help you?” I ask the next customer, bringing back my best smile. Just got to move on, just as I moved on from dealing with a Karen again today. Best way to do that, is focus on all the other customers. For the rest of my shift, I have not been able to shake the cute-but-rude guy from before. There’s something about him that haunts me still and I can’t seem to figure out what it is. Not even when I’m focusing on cleaning up the store. As I’m dusting the piano, I hear the bell above the door ring. “Sorry, we’re closed!” I yell without looking up from the piano. “Are you going to play again?” The voice sends shivers down my spine as it takes me right back to that one douchey line it uttered just a mere hour before. “Again, we are closed, sorry.” This time it comes out more like a snarl and with a bit of poison. The boy in front of me chuckles and holds his hands up in defeat. “Listen, I’m sorry about before, but—” he steps closer to me, but I hold up my finger to make him stop, and it seems to help as he simply freezes in place. “But the store is closed. Goodbye now.” I go back to dusting off the piano and wait for the bell to ring again, but it doesn’t. Instead, the sound of guitar strums reaches my ears. “You can’t touch any of the guitars without supervision,” I tell him sternly, but when I meet his eyes and they’re looking at me intently as if urging me to do something. “You’re supervising me, aren’t you?” he asks cockily, still stroking the strings, creating a beautiful melody that fills up my head. “What do you want?” I ask bitterly, looking at him again, and hoping it would make him leave faster. “For you to sing.” “Sing what?” He shrugs, leaving me to wonder what he means by that. “I have a lot of work to do, dude. Please, leave,” I sound pathetic, nearly begging him to leave. I’m only a step away from begging on my knees. The sound of the guitar abruptly stops when I go back to cleaning the piano. “Listen, I just wanted to tell you that what you did earlier today was amazing. You know, not a lot of people have the power you have. Did you see what you did to all those people in here? Imagine doing that for thousands of people! Have you ever thought of that?” I turn to look at him, suddenly having the urge to tell him everything. Then I remember what a douchebag he really is. “I don’t have time for this. Please. Leave!” I shout at him before heading towards the cash register to start counting the money. It’s silent for a while until the bell over the door breaks it. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. This boy did something to me without me even realizing it. Nope. Can’t trust boys. They don’t do anything but break hearts and be douchebags. But this one somehow seemed different. No other boy has ever left such an impression as he did. And I didn’t even have a proper conversation with him. I just hope I don’t have to see him. Like ever again.  

[lovelivingmydreams]

A story by heroes and villains

Roman Castile: Passion and duty

Roman finds that his different passions seem to get in each other's way for now. But one day, he will find a balance.

“Ugh! I am done!” Roman exclaimed relieved, barely hearing the hissed warning from the librarian. Homework had been draining. Sure they’d had fun. Especially when it came to teasing Virgil about his pronunciation when they worked on Spanish.

Still Roman was ready to do literally anything else.

“Give me a sec, I have to finish this thing for English,” Virgil muttered absentmindedly. Roman knew that Virgil had rewritten that particular assignment two times already.

“Want me to read it trough for you?” Roman offered. Maybe hearing someone say that it was good would be enough to stop him from second guessing himself again.

“You don’t…”  Virgil started, somehow looking guilty.

“We’re here to help each other Virgil. If I didn’t want to help you I wouldn’t offer. I thrive on being of help to my friends. It’s no trouble,” he assured him. Virgil offered him a small smile and a nod in response. “Alright. You can read it when I’m done,” he allowed.

Roman took peace with that and opened his notebook to start doodling.

He had a few ideas for some more shirt designs. He’d enjoyed making his ‘coming out’ shirt. Then there was the Halloween party and every other social event this year has to offer where he had to slay. Junior year was a year to be noticed. Nothing wrong with putting down some ideas in advance. He just might come across the perfect outfit.

“Seems I’m not the only one who can draw up some clothes,” Virgil noted and Roman nearly fell of his chair when he jumped at his sudden proximity.

“Will you stop that!?” A thing about Virgil Roman had learned over the last week. He always seemed to pop up out of nowhere. One minute he’s gushing over the latest Disney trailer with André and suddenly Virgil stands next to him giving his two cents. It was terrifying.

“Not a chance,” Virgil chuckled as he picked up Roman’s sketches.

“This looks good though… You ever thought of becoming a fashion designer?”

Roman’s eyes widened. Making amazing outfits for a living? He could make a whole ‘wear your pride’ line and… Oh… Oh…!

“You are a genius!” Roman exclaimed. He’d had no idea what he wanted to do with his future, aside from hero work, but now the idea was brought up he wanted nothing else. Fashion designer, superhero, actor, maybe also Mr. Castile-Anker. That was a future he could look forward to!

Virgil chuckled. “It’s the least I can do. I sent in the designs like you said… I’m kind of excited.”

Roman beamed at him. “I’m sure next time you see DreamPrince on the news he’ll be wearing your design.” He was. He’d been shown some alternative designs by Manifestor and found Virgil’s drawing among them and immediately declared that that was the one.

As he’d told Roman, he’d changed a few things. He’d shown him on Wednesday to get his stamp of approval. Roman had gushed unapologetically, because he knew he’d have to tone it back a bit in front of the team.

Which had been hard.

Tonight he’d be taking it for a test run and he’d make sure to be seen by people and cameras.

“We’ll see,” Virgil smiled as he pushed his laptop with his assignment towards Roman.

Roman read it, dropping the subject without problem.

Virgil was easy to be friends with and he’d quickly learned to read his moods.

During lunch Virgil usually sat himself a little bit away from the group when he felt the need to just focus on his music and sketch a little before heading back to class. He was sarcastic, witty and could dish it out about as well as he could take it.

He was also very guarded emotionally, which Roman could understand, but whenever they were just the two  of them, Virgil opened up some more. He’d learned about Virgil’s soon to be stepdad and the admittedly adorable meet cute he’d been a part of.

He knew that Virgil’s dad had found them a new home and they’d moved in just that week.

He learned that Virgil was mature and his dad’s only wingman which they both agreed was super awkward but also hilarious.

Roman had joked that Virgil might end up being his father’s best man. But apparently there was a family friend ‘uncle Thomas’ who might get that position.

Virgil had gone out with another girl that week. Anna, who’d had English with him last year or something. Virgil had listened patiently, but relatively unaffected to her asking him out and arranged another semi-date at the music store for the next evening. Luckily nothing came from it again. Roman asked him why he kept saying yes to people he barely knew. Virgil explained that he had missed out on enough chances to befriend others. So the way he saw it he’d at the very least get a friend out of it. Roman kind of took comfort in that. It didn’t sound like Virgil was trying to get a girlfriend or a boyfriend right now. Just trying to socialize. Roman had reminded Virgil to watch his boundaries though. He wouldn’t want him to push himself out of fear he’d be missing out.

One more thing he learned about Virgil: he was overly critical of himself.

“Well, I think you can hand this in with confidence Virge,” Roman concluded as he returned Virgil’s laptop to him.

“So… I recall something about pizza? I’m starving!” he grinned.

Virgil chuckled and lead the way. Soon they were sat at a table with their orders and they were talking about everything and nothing. It was great. And Roman was so close to asking Virgil out but…

“So… Um… There’s this… Shoot wait a minute,” Roman got up and picked up his phone.

“Si mama…?” he asked curiously after seeing the caller ID.

“Darling. I know you are out with your friend. But I wanted you to know we’re headed to the university now,” his mother informed him. The university… Wait. “Que?” Roman looked at his watch incredulously. He was going to be late. Unless he left right now that is.

“Perdona! I’ll be there soon.” He hung up and dug through his wallet for some money.

“So sorry Virge! Time got away from us I’m afraid. I swear I intended to give you that ride… Can you call your dad… You know what? Just use the change to take the bus or something alright? My treat! I’ll call you later!” he promised as he tossed down a few bills that should more than cover the tab and the tip before rushing away.

How was it so late already?

He sprinted around a few corners and found a spot to get changed. BS had explained about the sciency stuff behind his costume change, but all Roman really cared about was that he basically had a magical boy transformation. Sure he could sit there and let the tech do its thing, but it was much more fun to make up a cool transformation sequence.

First, hair. He retrieved a lip balm like object and applied the substance to his hairline. He tucked the balm away and with one smooth movement of his hand he styled and recolored his hair. Instead of parted in the middle with regal waves it was flicked to the back, save for a single rebellious strand dangling down his forehead. Instead of a deep ash brown it was warm chestnut in color.

Then he took a tini metallic bead from a ring on his finger and tapped it against his temple, before he swiped his hand in front of his eyes as his mask placed itself securely on his face, changing his eye color in the process. He tapped his wrists together in front of his chest and brought them down with force, feeling his blazer and shirt get replaced by the skintight suit. He tapped his right heal against his left before taking another power position and finishing his costume change.

How cool was his life?!

He created a platform to lift himself to the roof and sprinted towards the university. The GTH was in it’s basement. As he made his way there he started to think over asking Virgil out again.

Maybe, now wasn’t the time. Virgil was clearly still upset about the whole Janus thing. He didn’t say it but Roman could tell. And he didn’t want Virgil to think for even a second that Roman’s crush was anything less than genuine, he had noticed that Virgil still had trouble believing their friendship was real at times. Not to mention that starting a relationship with someone while he was still figuring out how to balance out superhero and civilian life was clearly a bad idea. He couldn’t even ask him out without being interrupted by his other life.

So, he'd wait until he had his life in order and he was sure Virgil was ready. There was definitely some kind of connection between them. And Roman was willing to wait until the time was right…

He knew he was being a coward, but his friendship with Virgil was so fragile.

He entered the basement campus with little hassle and dropped of his bag in his personal locker, making sure to lock it. If anyone with ill intent got in here they could easily find out his identity with it's contents and Roman didn’t want his name out like that. Not yet at least.

He hurried to the training hall, threw open the doors and slid inside.

“Your prince has returned!” he exclaimed, doing a pretty good job at pretending he hadn't just sprinted the whole way there.

“Has he now?” BS asked, apparently in a bad mood today.

“Oh come now big S, the boy is just excited for his present! I would be too if I got a new costume made for me by a secret admirer,” Sweets offered with a calming hand on BS' shoulder. Sweets was an empath. He could share his emotions and those of others, perfect match for someone who wants or needs to keep his calm.

But what sweets said made Roman rather flustered. “I don't think DreamPrince has had enough appearances to already gain such attentions. Whoever did this just couldn't stand to look at this any longer.” Roman gestured to his current costume.

“Speaking of which…” he held out his hand bouncing on his feet in excitement. He was supposed to meet the chief of police today and he wanted to look presentable.

Manifestor chuckled from his spot on the desk. “Give the boy his stuff. He's been looking forward to this day for the past four years.”

BS sighed and handed Roman a small box, which the young hero snatched up before rushing to the dressing room.

He turned his suit off and took off the containment units. He opened the box and switched the old units for the new ones. The bracelets were more comfortable and adjusted to his skin tone, the metal bead was replaced with two skin colored stickers he applied to his temples.

“Let’s do this,” Roman smirked excitedly.

“To adventure!” he called out as he crossed his arms and tapped at his temples while simultaneously clicking his wrists together. At the same time he tapped his right toe behind his left heel and brought his ankles together. He struck a power pose, facing the full length mirror and grinned excitedly. Virgil had added an insignia on his cape and golden trimming in the final design. There'd been a few options for his emblem and Roman had chosen the shield with a castle by the sea with the sun shining down on him. He looked quite dashing.

He left the dressing room and handed the box back to BS with an elegant gesture.

BS wasn't amused. Sweets and Manifestor on the other found it hilarious.

“So? What do you think?” Roman asked as he turned around to show off the end result.

A loud ‘bing' announced a message from his family watching from the observation room.

“Gaaaaaaay!” Roman rolled his eyes good naturedly. Remus was a fan.

“Stay away from Planes!” the next one read. Roman chuckled. He had asked Virgil about the cape, considering he’d expected someone as cautious as him to heed Edna Mode's advice.

Apparently Virgil had intended the Cape to be an addition for official events. So ‘Prince’ would look good on camera. He'd also pointed out that it would look badass for the prince to un-claps his Cape before a fight. He'd had a point and Roman actually loved it.

“You look very handsome darling.”

“Thanks mom!” Roman called out.

Then two beeps came from a device on BS wrist. He looked down and relaxed, tapping away at a holographic screen, turning up the intensity of his shadow. “The chief is here,” he announced.

Roman raised an eyebrow, that was not what BS had been so tense about. Something in his private life maybe? If that was the case he'd never find out.

Roman had no time to worry about that though. The door opened and in walked the police chief. A small but commanding African American woman. It was something in the way she walked that made Roman want to stand at attention. And so he did. He wasn't the only one.

“DreamPrince, at your service ma’am,” Roman introduced himself respectfully.

“So you are what all the fuss is about?” she asked as she looked Roman up and down.

Chief Davies pursed her lips before nodding to herself. “I’ve read your file, you’re quite the prodigy aren’t you?” she asked.

Roman chuckled a little awkwardly. “I’ve just been training from a young age, that’s all.” Most gifted didn’t realize their talent until they were well in their teens.

“Good answer. I have no time to stroke an adolescent ego. We’ve got work to do.”

Chief Davies turned to Manifestor. “You got the files I sent?”

Manifestor nodded hurriedly. “Yes. I had no time to review them though.”

“I’ll walk you through it,” she announced dismissively. The leader of Roman’s training team nodded and tapped at something on his wrist. The screen that had shown the messages from Roman’s family earlier was now filled with mugshots.

The men looked dangerous. Roman shifted nervously. “You… you want my help apprehending these men?” he asked, trying not to show how frightening it seemed.

“God No!” Roman hid his relieve. “These men are all in jail already, with iron clad cases keeping them there for a long time. You think I’m going to send some rookie after hardcore criminals? No offense, but you are still a baby,” Roman blushed at that and focused back on the pictures.

Wait a minute. “I know that guy! Remember at the end of my first week? I spotted some tugs bothering that kid and tossed a rock at them?”

“And by some miracle you weren’t found when said tugs came looking for you,” BS added through gritted teeth. Still upset at Roman's initial recklessness.

“I wasn’t the only one they were looking for,” Roman insisted. He’d been so sure he hadn’t been alone that night. But BS claimed the would have known if anyone else had been there.

He never went after the tugs after they left the alley. BS insisting he was done with back alleys for the night.

And now those guys were apparently behind bars?

“Next slide please!” Davies called out.

A picture of a ziplock bag with pictures, a USB stick and a note of cut out letters that said ‘your turn’.

“For almost a year now we’ve been getting mysterious packages like this. Pictures, audio and video recordings. Every last one had one of these men incriminating themselves. It’s like whoever delivers these stands right next to them, but never gets caught taking pictures or carrying a wire. I have a small task force on the case who have dubbed them ‘The Phantom’. We are keeping this as in house as we can. Once the public hears about the Phantom, we’ll lose the most valuable asset we’ve ever had. Plus until now we weren’t sure if they were a sensible vigilante or a mobster who was taking out competition in a very clever way. Given what you just said I’d be inclined towards the former. They might have some sort of gift that hides them well enough to get away with spying. But right now, they are putting themselves in danger.” Davies turned towards Roman.

“Keep an eye out, see if you can spot him during your patrol this evening. And if you do, get him on board with the program.”

“Prince did not go through all that training to be your recruitment poster boy!” BS snapped to Roman's surprise. That was the most emotional response he's seen from BS ever. Aside from when he scolded Roman on his reckless behavior.

Davies glared at BS, looking quite intimidating, despite barely reaching to his chest.

“Now don't go all noble on me BrainStorm. What? Did your heart grow three sizes while I wasn't looking? Is there suddenly room for more than one other person there?”

Roman knew that this was a threat. Davies knew BS’ true identity, where he worked, who he cared for. She could ruin whatever he had built in an instant.

Roman often wondered what kind of life BS had outside the facility. Did he have a partner? A family? Did they know about his past at all.

A few seconds ticked by with no one daring to do so much as breathe.

Then Davies relaxed and stepped back. “I'm no monster BrainStorm. I wouldn't ask some rookie to deal with this if I hadn’t tried everything else already. I send in my agents and even called in other gifted. All we got out of that was this,” she gestured and Manifestor showed the next image. A note in the same style as the previous one that said ‘no babysit!’

“Our profiler thinks they are young. So maybe your prince won't seem as threatening. They might've had his back once before already. If this Phantom were someone you cared for, would you rather we left them be, or would you drag their noble behind here yourself to give them proper gear and back up?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, BS had nothing to counter with. Roman imagined Phantom being one of his friends, or even Janus and the answer remained the same.

“I will do what I can,” he vowed before lifting his chin and facing the fierce chief head on. “But ma'am, I don't appreciate you threatening my mentor like that.”

BS had stood up for him, it was only right for him to return the favor.

Davies chuckled. “Just when I started to worry you were only brawn and a pretty face. You can be smart too huh? And you’ve got guts. You just might have what it takes kid. Now. I have places to be. Keep me updated, and don't lose this.” Roman accepted the watch he was handed with a confused frown.

“My people will call if we need you. Please use that brain and return the favor?”

With that she left. Well… that was intense.

Roman put on the watch and saw that it had a frequency displayed on it instead of time. He also spotted two buttons. One blue and one red. It didn't take much to realize that one was a panic button and the other was to make it so the cops could hear him. He wondered if it would connect to the nearest patrol car or to Davies directly.

He hoped he’d never have to find out.

“Well… time to show the city their hero is ready for action.”

 It had been a pleasant evening so far. He'd stopped a few shoplifters, broke up a fight or two and dodged a few reporters, though he let them snap a good picture of his new outfit.

Now the sun was down however and he was making his way to the back alleys.

“Looking for a fight is foolish Prince!” BS growled through his earpiece.

But Roman wasn't looking for a fight. He was looking for someone who'd gotten him out of at least one pickle.

He ignored BS as he landed on a roof, overlooking the city using his sight. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but it was his only plan.

Suddenly he spotted something strange and unusual. There was an energy, a few blocks ahead. But it was impossible for him to really see it. Like he was looking at it trough glasses with strong prescriptions.

He rushed towards it and found a gang of criminals with violently swirling auras. He knew what this meant. They were going to hurt someone.

“Send back up to my location,” he instructed before turning the receiver off. He needed to focus.

“I say we attack now! They are week! We can take them down easily.” A shorter guy with energy like glass shards insisted.

“Boss says we have a truce until the rat is found,” a giant of a man stated calmly, though his energy betrayed how much he wanted to go with the first guy's plan.

Were they talking about Phantom?

“What rat!? Those idiots just bragged to the wrong crowd.” The first voice shot back. Phantom was becoming a bit of a ghost story it seemed. Some who believed, judging by the shudder that went through the other men's auras at the mere mention of them. But clearly not everyone was convinced.

“Oh and they gave out pictures as well? Did a little livestream? We're not safe until this rat is lynched,” the tall man pointed out tensely. He was a believer. And he wanted Phantom dead. Not good.

Roman studied the tugs and to his relief he spotted they were all armed. Weird thing to be happy about. But it meant he had probable cause to interfere.

He jumped down, slowing his descent just so that he didn't hurt himself on the landing without sacrificing the cool factor.

“Do you gentlemen have permits for those weapons?” he asked as he rose up to his full length facing them fearlessly.

“what the…?”

“It's that Prince clown!” Rude.

The tall guy, the leader probably, silenced the group with a gesture and smiled, his anxious energy almost completely disappearing. He'd found something to vent on. “Sure kid. Got mine right here.”

Roman flung his cape in front of him and manifested a gelatinous shield around himself as the leader pulled out his gun and fired several rounds at him. The tugs wouldn't see it. But it was there, and it caught the bullets slowing them down until they were harmless, making them fall to the ground when they met with the fabric.

“Well now you just pissed me off. This is brand new!” he complained as he dropped both cape and shield.

“I suppose you won't surrender peacefully?” he deduced. The criminals all readied their weapons. Seriously? Did they not get that he was essentially bulletproof?

He sighed as he took off his cape and hung it on a water pipe that ran down the side of the building.

“Fine,” he sighed and then he amped up his speed a bit while shielding himself from the rain of bullets heading his way. He used the gelatin shield because he didn't want to risk the bullets ricocheting and injuring someone. Especially the gifted he was sure was still watching the whole thing.

It wasn't hard to disarm the criminals. He even managed to knock a few to the ground. But there were at least two who'd gone down without him even touching them. And he would’ve sworn he saw a figure move between him and a tug once or twice to block a blow. He couldn't really see the other hero. It was an odd sensation. But he could feel his presence better and better and soon he was adapting his moves to those of the Phantom. Together they took out the whole group. Though to the villains it would seem like he'd done it by himself. He stood victorious over the leader, a pile of disassembled guns behind him and sirens lighting up the alley.

He twisted his foot to show off his white boot with gold accents. “So… how does it feel to get your butt kicked by a guy in heels?” he wondered playfully before looking up towards the presence and winking in acknowledgment.

“Good job Dream Prince. We've got it from here.” Roman turned to the cops and bowed to them

“It's my pleasure to be of assistance to the police of this fine city.” Then, while turning around, he made a gesture that could be taken as a ‘goodbye’, or as a ‘follow me’.

He was glad to notice that the presence seemed to follow him. He found a fire escape and floated himself to the roof it led to.

He turned to face his hopefully soon to be partner in crime fighting.

He could hear the clanging of someone climbing the metal fire escape. And while he still couldn't quite make out the figure that reached the roof he saw his reflection in a pool of water left behind by the rain earlier that day.

An unfortunate weakness, but so long as no one knew, no one would be looking for it. In order to be a hero, no one could know Phantom really existed. Was that why the authorities were kept at a distance? Why Phantom never made introductions despite having crossed paths at least once before?

He stepped forward with a bow. “Greetings Phantom. I must thank you for the assistance. Both just now and three months ago. I am Dream Prince, he/him if you please. A pleasure to officially meet you.”

A distorted chuckle made him look up. He could see Phantom much better now. He was dressed in Male coded clothes, though that was no guarantee. The hero outfit was simple. A black t-shirt, boots and denims, paired with a black coat that reached down to his calves and had the collar popped up. He looked really cool… but Roman couldn't make sense of his head. He was looking right at him he could see it, but his brain couldn't identify a thing.

It was so weird.

“Phantom huh?” His voice was a strange deep echoing sound. The distortion was pretty spooky if he was honest, but he wasn't afraid. Phantom was on his side.

“Sure you can call me that. He/him… mind telling me what that was about? I thought you officials weren't let of your leash unless you could be responsible enough to not get yourself killed?”

Roman cocked his brow. “Says the guy who has half the criminal underworld out for his blood,” he reminded him. Phantom looked away. Clearly he knew Roman had a point.

“Do you have something against the program?” His tone had been oddly bitter.

“No I…”  Phantom took in a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m just pissed at the cops for sending you, I guess.” He sure sounded upset. And Roman could understand that. Here Phantom was, doing his part and all the cops could do in return was bother him At least as far as the young vigilante could tell. But then why…?

“Yet you chose to follow me up here?” Roman pressed. That didn’t make any sense. Phantom had shaken off his ‘babysits’ before. What made Roman special?

“Um… Well… I just…” Phantom stammered. Roman wondered why. Was he bad with confrontation? Social interaction in general? Or had Roman said something that hit a nerve somehow?

“You interrupted my stake out!” Phantom blurted out all of a sudden.

“Do you know how long it takes to work my way up the ranks? First I have to find a low level runner, then I follow him to his boss, that guy to his and so up the ladder I go. I was getting real close to the big guy of this group. And now…” Oh… Well Roman could understand how that would be frustrating.

“I apologize,” he said sincerely with a small bow. “I merely intended to help. They were talking about killing you.” Surely he could understand that he could not stand by after hearing that.

“And now there is a price on your head! The leader of that little club is like two steps away from the big boss. They won’t be happy with you taking him in.”

Well… He had a point. But Roman had back up. It would be rather stupid of the mob to come after a hero with government sanctioning. And these guys would go behind bars for a long time right? “You got dirt on them?” he asked. If the guns weren’t enough then surely whatever Phantom  had gleaned from his stakeouts would be sufficient. Right?

“Yes… But that’s not the point. They have no clue about me. Not really. But you are out in the open. This is not your kind of mission Royal pain.” Oh, he had nicknames huh? It was an insult, but Roman didn’t mind witty banter. Especially if it came from a place of care. And Roman was starting to think it did.

“And now that you are out, you can’t expect me to hold your hand any longer…”

Roman crossed his arms and smirked catching the implications of what Phantom just said.

“You’ve been looking out for me all summer huh?” he guessed.

Phantom scoffed and probably rolled his eyes. While Roman still couldn’t quite see it, he would bet his entire Disney collection on it.

“It’s not like I came looking for you.” Phantom snapped. And Roman believed him.

“Still… Thank you…” he was going to say more but then he heard a beep in his ear followed by a loud voice. “Prince! Answer this instant!”

“Ow!” Roman exclaimed annoyed, reflexively reaching for his ear though it wouldn’t help much. He pressed the button to talk to BS. “One. Loud. Two. Rude! I am in the middle of something! And did you seriously remotely reactivate my com?”

He would demand a new com that couldn’t do that or he’d refuse to wear one period. What if he needed to concentrate right now? What if he was in the middle of tense negotiations or being told delicate information. As a matter of fact. This situation right here was delicate. One wrong move and Phantom might bolt. And he might not come along next time he found him. And even if he couldn’t get him to join the program, he wanted Phantom to know he had an ally in him. Someone to talk to, confide in, count on if he didn’t have anyone else.

“You do not turn off your com while going into a gunfight! It’s moronic to go in alone!”

Roman rolled his eyes. “I am fine, not a scratch on me.” He wasn’t going to mention that he wasn’t alone exactly. Phantom had never consented to BS and the rest of his team knowing.

“I’ll call you when I’m done here.” And this time he took the com out of his ear. BS could yell at him later.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “My mentor is… intense at times.” In a cold and distant way.

“Mentor?” Phantom asked.

“One of the people helping me practice my powers, test my limits. Comes with the program. It’s not just a babysit and a nice suit,” he joked casually.

“Oh…” Phantom’s tone was odd. It made Roman want to come closer and offer comfort. He didn’t though. They weren’t at that point yet. Not by a long shot.

“Listen, I admit I was sent by the chief. But I didn’t come here to recruit you. I wanted to thank you and tell you… If you ever need someone to talk to, to help you figure something out… I’d be more than happy to oblige. No need to tell me your name or anything about yourself,” he vowed as he reached out his hand. Phantom hesitated for a few moments before bridging the distance and offering his own.

Roman grinned and grabbed it for a firm shake. “I’ll see you next time,” he assured his fellow hero before letting go and turning around to finish his patrol.

Progress was made. Not much, but still.

He just might’ve made a new friend.

@cirishere @hestianerd1 @moonlightshow00 @naturallyunstablegamer @alias290 @meowthefluffy @frida0043 @angelic-cali @selenechris @theblackveilinreverse

End of this part meet Virgil and read his story.

Masterlist

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

I Could Be Every Color You Like

October 3, 2021

Prompt - Full of Colors

Characters - Bentley and various others

Notes - This gave me so many ideas for one-shots.

“Why does that kid like art so much?”

He'd heard that question a lot over the years. It was a simple question and, to be frank, not many knew the answer. The youngest of the Murphy brothers was a chatty fourteen-year-old who was usually seen holding a pen or marker to something. It was only natural that people asked questions, he supposed. It wasn’t normal for people to walk around, drawing everything in sight, but that’s just the way Bentley was.

Bentley was an enthusiastic artist and had been for as long as he could remember. Of course, he usually did so for fun, coloring on napkins and such, but his art was always meticulously done. He’d learned to draw from his mom when he was really little. Miles recalled once that Bentley had drawn all over one of their bedroom walls when he was three, but his mom was so happy with how it looked that she refused to wash it off or paint over it. Bentley was just an artist through and through - it was what he was good at.

In school, the teachers that knew Miles and Royce expected Bentley to be just like one or both of them. First was the oldest - Miles, the hardworking, above-average student who had excellent manners and was part of both the automotive department and the school newspaper before graduating early. Then came Royce, the kid with straight A’s since kindergarten who spent most of his free time studying in the library or writing in a journal. But, when Bentley came along, their expectations went out the window.

Bentley was far more artistic than his brothers, doodling in the margins of his paperwork and turning it in, only to receive a note from the teachers, telling him to please stop. While he kept his grades up, even after Miles left for Florida, he could never seem to meet the precedent set forth by his brothers. His teachers tried to talk with his father about his attention problems and constant drawing, but the man never answered the phone. When he did, he’d answer in the same manner every time before hanging up - “Did he kill someone? No? Then leave me the hell alone.” After a while, the teachers stopped caring as much and left him alone, which was nice.

The only teacher he’d liked was Mr. Samuel Hatfield, his art teacher in middle school. The man was a giant at six foot seven but had the biggest heart in the building. He took his time with each of his students, making sure they understood what concepts he was teaching them and could handle their own. For once, Bentley could claim the position of teacher’s pet with pride. The teacher took pride in Bentley’s artwork, using them as examples for other classes and, occasionally, the upperclassmen who needed encouragement.

It felt good to be appreciated.

So, when Royce whispered to him one night in the confines of their bedroom that they’d set aside enough money to move in with their older brother, he felt torn. He desperately wanted to move in with Miles, far away from their father, but he also wanted to stay so he could continue feeling special for his art. It was all he felt he was good at and he loved feeling important, but his love for his brother outweighed that a million times over so his decision was nearly instantaneous.

The next day, after working his busboy job at the diner on the edge of Main Street, he took off on his bicycle for the art shop next to the library, using his collective tip money for the day - a whopping seven dollars and fifty-four cents, nearly triple what he usually got - to buy a small sketchbook and a discounted paint set. The rest of his money, he planned on pocketing. He and Royce would be leaving soon anyway, what did it matter what he spent the extra cash on now?”

The cashier frowned at Bentley as he counted his money, coming up just a couple of quarters short. He sighed, debating on which item he wanted to buy more. Just then, the door jingled next to him and he instinctively looked up, meeting gazes with his art teacher.

“Hi, Mr. Hatfield,” Bentley greeted quickly before turning back to his purchase.

“Well if it isn’t Bentley Murphy,” the art teacher greeted. “Why am I not surprised to see you here. Buying anything good, kiddo?”

“A goodbye gift,” Bentley claimed with a grin. “My brother and I are leaving town to be with our big brother.”

“Ah,” Mr. Hatfield exhaled. “Is this a gift for your dad or your older brother?”

“Nope,” Bentley exclaimed. “This is for me. Something to remember Myrtle Beach, I guess.”

The teacher nodded slowly, taking in the information as Bentley spoke. “So, where does your older brother live again?”

‘Uh oh. Too much info,’ Bentley thought to himself. ‘Don’t get caught. They’ll call the cops if they know where we’re really going. Be smart like RJ. Think, think, think.’

“California,” he lied in feigned excitement, sending his teacher a brilliant smile. “He moved there a couple years ago to be with a girl he liked who moved to Los Angeles.”

The teacher nodded again and smiled. “Well, since this is a parting gift, I’ll cover it, kid.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

“Actually,” Bentley began, “I think I’ll put the paint back-”

“Leave it, Mr. Murphy,” Mr. Hatfield stated firmly, setting down some money. “It's just some paint. I have no problem helping you to further your talents. Save your cash for spending time with your brother.”

The cashier took the money from Mr. Hatfield and bagged Bentley’s items before handing them to the fourteen-year-old. Bentley and the man said their goodbyes before Bentley went outside and hopped on his bike, riding quickly toward home. When he arrived home and found only Royce there, the two boys packed their bags and left not long after, leaving only a simple note in their place. The next fifteen or so hours were spent biking to their Uncle Tommy’s house - a man who had despised his sister’s husband since he’d met the man and had been encouraging the boys to leave. Once they arrived, they took the man’s car - with his permission and knowledge, of course - and took off for Florida. Ten hours later, they arrived pulled into the town, a sign with bold letters saying “Welcome to St. Pete Beach” being their only welcoming committee.

Royce pulled Uncle Tommy’s car into what they believed was Miles’ address, if his letters were anything to go by. They got out of the car and knocked on the door a few times before anyone answered. It was just barely eight in the morning so it wasn’t unexpected, but the anticipation was killing them slowly. Bentley was mildly surprised to see his oldest brother - who looked like he was just woken up by them - whip open the door, wiping his eyes a few times before pulling them both into a tight hug. They were shown to their room, finding it decked out in just about anything Miles had found that he’d thought they would like. To Bentley’s surprise, a brand new art book and some canvases were laid out on his bed, accompanied by various types of paints, markers, and pencils.

Their brother’s friends became family to them and they were accepted fairly quickly. Lela set aside time every day just to paint with him on the beach. Mick would teach him and his brothers photography in her spare time. Butchy took him and Royce for walks to the park so Royce could write in peace while Bentley drew in his sketchbook. Tanner took him to an art gallery on the edge of town just for fun. It was like being an artist was something to be proud of. Like there wasn’t any competition to have better grades or better abilities. It was an air of tranquility that the fourteen-year-old hadn’t felt since his mom approved of his artwork as a kid.

Over time, he began noticing the colors of people he spent the most time with. Whether it was the color of their eyes or in the things they surrounded themselves with or their favorite colors, Bentley saw them each in a different light. If he said them out loud, it would make sense to absolutely no one, but that was fine by him. He made sure it came across in his artwork instead of in his words.

For instance, Miles gave off rays of baby blue with a hint of red - calmness, safety, and love - so those were the colors Bentley used to draw his oldest brother with most. Royce was a brilliant, sunset orange - smart, vibrant, and playful - and it suited the middle brother better than he ever cared to admit. Mick and Butchy together were green with dashes of lavender, a colorful combination of love, strength, and balance - a source of protection and love that was unending and reliable. Lela was pale pink, full of innocent love for those around her.

So, when asked why he loved art so much, Bentley had only one answer to give: the colors.

[moon-riverandme]

And in the Beginning There was... Light, Film Rolls, and Controversy.

Watching old movies has always been one of my favorite pastimes. I love the cracks in the film, the oddly tinted placements of color, the quick, scattered movements of the actors, and the slice of an intertitle. It all just makes sense when I think of those first filmmakers who were trying to make sense of their new medium. In my journey through film, I will start at the beginning. Well, sort of the beginning. Our main topic of discussion takes place in 1903. So we’ve skipped over a few years… 15 to be exact. I’ll sum them up now because if I miss a beat I’ll ruin the scene.

Let's start in October of 1888 when Louis Le Prince has just recorded the very first film. It’s short yet scenic; his family gathers in a garden and for the first time ever - they move. A man walks across the screen, the rigid bustles and day dress of two women sway as they turn away from the camera - ergo we have a moving image years before Edison would invent the kinetoscope. Of course, most don’t know of Le Prince and in school I never heard his name mentioned. In fact, I only heard of him through a Buzzfeed Unsolved video. So what happened? Why did history remember the names Edison and Lumière but not Le Prince?

There were many entries in the race to create the first film. And of course, there are arguments as to what cinema is in comparison to a bunch of still photographs played one after another. Strange, I think is this argument. For film is a series of stills or frames played one right after the other. Nevertheless, in 1878, we have the famous images of a galloping horse caught by twelve cameras set up by Muybridge to capture motion and to study animal locomotion. Motion but not a movie. What we needed was a camera that had a single lens capable of capturing a point of view. That’s what Le Prince did. Unfortunately, as history would see it, he mysteriously disappeared on a train to Paris in September 1890 right before his first public screening in New York carrying luggage that contained all of his work. Neither Le Prince or the luggage has ever been found. Quite the coincidence.

There are a few theories: Le Prince committing suicide, Le Prince’s own brother killing him, Le Prince fleeing due to his sexuality being outed but none have stuck... except one. Le Prince’s widow, Lizzie, believed Edison, his biggest competitor in the race, had him assassinated. The evidence? The discovery of Edison’s journal containing the following entry, which has been proven authentic. It read:

“Eric called me today from Dijon. It has been done. Prince is no more. This is good news but I flinched when he told me. Murder is not my thing. I'm an inventor and my inventions for moving images can now move forward.”

Take of that what you will.

Today, we are taught that Edison’s kinetoscope launched the novel medium of moving pictures into our familiar. When it was invented in 1891 by Edison and Dickson, the kinetoscope was a peepshow-like device with a "sight opening" on top that one viewer at a time could look into and watch a moving picture. Think about it like looking into a microscope - very different from how we view films now both in method and price, it was 50 cents for access to all films at a given venue.

In 1897, an improvement on Edison's device arose. Invented by the Lumière brothers, the cinematograph contained both a camera, projector, and hand crank. Now, audiences could sit and screen films. I'll circle back to Edison as he connects to our 1903 topic. But first, let's take a stop with the Lumière brothers.

Auguste and Louis Lumière are credited as the first filmmakers. Their documentary-esque films Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory and Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat are milestones in cinema. Known as travelogues or actualités, they showed the casual and working life of people in the mid to late 1890's. These shorts were even screened to audiences who jumped out of their seats at a train onscreen because they thought it would actually hit them. The Lumière Brothers took their screening all over the world, from Paris, to India, and China.

Watching these films, it's hard not to put yourself in the shoes of a passerby, a random person whose name we don't know, who exists in a few frames before disappearing to time. Like a fossil, it's interesting to examine what life was like back then. I love seeing the clothing. Everyone is so formal, at least compared to the laid back air of today. Even so, in the 1890’s people were moving away from the Victorian Era and into the “New Woman” Era. High necklines and longer sleeves were replaced by the open neck and short sleeves as morning turned to dusk. High chiffons under feathered hats were popular as was the shirtwaist style for work. All of these visible in the Lumière films.

Where we jump from reportage to fiction is where we jump from Lumière to Porter. And back to Edison, who had Porter working for him. Projectionist and electrician turned director, Edwin S. Porter was the brains behind many of the mechanics and techniques that have become so highly engrained in the making of films that the idea of them being novel seems almost impossible. In 1899, Porter became head of moving picture production at the Edison Manufacturing Company and throughout his career, which spanned about 15 years, he made more than 70 short films. So lets look at a few of them in detail.

Jack and the Beanstalk (1902)

You'll see that a lot of the narrative ideas for these early films spun directly out of fairytales. For an audience, fairytales were a familiarity. Thus, they were able to stitch together what they already knew about the characters and stories and better understand these new moving pictures. And Porter knew this from his work as a projectionist. He knew what engaged the audience most. And that wasn't just story, it was technique. Porter's films were revolutionary for what would become known as editing, at that time just cutting film. Simplistic and impactful, he knew how to compact time and create magic. Objects and people appear and disappear in a single cut. The camera remains still, a wide shot, and on a tripod but what's in front of it changes slightly, making for magical realism. For example, once Jack makes it back down to earth after descending the beanstalk, he grabs an ax and starts chopping it down. He's got to do this or the giant chasing him will make it down too. So he swings the ax a few times with all his might. From a large beanstalk, ripe with leaves, reaching up to the sky, we immediately cut to a destroyed one. The fact that we end one cut with Jack in the same position as we start the next, keeps from disrupting the audience even though everything else onscreen has changed. We've condensed time, Jack has saved the day, and the Giant has fallen to his death. Porter would expand on this editing style, perfecting it, discovering cross-cutting.

Life of an American Fireman (1903)

Cross-cutting or parallel action is so integral to editing that it happens in just about every film. Simply, two separate events are occurring - say, a woman trying to escape a fire inside of her house and firefighters rushing in a horse carriage to save her. These two events, perceived to be happening at the same time, are stitched together through editing so that the audience experiences both. Cut to the woman in her house as the fire inches closer to her. Cut to the firefighters rushing up the stairs. Will they get there? Will they save her? Cross-cutting serves to create tension and set the rhythm of a scene. Eventually, the two spatial points of view merge and the conflict should be resolved. This originates in Porter's films and Life of An American Fireman is the first one that shows it off.

Let's cut back to the first shot of this film, it's a trick shot. A sleepy fireman dreams of a mother putting her daughter to bed. Abruptly, the fire alarm is set off and he wakes up. Instead of cutting from the fireman dozing off in his chair to a separate shot of the mother, which would create confusion on whether the fireman was dreaming, Porter uses double exposure to frame the dream above the fireman shoulder. Double exposure had been employed by photographers since the 1860's to produce dreamy situations in otherwise ordinary places but in film, it first appears in Georges Méliès Four Heads are Better Than One. When we see the house aflame for the first time in Life of an American Fireman, the same mother and daughter from the dream pair reappear. The fireman's premonition connects back to the main drama of the story.

The Great Train Robbery (1903)

In this film we take the leap from a theatrical approach to cinematography, where the camera simply watches the action at a long-shot or observing eye, to being involved in the action. One way that Porter does this is by integrating the pan.

Panning is a technique that moves a camera side to side in a fixed location. We haven't taken the camera off of a tripod or stepped forward in anyway, we are simply turning left or right on the horizontal axis. If we took a step forward and followed a character or action we'd have a tracking shot. But we aren't there yet so plant your feet in the ground for now. Porter uses pans to reveal. The first pan is executed about six minutes into the film. The robbers jump off the caboose with their stolen goods and make a run for it. But where are they going? Queue the pan and we find out it's down some steep hills and into a forest. The subsequent shot is them in the thicket of a forest. Running passed the camera until all but one have exited camera left. But how will they get out? Queue the second pan to reveal horses - their getaway plan. This pan is masterfully done. I love the way Porter keeps his camera static and just observes the tumbling, running robbers until only one is left onscreen. Then and only then does he pan left to reveal the horses. By leaving only one person onscreen, not only does the audience have less to track but so does the camera. Simplifying the frame down to only the necessities of the action, one robber running away in a forest, amplifies the pan and makes the reveal feel complete - we reunite with the group of robbers and horses.

Depending on which version of the film you watch, you might be surprised by waves of color among a sea of black and white. Tinting whole films blue, amber, or sepia has been around since the origins of moving pictures, but in The Great Train Robbery, Porter selects specific actions or objects to tint. This was all done by hand.

Color is one big manipulator. Think of light blue and you'll likely picture endless summer skies; an air of calm. How about Green? I picture the tangled tree webs of a jungle - adventure, growth, the smell of dew on fresh leaves, nature. Now red. Explosions, fire, burst of emotion. Yellow? A bright, morning sun, a blooming sunflower, happiness, positivity, a new start. Early filmmakers used color to bring attention to specific objects, people, and actions. They used it to draw out an emotion from the viewer. They used it to connect themes of violence, love, and happiness. And they used it to spice up their frame.

Porter hand paints the explosion of a train lockbox bright orange and a deep red. The smokey pops from gunshots are also a fiery red. The dress of a dancing woman is bright yellow. The coat of another girl is a rich purple. The addition of color cultivates realism but also gives the film a flair of the imaginary.

So, we have the creative process of tinting to enhance the visual characteristics of a story and we have panning to push forward the important aspects of a narrative. Let's add a few more ingredients to our recipe.

Because the story cuts back and forth between the robbers, the operator, and the posse of men who will eventually hunt down the robbers, it has parallel action. Three separate storylines, integrated through the edit, that coverage at the end. Now that we have the way in which the story is cut and delivered, how about some specific effects?

In shots where the action occurs inside the prop train, which is not moving but the audience is meant to believe it is, Porter uses double exposure to ground his location in reality. He filmed exterior, moving shots and layered them onto the static train shots. In the '30s this would become known as "rear projection".

Additionally, Porter creatively placed his camera in new ways to produce frames that diverged from the typical wide shot; bringing the viewer closer into the action. For example, at about 2 minutes and 50 seconds in, the camera is propped on top of the engine car roof while a sneaking robber crawls passed and kills a fireman.

At last we arrive at the final shot. Diverging from the narrative, Porter set this up to look like a wanted poster. It is filmed in a medium close-up, which serves to focus all attention on the subject by filming them waist-up, having them fill up most of the frame, and blocking out the surrounding environment. The robber points his revolver right at the camera and shoots six times. If you've ever seen Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese recreates this at the end with Joe Pesci. Seemingly, the purpose was to shoot the audience. To tell them even though all of these robbers were killed in the end, their spirit doesn't die. It says "I'm warning you- it's still dangerous out there." Funny enough, this wasn't even the original intention. The shot was promotional and where it ended up in the film was entirely up to the projectionist. It could've just as well been placed at the beginning if they wanted. Even so, the break in the fourth wall and punch of dramatics that ended the film still prevail through cinema history today. Completing the recipe for one the first Westerns, ripe with shootouts, chase sequences, bandits, and suspense.

The Kleptomaniac (1905)

When moving pictures are void of sound and spoken dialogue it's a bit difficult to understand what characters are doing onscreen. Heightened emotional and physicalized acting made up for this. Through facial expressions and over the top, exaggerated body movements, audiences could connect the dots to figure out what was going on in a scene. But in 1903, Porter directed Uncle Tom's Cabin and introduced intertitles, words that would appear printed onscreen. Early iterations of intertitles read like book chapters. They described the main action that was about to take place in the scene. In Uncle Tom's Cabin some examples include: "The Escape of Eliza", "Rescue of Eva", and "Tom and Eva in the Garden. In The Kleptomaniac, intertitles state location and give context to where we are, which is helpful because without them, I don't think I could follow what was going on - at all.

Location is such a main element in this film that intertitles are practically non negotiable. "Leaving Home", "Arriving at the Store", "Home of Thief", and "Court Room Scene", prepare us with the information that is necessary to fully understand the purpose of each scene. The department store shot isn't clear-cut. It could've been a mail room or an office. If we miss that it's a department store that our main character is visiting (and stealing from), we miss the connection to the thief stealing food later on in the film and thus miss the whole theme of class disparities. The intertitles supplement for lack of onscreen information and sound. They would be used regularly in the silent era, branching into dialogue intertitles and expositionary intertitles before dying out with the advent of sound.

[gottagobuycheese]

Ten Very Specific Happiness-Inducing Things

(For the past four-and-a-half months I have been trying to write this list, only to be foiled by failing to save this as a draft in combination with repeated mass extinction events of my own technological creation. Sincere apologies to my computer, whose labor rights I have surely violated in every possible way. I promise I will shut you down on purpose some day instead of letting your battery run out from neglect, and will make a better effort not to accrue hundreds of new tabs in under a week ignoring, of course, that I opened over twenty new tabs in the making of this post.)

ANYWAYS, thank you to @theoldaquarian for tagging me, and apologies for taking so long! But know that even though it’s taken a long time to actually make this list, even just keeping it in the back of my mind and being reminded of it every now and then has been a nice bit of brightness these past few months :D 

And now, three paragraphs later whoops here is the actual list, in no particular order, which will inevitably be much longer than necessary: 

1. When something silly happens to you in public and it makes a handful of strangers laugh/smile 

(The thing that specifically comes to mind here is the time this particularly vicious seagull stole a chocolate croissant right out of my hand. It was a tiring morning. and I was on my way back from from what I believe was our neonates exam, and I’d literally just stepped outside Tesco, two bites and half a euro into my croissant as a reward to myself for making it through the harrowing experience, when this UTTER BASTARD swoops underneath my elbow to steal this half-eaten croissant from my closed fist. AND IT WORKED. But I couldn’t even be mad about it, it was just one of those John Mulaney days and it WAS pretty dang funny, so I just yelled that it owed me fifty cents and went on with my walk) 

2. The color blue 

(This need not be explained) 

3. Successfully quoting a whole scene or episode from memory that you haven’t read or watched in years 

(Will ANYTHING compare to reciting the entire band geeks Spongebob episode on the way back from marching band rehearsal with a bunch of people from different sections chiming in whom you may not even know?? Remains to be seen) 

4. People making music out of unconventional sounds 

(BIGGEST shoutout to @silent--sonata for showing me the power of microwave bleeps and keyboard clacks) 

(And also anyone else who’s ever heard fire alarms, car alarms, creaky old pipes, or weird hose noises and decided the next best thing to do is to break out your instrument(s) and improvise some cool jams) 

(And can’t forget office supplies)

5. Showing someone the recorder cover of the Titanic song for the very first time 

(I think I nearly killed my friend that time, 10/10 would recommend)

6. Finding a stairwell with the perfect kind of echo to yell/sing/whistle/Play Some Kind of Music in 

7. When you’re running/walking/Doing A Task exactly to the beat of the music you’re listening to 

(Shoutout to Toby Fox for writing Spear of Justice at the exact tempo required for me to book it to the six o’clock bus less than fifteen minutes after waking up) 

8. Dancing and singing horribly to really cheesy Bollywood music on a rooftop in the middle of a monsoon 

(Bonus points for lugging up one of those old fashioned antennae radio and sticking an umbrella over it) 

(Doesn’t even have to be Bollywood music tbh, any music you can’t sing well — ESPECIALLY instrumental music) 

9. Scrambling across the city with a bunch of strangers in someone’s car whom you’ve never met before for the sole purpose of catching a legendary Pokémon 

(There’s nothing quite like wandering around in front of some tiny dilapidated church until a nondescript black car pulls up beside you and rolls down the window to allow the passenger to stick their head out the window and go: “[REDACTED]? Get in” and then speed away because the timer for the nearest Entei’s running out. It almost felt like an action movie lol)

10. When the wind tussles your hair in just the way that makes you feel like a Ghibli movie protagonist 

(To which I quote: IN THE SPIRIT OF OWNING ONE’S CRINGE) 

Thanks again for tagging me! This was a delightful thing to brainstorm and good reminder of the little positive things that keep us going day to day, despite whatever else is going on. Anyways, absolutely NO pressure to make a list (I know this is likely a repetition or something very out-of-the-blue to most of you), but because I am greedy and would love to see my dash filled with whatever oddly specific things that make y’all happy: @pachelbelsheadcanon, @averybritishbumblebee, @internetkatze, @mehrto, @yeswevegotavideo, @beingjanee, @drivingsideways, @rogueofdragons, @ifeelbetterer, @queenerdloser, and GENUINELY anyone else who wants to share their tiny happinesses. The more the merrier! 

(EDIT: The formatting is being very annoying and won’t indent, so I went and bolded the different numbers instead. Sorry if it’s difficult to read!)

[clumsyclifford]

“i just lost the Celebrity X Lookalike Contest (I AM Celebrity X) and threw a tantrum about it, you’re the security guard who escorted me out and doesn’t believe me” au OR “i was scratching my nose, not bidding on the charity auction, but i won a date with you anyway and i don’t have the money but i’m not giving it up” au take your pick

ffghfgjdgsgldja sorry it took me FIVE HUNDRED YEARS and that you actually wrote the entire beginning of this but anyway here is it....three thousand words later. im gonna exhaust my supply of fics to dedicate to you today and then i won’t have any saved for the future when i want to win your favor but alas. such is life (i did the second one since i already did hthe first one i’m too lazy to link it but it exists....u read it....yeah)

“It’s six,” Calum feels the need to remind Luke, for the tenth time. “In the morning.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Luke says. “It’s literally an opportunity to meet Green Day. If you were awake enough to process that, you’d be the one dragging me out of the house to get it. Anyway, it’s for a good cause.”

“That made no sense,” Calum says, probably because he’s tired and sluggish and it is six. “You know it’s six in the morning, right?”

Luke mutters something irritated and points to two seats next to each other. “We’re here,” he says. “Just sit down and shut up.”

“If all you wanted was for me to sit down and shut up, why the fuck did you make me come?”

“Because,” Luke says, looking like he’s about to whine. He better fucking not. If anyone’s going to whine, it will be Calum, because it is six in the morning. He scans the room, which looks roughly like he’d imagine an auction room to look like. Unsurprisingly, this quickly becomes boring, and when Luke sits down, Calum leans on Luke’s shoulder, yawning.

“So how do you win?” he asks. He’s a good friend, and Luke’s clearly excited. Calum can pretend to be excited, too, for twenty seconds.

“You don’t win,” Luke says. “The auction guy calls out a number, and people raise their hands, and then he keeps calling out numbers until only one person’s got their hand up.”

“Hm,” Calum says, because he doesn’t care. “How much are you spending on this, again?”

“Enough,” Luke says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You drag me out of bed at six in the morning and now you won’t even tell me how much of a bad life decision you’re making,” Calum grumbles. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

Luke doesn’t dignify this with an answer, just pats his hair and opens up Twitter on his phone.

Calum zones out for awhile after that. He registers the auction starting (mostly because Luke’s put his phone away), and from the angle his head is at, he can just see the front, where they’re displaying each item as it’s auctioned off. Time passes. Calum tries not to flat-out fall asleep, because it would be rude, but he’s really tired and has only gotten about four hours of sleep, and his head hurts. He tries to train his eyes solely on the front, to laser focus on whatever item’s being auctioned. Somebody’s socks, maybe? Some concert tickets? They put up a photo of someone, and Calum squints. He doesn’t recognize the guy, but he must be famous, because his picture’s up there. It’s a shame; the guy in the photo is hot, hot enough that it breaks through Calum’s sleep-deprived haze.

He rubs his hand against his forehead, trying to massage away some of the ache that’s building up. Fuck Luke for dragging him out to this, honestly. As he rakes a hand through his unkempt hair, he vaguely registers somebody going, “SOLD to the gentlemen in the Rolling Stones shirt!”

I’m wearing a Rolling Stones shirt, Calum thinks distantly, and then Luke’s shaking him. “Calum, what the fuck?”

“What?” Calum whispers.

“You — you just bid $2000 on a date with Michael Clifford.”

Calum blinks, a lot, and picks his head up off Luke’s shoulder. “Who the fuck is Michael Clifford?”

Luke points, and Calum looks up at the podium, and of course Michael Clifford is the super hot guy in the photo.

“I can’t have won that,” Calum says. “I don’t have two thousand dollars.”

“Well, you did,” Luke says, sounding like he’s moments from tearing his hair out because of Calum. “So you’ll just have to back out after the auction.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t have two thousand dollars,” Calum says, beginning to panic. “Luke, what the fuck? I don’t even have two hundred dollars.”

“Okay, relax,” Luke says. “You’ll just tell the auctioneer after. You can forfeit the item to the next highest bidder.”

Calum is tempted to ask how the fuck do you know so much about auctions, but instead he says, “This is your fault for fucking dragging me here.”

Luke shushes him. Apparently the Green Day thing he’d come for is next up. Luke’s a terrible friend and an absolute menace to society.

The auction continues, and Calum keeps his hands tensely folded in his lap, terrified to even move in case this poor excuse for an auctioneer randomly decides to make his life hell again. He spends about an hour trying to work up the nerve to tell the man that he hadn’t intended to bid, he hadn’t even wanted to come to this, and he hasn’t got two thousand dollars anyway, so thanks but no thanks, you can give this particular victory to someone else.

But every time he does, his eyes land on the photo of the alleged Michael Clifford. Calum’s not, like, a shallow guy, but there is something to be said for a man that attractive. Namely that if you get a chance to go on a date with him, even if it costs two thousand dollars, you’d have to be not only stupid but fucking blind to turn it down.

You don’t have two thousand dollars, he firmly reminds himself. And you don’t know this Michael chump at all. He might be a total asshole.

(If someone that hot is an asshole, Calum will lose all faith in humanity, but whatever. It’s fine.)

He manages to steel his resolve enough to turn down the date, but when the auction ends everything is all hustle and bustle. Apparently Luke’s won his thing, which is cool for him. Calum goes up to the line with the auction winners and prepares to tell the lady (assistant?) that there’s been a mistake, but the lady just hands him a piece of paper and says, “Next.”

“No, sorry, there’s —” Calum says, trying to return the paper, and the lady gives him a chilling stare.

“Next,” she repeats. Luke looks desperately between Calum and the lady and then takes what she’s handing him and hurries them off.

“Luke,” Calum hisses.

“Okay, I know, but did you see her face? It’s fine. You can just email the auction company.”

“Just because you’re afraid of social confrontation,” Calum gripes, but it’s far too late. They’re already outside the building. “I hope you’re happy.”

“I am,” Luke says. “Calm down, Cal. Literally just send them an email. They’ll figure out you don’t have two thousand dollars soon enough anyway.”

Calum stares down at the paper in his hand, which has all the details on how to contact this Michael Clifford figure. It’s fine. He can email the auction company, and everything will be fine.

-

Everything is not fine. Calum typed michael clifford into his browser three hours ago, and now he’s fucked. Utterly, irreparably fucked.

He shouldn’t have checked. He shouldn’t have even bothered. If he’d operated under the assumption that Michael Clifford was a jackass who wasn’t worth a second of Calum’s time, much less a cent of his money, everything would have worked out wonderfully. Calum could have sent the email to the auctioneers, subject line: GRAVE MISTAKE, and sorted it out.

Instead he’s an hour deep into Michael Clifford interviews on YouTube, and he’s listened to the man’s entire discography (two albums and an EP). Calum has gone over everything with a fine-toothed comb, but there’s no two ways about it: Michael Clifford is dead sexy and that’s not even the best thing about him. How can someone be this witty and charming and beautiful and sort of awkward and gorgeous all at once and not, like, spontaneously combust?

It doesn’t help that he’s been steadily drinking tequila for the last two hours, also.

(He will easily blame the tequila for what he does next.)

He’d have to be an idiot to let this chance slip through his fingers. A total and complete fucking dumbass. Calum’s a lot of things, but he knows when God is giving him a chance. This is a miracle. An opportunity, Luke had called it. Calum’s not stupid, okay? He’s not.

TO: michaelclifford@hiorheyrecords.co.au 

FROM: calpal1996@gmail.com

SUBJECT: I won something with your guy

Hello,

I’m the winner of the charity auction date thing? With Michael Clifford? So that’s exciting. Write back with the details, I guess.

Calum Hood

-

Calum doesn’t tell Luke when he wakes up, mostly because for a couple hours he himself can’t believe he’s done it, and Luke will just voice every terrible thing Calum is thinking, beginning and ending with you don’t have, have never had, and will probably never have $2000. And Calum already knows that. He knows, okay?

But when he gets a response email, he can’t help but be excited, a little bit. If he’s going to go down (and he definitely is, for this), he may as well go down on a date with a man who looks like a fierce cuddler and a sex god rolled in one.

TO: calpal1996@gmail.com

FROM: michaelclifford@hiorheyrecords.co.au

SUBJECT: Re: I won something with your guy

Hello,

Michael will be in Sydney this weekend. Attached is his availability. Please reply at earliest convenience regarding which time suits you best.

Congratulations,

Michael Clifford's Management (Hi Or Hey Records)

Calum has no plans, ever, and would also easily cancel anything to speak with the absolute treasure that is Michael Clifford, so he replies that any time works for him. He hopes Michael himself isn't as stiff and formal as his management's emails, but Calum's coming off an interview binge, so he wouldn't believe that anyway. He's aware of the disparity between what the public sees of a celebrity and who the celebrity actually is, but a public persona has to be based on something.

Plus, Michael plays Fifa, so he can't be that bad.

He resolutely does not text Luke, and instead spends the day under his duvet, watching more interviews of Michael Clifford and listening to his music on repeat. It's kind of like studying, except the test is a date with a really hot famous bloke. But fuck if Calum's not going to ace it.

-

They decide on Friday night, because that's the universally accepted prime date night, or something, so on Friday night at 7pm, Calum is shifting nervously on his feet and waiting by his door. A car will pick him up, apparently. He just has to sit and wait.

(He's still deliberately not thinking about how this will cost him two thousand dollars. Which he doesn't have.)

Calum's phone buzzes with an email. It's from Michael Clifford's management, but all it says is, I'm outside :D. Tonally, Calum is pretty sure that one wasn't sent by the management.

He takes a deep breath and leaves his house.

The car out front is not a limo, like Calum would have expected. It's a nice Tesla, though, still clearly too expensive for Calum's street and gleaming in the little remaining daylight. Calum makes for it, feeling nervous and excited and mostly just terrified that this is the worst idea he's ever had.

He pulls open the passenger door and slides into the car.

"Hi," says Michael Clifford. Calum fights not to lose his breath. He's prettier in person, so much so that Calum can't actually believe the injustice that pictures and videos do to him. "Calum?"

Oh, that's Calum's name. "Hi, yeah," Calum says. "I'm Calum." He holds out the paper given to him at the auction, just like the management email had instructed him to do.

Michael takes it, looking sheepish. "Cool," he says. Calum can't feel any of his limbs. "Um, get in, I suppose? I know we didn't really decide where we're going, but I figured I'd let you choose."

Calum thinks about everything he's learned about Michael over the past two and a half days of intense studying. Then he checks it against his own appetite. "Pizza?"

Michael's face splits with relief. "Oh, thank fucking God. I've been craving pizza for like a week."

Calum grins in what he hopes is a charming and not-at-all-creepy way. And then he feels creepy anyway.

“So, uh,” Michael continues. “Tell me about yourself.”

Calum drums his fingers against his thigh. “About myself? Okay. Sure. My name’s Calum Hood, I’m on a football scholarship at uni — when I’m at school — and I like long walks on the beach.”

“Oh, we won’t get along,” Michael says. “I hate long walks on the beach. Bad start, Calum.”

“What? How can you hate walking on the beach?”

“The sand,” Michael says defensively. “It gets everywhere, it’s horrible.”

“Alright,” Calum says. “Anakin.”

“I know you did not just call me Anakin.”

“The sand,” Calum mimics. “It’s horrible.”

“I’ll stop this car.” 

“I think you’re contractually not allowed to,” Calum says. “Tell me about you, now.”

Michael looks pleased. Calum tries not to stare. “Alright,” Michael says, smiling crookedly. “Name’s Michael, and I like video games, and I like watching films in the darkness and I hate the beach.”

“Wow,” Calum says. He suddenly thinks that watching films in the darkness wouldn’t be too bad, with the right company. “You’re a right charmer, you are.”

“I’m an introvert,” Michael protests. “Don’t judge me.”

“You’re an introvert? Who auctioned off a date?”

“It wasn’t up to me,” Michael says. He sounds like he’s trying not to be bitter about it, and failing. “It was, like, my management and the auction company conspired against me. But it’s for charity, anyway.” He shoots a look at Calum. “Actually, I think it could’ve gone much worse.”

Calum feels terribly, all of a sudden. He’s lying to Michael, sitting here pretending like he actively chose to come on this auction-mandated date. 

“So, not to be, like, self-obsessed, but I have to ask,” Michael says. “Do you like the new record?”

“Yes,” Calum says immediately, which is true, at least. “Yes, I love it. I’ve listened to it a million times.” In the last three days.

Michael grins happily. “Really?”

Calum nods. “Uh. Yeah. Really.” He wavers, mouth dry. Michael looks delighted, and Calum would be an asshole to let him sit there feeling oblivious about Calum’s whole situation. He sighs. "Um, for the record, I feel like you should know that — well. This is a misunderstanding, kind of."

Michael briefly shoots him a puzzled look before bringing his eyes back to the road. "What is?"

"Well, ah, me, being here." Calum rubs the back of his neck. "I won this by accident. I don't have two thousand dollars — yet, I mean, I promise I'll pay, I just...I honestly didn't know who you were until about three days ago."

Michael snorts, clearly amused. He laughs  "That's great," he says. "Did you look me up?"

"Yes," Calum says. "A bit." He pauses, embarrassed. "Okay, a lot. There's a lot of information about you on the internet, if you were wondering. And I'm sure most of it isn't true, but I didn't want to, like, offend you? But I meant it about the album, it’s really really good, exactly the kind of music I love, and — yeah. So."

Michael still looks amused when Calum finishes word-vomiting all over him. Small mercies. "I'm glad," he says, looking sidelong at Calum for a moment. "Well, I'm sorry you ended up on a date you can't afford with a guy you don't care about."

"No, no," Calum says. "I could have forfeited it, I think? But, well." Whatever, Michael probably gets this all the time, and after all this is a date, so what the fuck does he have to lose? "I thought you were hot, and I was pretty drunk, so I figured, fuck it."

Michael snorts another laugh. "Really," he says. "Well, that's pretty lucky for me."

Calum frowns. "Lucky?"

"Yeah, I mean." Michael gestures. "Sorry if this is forward, but you're pretty good-looking yourself."

Calum has absolutely no idea what to say to that. "Um, thank you? That's — is this, like, scripted? Are there things you have to say to me in some contract? Because I promise not to be offended if you just don't say them."

"There's no contract," Michael says, with an easy smile. "I just think you're kinda hot. Is that allowed?"

"Allowed?" Calum repeats, incredulous. "No, it's not allowed. You need to be checked for delusion. You can't call me hot when I'm in a car with you."

"Well, I am," Michael says. "It's done. Deal with it."

"I want the record to reflect that that compliment was nonconsensual," Calum says. You're kinda hot you're kinda hot you're kinda hot you're kinda hot, his mind sings.

"Should I take it back?" Michael asks, arching a brow. He looks like a fucking sculpture. Calum finally understands why museums exist.

"No," he says. "I took a voice note of you saying it, and I'm going to sell it on eBay. For two thousand dollars. Which I will then use to pay for this date."

Michael shakes his head and pulls into a parking lot. "How about this: you pay for the pizza, and I'll pay the two thousand dollars?"

Calum's heart stops, maybe. He's pretty sure he's supposed to have a heartbeat, but he can't locate it in his body. "What? No."

"Why not?" Michael turns to him in the passenger seat. "I'm having a good time, and a gentleman ought to pay for his date's meal, or some bullshit like that, right? So if you buy me pizza, I'll pay off the auction, and then I can ask you on a real date, and I'll buy you pizza, and we'll be even."

Calum stares, unable to process any of that. "I don't think that math checks out," he says. "What do you mean, a real date?"

Michael chuckles, and sounds a little shy. "One where neither of us is financially obliged to attend. You know. Like a normal one."

"Oh," is what Calum eloquently comes up with. "Uh, you want to do that with me?"

Michael shrugs. "Yes? You kept me smiling for the whole drive, and you called me hot. I'm very insecure, so that's important. Plus, as previously mentioned, you're also hot, so I think we'd make a very attractive pair."

"Maybe I'll say no," Calum says, blood roaring in his ears because there is literally no way this is happening, this is not his real life. This is a dream and he's very witty in his dreams. "Don't push your luck, Clifford."

Michael laughs. "Touché."

"That was a joke," Calum says. "Just like yours was a joke."

"I wasn't joking," Michael says. "But you can say no. We're both still on this date, we may as well enjoy it."

"Pizza," Calum helpfully remembers.

Michael nods in agreement. "Pizza."

"Ask me again at the end of our auction-mandated charity date," Calum says. "If you're charming enough, I might just let you take me out again."

"Challenge accepted." Michael gets out of the car, and so does Calum, and he gives himself another this isn't real life, for good luck, before coming around the car. Michael holds out an arm, and Calum takes it.

Calum's never had better pizza, or a better date. (Michael asks him again at the end, and Calum says yes, because he's no fucking idiot.)

[irwinkitten]

coffee shops and seasons | a.i

notes: so a couple of months ago @5-secondsofcolor​ had put forward an idea in the gay!sos gc and with Alma’s permission I took the idea and fuckin ran with it. Like I sprinted, then forgot about it and then carried on sprinting again. It’s a soft writer!ash concept and I’m very uwu over it. warnings: none word count: 2.1k!

also, i’ve got myself a ko-fi. i erred over this for a while before deciding to go with ko-fi as i fell this gives more freedom to the writer and those that donate, so feel free to donate.

-

Ashton enjoyed having routine. 

Routine was something that his chaotic life could not take away from him, no matter how close his deadlines were for the publishers.

If anyone studied him, he always went to the small coffee shop that was tucked away in the suburbs of the city. 

It held a small garden that he never sat in, preferring the sounds of the coffee shop to become his soundtrack of his writing. However, he often stepped out under the canopy of vines, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of the moment, in any kind of weather. 

It happened a year ago when the smallest change occurred in his routine. 

You showed up, wrapped up in a jacket and scarf, the almost childlike glee in your face as you reached the barista, exclaiming softly how this was your first snowfall. 

Your eyes met his, and the two of you shared gentle smiles as you sat on the table in the corner of the window, eyes watching the world pass by as your attention eventually slid to a book in your lap. 

At first he only saw you twice that week, both of you sharing smiles with each other when you entered into the coffee shop. And for a few months that was all he saw of you. 

Then the next change came when you walked in, your eyes red and face slightly swollen and a part of him wanted to ask you how you were. But he didn know how to ask you that question. 

So instead of asking you, he listened to your order, and when he left, he quietly paid for another drink for you before heading out. 

Had he waited, you would’ve gone to him to say thank you, but when you’d looked up as the barista explained that he’d paid for your drink, he’d already gone. 

That week he’d had to give up his routine for the publishers and he had never felt so gutted to have missed something so pivotal as seeing you in the shop.

When he got back to routine, there was a coffee waiting for him at his usual table, but you weren’t in the shop. Glancing to the barista, they smiled slightly. 

“She paid for it in advance and said to make sure you got it. I’ve wasted seven coffees on you.” Ashton laughed. 

“I can pay for those.” And the barista shook their head. 

“I’m kidding with you Ashton. I know that your deadline came up. I realised that every time you hit a deadline, you vanish for a week.” Ashton couldn’t stop the blush rising in his cheeks. 

“It gives me a break. I get to write for me until they decide on book tours that I’ll refuse. It’s the same routine.” The barista chuckled before returning to work and Ashton found himself crafting a new world of characters. 

There was a break in the routine four days later.

You hadn’t been in the coffee shop that week, and he found himself missing that small thing, and his mind started to craft up elaborate daydreams and ideas as to why you hadn’t come, but he left them as that, daydreams and ideas of a person he couldn’t quite have.

When you showed up, he glanced up and watched as your face lit up when you realised he was sat in his usual spot. 

He heard you make your order and he expected you to be nestled in your little spot, people watching like you did every time, but it took a moment for him to realise that he hadn’t heard the scrape of the chair against the floor. 

Lifting his head, he found you stood there, uncertainty shifting across your features before you finally spoke.

“Would you mind if I joined?” And it took him a second before a smile bloomed across his face and your shoulders relaxed. 

“Please, take a seat.” He motioned to the chair sat opposite him, tilting the laptop screen down so that he could focus his attention on you.

“I figured that we’ve been dancing around like this for a while now. And you bought me a drink...” Your words trailed off and he could feel the warmth rushing to his cheeks as you acknowledged his small gesture of kindness.

“It was nothing, really. You looked so sad the day you came in, and I wanted to ask if you were okay but we’re two strangers who don’t know one another and I knew that it could’ve come off as strange if I just asked that.” He hesitated before a soft smile graced his lips. “I hope you’re better now, though.” 

The chuckle that left your lips was void of any humour, it was dry and almost sarcastic in nature. And Ashton found himself being drawn into you, wanting to learn more.

“I wish I could say I am, but I’m not. I will be though.” You hadn’t elaborated and he didn’t push. 

You were simply two strangers.

“I just realised that I hadn’t even introduced myself.” It was almost like the same thought had hit you both, but you’d vocalised it in such a way that had him grinning as you introduced yourself with a dramatic flourish, earning a small laugh from him.

“It’s not often that people willingly laugh at the dumb shit I do.” You muttered, earning a grin in return.

“Since you’re the dramatic one, I’ll be the calm one. I’m-” 

“I know who you are.” He paused as you cut him off, your eyes refusing to lift off the table. He could feel the palpable of emotion rolling off your shoulders, the near embarrassment surrounding you as your eyes refused to meet his.

“I’m always curious about what other people think of me. Who am I?” 

The silence that filled the space between you a your eyes finally lifted up from the table, meeting kind eyes and a gentle smile. He watched as you seemed to be gathering steam, your teeth sinking into the skin of your lips before you finally spoke.

“You’re Ashton Irwin. You’ve written some really good stuff, but that’s not really important to me.” You paused and he raised an eyebrow, a silent question at your statement.

Somehow his silence seemed to make your words that much louder.

“Y-you’re the man in the coffee shop who was kind to me on one of the worst days of my life. You’re the writer that sits and taps his feet to the beat of the song playing in the shop. You’re the man who types something, laughs just once and then carries on as if you hadn’t done a single thing.” You kept your words calm  despite the slight stumble.

Yet the smile on his face continued to grow and it set something in your heart on fire at the joy in his features, his eyes lighting up.

“You’re observant, but then I guess you’d have to be for someone who people watches.” At this, you grinned at the playful accusation.

“To come in and shut away from the world, it’s a small relief in a life of stress.” He understood your words, knowing how important it was to shut away from time to time and just allow yourself to be. He did it often enough.

“Not many people understand that need. It’s why I like finding places like this coffee shop is a dream because people don’t come out of their way for something like this. It’s hidden enough that the only people who find it are the ones who need it.” 

A smile blossomed across your face as the two of you continued to talk until you had to go. 

For the rest of the day, Ashton had the biggest smile on his face.

The following day, he decided to sit in your seat, to try and understand your fascination with people watching. The people who did walk by, seemed to distract his mind, but it opened new avenues to explore.

And when you arrived, sitting in your customary seat, he spoke up.

“So many lives walk past and you never know what’s going on in them. The little old lady across the street, I’ve decided has been waiting for a bus that changed the route and she never found out.” 

He hadn’t expected the bubble of laughter to escape your lips as you realised the small game he’d fallen into. 

“The biker that’s sat on his bike is waiting to hear from a job interview. He’s a baker that only bakes cakes for birthday parties. This interview was for a bakery that only specialises in weddings.” 

More laughter.

You kept up a quiet commentary for him whilst he continued to write, pausing and chipping in his own two cents which you thoroughly enjoyed.

And slowly this became normal for the two of you. He found more enjoyment writing with you sat beside him, crafting up little stories about the people that walked by the coffee shop, oblivious to the pair of fast made friends creating absurd stories to pass the time.

He stopped dreading his deadlines and began to enjoy the moments of peace and joy you gifted him with those small stories. 

Some days you were quiet, and he never pushed you to open up to him. Instead he told you elaborate tales of the characters he’d created, some of them over the top and others just entirely out of character from the character’s you knew. It always got a giggle.

That was when he told you about how he started writing when he was younger because he always told his siblings stories. Even as a child, his imagination was one which made elaborate stories about a prince who ran to save his life, teaming up with bandits to save his kingdom or ones of a princess running from her home and boarding a pirate ship to escape from her life. 

And so you told him the tales of how you used to sit in cafes after school, waiting for your mom to finish her shifts. You’d make up stories of the groups of people as a child and it was something you continued to do as an adult. It was a moment of comfort and he understood that entirely.

Suddenly his routine had been changed in the best ways. He enjoyed the moments with you, and he realised that if he kept it up, he knew that he was heading down the route that he so often wrote it was like an old friend, that familiar feeling of comfort.

The two of you had become so comfortable in your friendship and part of him wanted to push it to the next step. You’d been apart of his life for so long. The first few months was simply ships passing in the night, seeing each other but never really meeting. And then you collided and he enjoyed every second of the following year.

Seasons came and went, as did the staff. But you two were constantly sat together, talking. He still took his week off after a deadline and you still took days away. Both of you went on holidays and lived lives separately, but found a way to tell each other about those things you both got to enjoy.

Ashton knew he was falling in love, in one of the more cliche ways that he’d written often enough. Yet for all the words that he could write, the words that flowed from his fingertips to paper-or at least fingertips to keyboard-he could not find the words to tell you, or to even invite a discussion for him to admit that he had feelings for you.

After weeks of agonising over how to ask you out on a date, you took the problem from his hands and gifted him with a solution that had him laughing.

“So with all of those days that we’ve been meeting up for these drinks, do they count as dates or are we beyond that?” And it caught him so off guard that he laughed. 

“Would you turn down my question for a dinner date with you?” He braved the question now that he had an idea of where your thoughts about the two of you lay. 

He watched as the shyness that he first witnessed when you stood at his table, waiting for his attention before asking to sit down, reared up. 

“I’d never turn down that kind of date with you Ash. All you have to do is ask.” You finally murmured, a hand reaching over to take his. And his heart sped up, a blush building on his cheeks. 

“Please may I take you to dinner tonight, say 7?” 

“I’d love that.” His heart exploded with excitement mixed with relief as he shifted the hold of your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips gently.

“Then I do believe it's a date.” The blinding smile you gave him told the butterflies in his heart and stomach that you were definitely worth it.

-

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[atlanticcanada]

‘It completely takes the choice away from the parents’: New Brunswick parents react to French education changes

As New Brunswick prepares to implement sweeping changes in classrooms across the province next year, concern is setting in among parents.

“It completely takes the choice away from the parents,” said Joe Pascon, whose son is in French immersion and his daughter will be entering into the new framework as a Grade 1 student next year.

Calling it an Innovative Immersion Program for all students entering kindergarten and Grade 1, kids will now spend 50 per cent of their day engaged in exploratory learning in French and the other half being taught in English.

“My son, he started in French immersion in Grade 1,” said Pascon. “He’s doing well and we really wanted our daughter to do this and now it’s going to be a completely different experience for her, and by the sounds of it, they have like four classes a day and half of them are going to be in French, so you’re just adding one extra French class is all your doing.”

The government said they’ve spent two years coming up with the this new framework.

“It wasn’t just pulled out of thin air,” said Education and Early Childhood Development Minister Bill Hogan. “We did have a model at one point that ran for about 10 years in Bathurst that had extremely successful results, that actually out-performed what we see today in our early immersion results.”

Adding, “I’ve heard a lot of positive feedback that parents will no longer have to make the choice of whether or not their children will go into a Grade 1 French Immersion program when they’re not sure whether or not they’re going to be successful.”

He says this is a huge challenge for parents and children in the province, but this program will address the needs of all the students in every grade.

But for parents we spoke with, it still feels like it’s being forced.

“It seems like the government is not actually listening to the people, they’re just trying to force this on our children,” said Pascon.

“It just seems like it’s more of a money saving program and not going to help anybody out because they just want full classrooms,” he added. “That’s what they keep repeating in a lot of their information charts.”

For his family, it means a big divide between their daughter’s education in the new framework model and their son, who is happy and thriving in French immersion already.

Since the announcement Thursday, many New Brunswickers have taken to social media with comments ranging from optimism about the new program to anger.

“With any pilot, the reality is that we’re using children as an experiment,” said Christina Robichaud, who has two daughters currently in French immersion.

She says her younger daughter already isn’t getting the French education they were expecting at a pilot program school in Moncton. Adding that if she had children entering school next year, she would fight to get them into the Francophone district instead of the Anglophone one.

“We’re talking with Anglophone district, solidly and solely, but we still also have our Francophone district, so what we’re doing is chipping away and dismantling our Anglophone school system so Francophone students are now at a much greater advantage,” she said.

The government says the goal is to have all students graduate with a conversational level of French.

“If we set our bar low, where do we go from there, as far as opportunity for them,” asked Robichaud.

Public consultations are taking place through the end of January, both through an online survey and in-person.

“We’re going to have people on both sides that have some concerns, I recognize that, and I understand as a parent myself how difficult that is,” said Hogan.

However, he says the framework will be moving forward and how it will look day-to-day is what’s still up for discussion.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/OHr2FGb

[englishresearchdissemination]

Gunslingers: Weather the Storm

How John Whitaker Saved his Family, his Community, and the Nation from an Impossible Threat

   John Whitaker wakes up to the burning sun beaming through the windows and to the face of a very heated woman.  “Johnathan, I swear to you, if you don’t start gettin’ up earlier I’ll be takin’ Charlotte in the divorce,” Lucy mockingly yapped.  Despite his hangover, he knew Lucy was just joking, it was a Saturday, after all, no fishing or Church today.

“I know, I know,” he retorted, “Give me a minute.”

He reached for the almost empty whiskey bottle, frustrated that it had ended up carelessly toppled over on the floor.  “Hair of the dog that bit me,” he thought as he threw himself back in the bed, hoping his forcefulness would successfully extract the remaining puddle of alcohol.  Whitaker leads a quiet life -- a better life -- now, but there was still a part of him that yearned for the fever-pitch noise that was once part of his routine.

   Whitaker, now ready for the day, lovingly kissed his wife.  “I’ll be headin’ down to get you all some new church clothes.  The pastor has been ridin’ my tail about gettin’ you two to look clean,” she asserted.

   “Will you ever learn, Luce, that some things just ain’t destined to change?”

   “I expect this behavior from you, but Charlotte?  Well it seems that she’s been picking up some of your bad habits”

   Lucy, with her arms loosely folded, sarcastically peered through the window, knowing Charlotte would be playing a game of chase and capture as she always does, evenitably kicking up dust onto her ragged clothes.  In fact, Charlotte got into the habit of using sticks as guns, mockingly shooting her chasers as she left them behind.  

   “Charlotte, get in here,” her mother calmly hollered through the window.  When Charlotte returned, she jumped onto her father’s torso, throwing dust onto him.

   John smiled, “Aw get in here you bandit,” he said as he firmly held her to his chest.  His wife, less amused, frantically dusted herself off before raising her head to the pair.  Despite her frustration, she couldn’t help but warmly smile.

   “I’ll be off now.  You two better stay out of trouble.”  Lucy leaned in to kiss her husband and daughter.

   Before John could respond, Charlotte erupted, “Can’t promise that!” and held a joyous smile.  The spouses couldn’t help but look at her and chuckle.

Chapter 2

   John, eager to spend the day off at the saloon, which, long ago, Lucy approved of when she pretended that she was convinced John would only have sarsaparilla or two, left Charlotte to play outside.  What he was met with, however, was not what he expected.  A retired, old prospector, otherwise known as the town looney, with an unkept, grey beard and ragged hat, and just enough clothes to keep him decent, was furiously standing atop stone stray wood floorboards.  

“The end is near!  Every change today is another day tomorra!  Heed my warning!”

   John caught up with Rango Aldez, a Mexican rancher who was wrongly displaced after he fought with the Americans in the Mexican American war, stool still, watching the man speak.  Although his appearance is appropriate for his age, his mid 30s, the same as John, his spirit aged far beyond the years he’s lived.

   “Whatdya think, Rango, are we doomed?” John joked.

   “I don’t know what it is, Whitaker, but something’s not right.” Though Rango spoke with a calmness matched in degree by the protester’s panic. John, however, could tell that he was concerned.

   “My God, you aren’t serious, are ya?  I thought you were messin last we spoke of this.  Don’tcha know people have been ranting about this for forever?”  To John, an insane, old man yelling about the end represented what he thought the cause was anyway.

   “That’s my point.  It’s not just him, the Northerners and the politicians have said it too.  Reasonable men.  Haven’t you noticed that some of what they’re saying has come true?  How come you equate these warnings to this guy instead of all of the others making predictions?”

   “The Northerners and politicians are tryna further their agenda.  They’re tryna break apart our community.  You know Sal would lose his job if their plans went through?  They want to make us poor and when we come crawling for help, they’ll be able to control us.  Didn’t ya have people who lied for political gain back in Mexico?”

   Rango’s eyes darted to the side to meet John’s.  “When the politicians don’t need the people, they have no need to lie.  If what you are saying is true, then it is all of the people, not the politicians, who have some conspiracy.”

   John nodded.  He understood Rango’s point.

Chapter 3

   The two men made their way to the Saloon, meeting up with Dr. Morgan and Sal.  Though they were just four men in a small town, they represented a larger ecosystem.  Rango supplied the town with firearms, John fished for the food for everyone to eat, Sal mined for coal and metals to bring money for the town, and Doc fixed everyone up when their jobs didn’t go so well.  Above all of it, a dusty, ragged American flag flew next to the Mayor’s office.  The town was so small that each of them played a vital part, and if just one of their roles was absent, the community would take a hit.  Despite the dust and tumbleweeds, it was beautiful, and it's one of the reasons John was willing to give up his old life.  

   After some time of lively drinking, John mocked Rango for his belief that the end-time predictions were to come to fruition.

   “Careful John, at the last Medicine and Science congress I was able to attend, all of the scientists agreed that this will be a serious problem,” Doc warned.

   Sal groaned.  John raised his voice, clearly upset, and proclaimed, “I’m gettin fed up with this!  Its cuz all the scientists make more money in a day spreadin lies than they would make in a year if they worked on some hopeless tuberculosis cure.”

   “John, I don’t think you’re understanding.  Maybe if a hundred or so were saying it, you’d have some case.  But you’d be sayin almost all of the scientists in the country are being paid off, and by who?  I just-”

   “There’s plenty of money in gettin tons of Southerners to grovel to the North.  Get em to change their way of life, live on a cent a day in a big city.  Not to mention they’re tryna change our farms!  If that don’t scream to you this is some anti-slavery agenda, I don’t know what will.”  Sal interjected, easily speaking over the Doctor’s meek voice.  John was eagerly listening, though, and was actually beginning to question his own opinion.  

   It was at that instant that the saloon began shaking.  While the men hid from the glass shrapnel exploding from the falling cups, an enemy approached.  This earthquake was simply the first to come.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 70

After every serious arc, I like to do a fluffy chapter. Super fluffy.  And this one is no exception.

There are three people I cannot thank enough for helping with this chapter. First up is @charlylimph-blog for helping me get the character of Charly right.  You may remember her briefly as the woman with the collar from the Food Festival arc.

Second, of course, is @satan-parisienne for beta-ing the stuff I churn out.  She is in town for New Year’s this week, and I had the absolute pleasure of watching her reactions in real-time (something I haven’t gotten to do in several months)! 

Last but not least, @baelpenrose, who has been giving the last few chapters a read to make sure the story is consistent and to poke holes in anything I may have missed or got mixed up.

Happy New Year, and I hope to see you all in the New Roaring 20s!

”Sophia, we sorta kinda maybe need to talk?”

I glanced up from my datapad, rubbing the cramp in my neck as I did. With Insert Winter Holiday – and the crisis with Else – behind us, the backlog at work basically qualified as cruel and unusual punishment in most Terran jurisdictions.  Unfortunately, we weren’t on Terra anymore, so I was working twenty hour days trying to get things back on an even keel. Neither my joints nor my partners were very appreciative of it, but at least Conor and Maverick complained less than my spine did.

When I saw my visitor, I stood with much crackling to greet her.  Charly bounced in, completely oblivious to my crunchy joints. “You work too much,” she scolded without preamble.  “We need a ladies’ night – you, me, Tyche, and Xiomara. No arguments.”

Arching an eyebrow at her uncharacteristically demanding tone, I glanced over her shoulder.  A dark silhouette that rivaled Conor’s height flashed a quick, blinding white grin. I shrugged and looked back to the energetic brunette in front of me. “And when am I supposed to have time for a ladies’ night, Charly?”

“I already talked to Xiomara, who talked to Tyche, who told Alistair to clear your calendar the day after tomorrow.  So, tomorrow night, we’re getting cute and going out!”

“Three out of four of those names are in relationships,” I pointed out.

“So? It’s drinks with the girls.  I tried to ask Grey, but they don’t want to go.” She dropped her eyes and pouted at my navel before looking back in the direction of my face. “Still. It’s not like we have to be on the hunt for sexy fun times just to go out and have drinks together. It’ll be fun. And you know you love the Undine, you just haven’t had an excuse to go back with everything going on.”

Bacon Bloody Marys… I shook my head vigorously, focusing on the present. “You do realize that Xio, Tyche, and I are probably going to talk about work, right?”

“Duh. Geez, that’s what the booze is for.  Complaining about work is enhanced… by the booze.”

I sighed.  Ever since she had been released from medical observation, I had learned that saying no to Charly was incredibly difficult.  Even Tyche just kind of went along with her in something of a confused daze. I swore, the woman had a superpower – people just agreed with her.  The only thing standing between her and Galactic domination was the same low threshold my sister and I shared for being around people.

If she was this eager to go out, to a bar, for a girls’ night, who were we to say no?

“Can I at least take today to think about – “ I tried in vain, only to be cut off.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Girls’ night! Girls’ Night! Ladies’ gonna get druuuuuunk!” she started chanting and dancing in a circle.

 Sure enough, the next night saw Tyche fussing over my outfit and hair, gently trying to tousle it into something she obviously understood and I didn’t.  Xiomara was laughing hard enough that the only thing saving her from an abrupt, face-first introduction with the floor was the doorway she was leaning against.  When I tried to turn my head to scowl at her, Tyche used one very firm fingertip to turn my head back to her. “I’m almost done. Would you just hold still? Sheesh,” she grumbled.

“You know I hate getting dolled up,” I pointed out sulkily.  

She ignored me, instead stepping back to look at her handiwork. “I think that will work,” she finally pronounced with a nod.

The mirror she held up made me want to scream. “I look exactly like I did before!” I cried in confusion. “Why did you spend an hour making my hair look exactly the same!?”

With a low growl, she rolled her eyes and shook her head at a now-gasping Xiomara. “Some people just don’t understand,” she sighed dramatically. Glaring at me, she pointed at my hair. “This does not look the same. It looks intentional.”

Xiomara temporarily sobered up enough to contribute her two cents. “Before, you had bed-head.  Now, you have sex hair.  Big difference.”

“You. Two. Are. Loony,” I ground out. I reached to run a hand through my hair in frustration, only to have Tyche intercept it.

“Don’t you dare. I don’t have time to fix it,” she ordered before dragging me out of my office, my hand still clutched tightly in her grasp.  Groaning as loudly as possible in hopes of rescue, I reluctantly allowed myself to be pulled along until we reached the Undine. Once outside, my sister stopped and dropped my hand, giving me one last once-over before seeming content that I hadn’t managed to wreck her painstaking work in the last forty meters.

I was permitted to enter the pub under my own power.  Making our way to the back of the space, we found Charly had already claimed a high-top.  As soon as we were visible, Coffey gently cupped her jaw in one massive hand and gave her a kiss that was paired with a look that clearly meant Stay out of trouble.  Charly just gave him an angelic smile.

Frankly, the odds of that were fifty-fifty.  Charly wasn’t reckless – not by a long shot. On the contrary, I had learned in recent weeks that she was usually very quiet and extremely cautious. In absolute, direct conflict with this was an underlying need to play pranks on unsuspecting victims.

Given her usual demeanor, ‘unsuspecting’ was synonymous with ‘everyone on the Ark except Noah and Coffey’.  Well, Coffey at least suspected it, but he wasn’t exactly immune to pranks. When I asked her about it once, she just shrugged and told me “Hey, if I’m going to be punished, I may as well deserve it.”

The man in question waved one hand at the three of us before disappearing into the crowd.  I honestly had no clue how he did that – he was easily the second tallest human on the ship.  More annoyingly, he did it all. The. Damned. Time. It was profoundly frustrating, albeit very impressive. Squashing the sigh I felt bubbling up, I turned back to the table. Tyche and Xiomara were already seated, leaving me a seat across from my sister.

No sooner did I climb onto my seat, than Sebastian came through the crowd with a tray full of drinks.  Coconut rum and fruit juice for Tyche, an enormous Bloody Mary for myself, neat whiskey for Xiomara, and eye-catchingly blue something-slushy with a huge wedge of pineapple and an umbrella for Charly.  She caught me looking and held it up so I could see it better. “It has alcohol, I swear – blue curacao, cognac, and rum.”

With a skeptic glance, Tyche sniffed the drink and wrinkled her nose. “Sounds like a hangover.”

“Nuh-uh,” Charly retorted. “It sounds like fun!”

Xiomara rolled her eyes before downing her whiskey with a wink at me. “If we’re here to drink, may as well, right?”

An hour and a half later, Sebastian was taking away our most recent set of empty glasses, ducking Tyche’s hand as she gesticulated wildly.  She was telling some story to Charly, who had slowly scooted her chair closer and closer.  At the moment, she was leaning on the part of the table that was actually in front of my sister, watching and giggling as Tyche enthusiastically flailed and made exaggerated faces.  I could not figure out for the life of me what story she was telling, but a few minutes later she tipped her head back with a clap of her hands and a peal of laughter. This sent Charly into a fit of giggles, face down on her arms.

I glanced at Xiomara, who was smiling, but still clearly sober despite her drinks. With a conspiratorial tone, I told her “They are soooo drrrrr… draaa…. dur-rur-rur… Inebriated. Very inebriated.”

Xio stopped mid-sip to arch an eyebrow at me. “You seriously couldn’t get out the word drunk so you went with, of all things, inebriated!?”

Tyche and Charly collapsed into howling laughter at the disbelief in her tone. I just tapped my temple and sat as straight as I possibly could, offended. “Dain bramage, Xio. Loooooots of brain damage.”  I ruined my scolding tone by belatedly realizing what I had initially said and snorting with laughter.

That seemed to break the dam to pieces, because I started giggling and could not stop myself no matter how hard I tried.  It didn’t help when, just as the giggling started to trickle off, Charly howled “Dain Bramaaaage!” at the top of her lungs and blindly toasted the room with a mostly-empty hurricane glass.  The gesture sent the wedge of pineapple on the rim into a tumbling arc…

Right into Xiomara’s whiskey, droplets splashing her face.

I didn’t know whether it was the pineapple or the wet-cat look on Xio’s face, but either way, it was the funniest thing the three of us had ever seen. Soon, Tyche and I were leaning against Charly, fighting for breath against the laughter that was possessing us like minor demons.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Xiomara mock-sneered. “Go ahead, laugh it up.  I swear, you three are –“

When she stopped mid-sentence, Tyche popped up like a meerkat.  Almost immediately, she was smacking my shoulder and shaking Charly. “Look!  Looklooklooklooklook.”

Xiomara was frozen, face slack, mouth half-open with the dying breath of whatever she was about to call us.  Her eyes were glued to the entrance of the Undine.  I felt two different spots in my neck pop as I snapped my head around to see what she was staring at.  At first, all I could see was just an ocean of people getting after-work drinks and socializing… granted, it was a little quieter than I expected, and more people were talking in hushed tones than I remembered from bars back home, but maybe I was just out of touch.

Tyche saved me again by reaching across, grabbing my jaw, and turning my head to face what Xiomara was looking at: a beautiful woman, about my height, with what seemed like miles of thick, black hair, and a stunning blue saree with warm gold and pale green details coming over her shoulder.  I could see how she was a show-stopper, honestly, but Xio’s reaction seemed a bit dramatic.

In contrast to this, Charly’s head came up, dislodging Tyche’s hand. “Oh, that’s just Parvati!  She’s an artist.  I think she told me once she did murals in the Before?”

The statement seemed to snap Xio out of her trance. “What? How do you know her?”

Oblivious to the demanding tone, Charly shrugged. “She works with Hannah a lot. Like, a lot-lot. So I’ve met her a few times.  She’s really lovely, honestly.  Some of her work is in the database… she did a lot of politically-charged protest art, like this one…what was it called?” She snapped her fingers a few times, lost in thought. “Started with a ‘G’ I think? Refugee something?”

“Refugee Guernica!?” my sister and I demanded at the same time.  

“Yeah! That one.  The really violent one.”

The piece had been extremely controversial: a hyper-realistic mural of climate refugees, posed to evoke the original Picasso work and gaunt with starvation.  That, alone, would have been palatable to the powers-that-were.  However… the artist had gone one step further and portrayed what had been livestock in the original work as human beings, feasted upon by the fattened rich.  It had also been in true-to-life color, which hadn’t helped soften any blows.  Tyche and I had both been breathless the first time we saw an image of it.

“That is the person who did that mural?” Tyche asked, pointing a finger at the woman across the bar.

Charly nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! Parvati Fletcher.  Remember? Signed all her murals with a little arrow, fletched with peacock feathers?”

Xiomara’s eyes narrowed. “She did the one decrying the Baconists, didn’t she?”

“Yeah! Animal Farm, the scene where the pigs were adding ‘but some animals are more equal than others’.  I don’t know if Parvati has it in her to hate, but the closest I ever saw her come was when she compared Baconists to the rich. She said that the only difference between the two was that Baconists were more honest about wanting annihilate humanity.”

Dark eyes narrowed as Xio flicked open her datapad, summoning data furiously. Abruptly, she relaxed. “I remember this file… We suspected her after what happened on Level One, but Noah confirmed on three separate occasions that she was telling the truth.”

“Duuuuuhhhhhhhhh,” Charly intoned, rolling her eyes comically. “Vati doesn’t argue much, but one thing that will always make her speak is the fact that she only believes that humanity is at its best if everyone is given the opportunity to be their best.”

“That’s… why she’s here, isn’t it?” I asked with dawning comprehension.

“Well, yeah. Why else? You’re here for the same reason, right? You believe in the best in a person, no matter the person, right?  Well, she believes in that… It’s like, if you’re a psychologist, she would be a sociologist.  She believes in the best in humanity, not just the best in a person.”

Huh. That was a breath of fresh air.  I glanced back at Xiomara. She looked lost, and I followed her sight back to the same blue and earth-tone saree, shining dark hair, and a bright white laugh. I glanced back and forth a few times before the realization hit me between the eyes like a sledgehammer. The gaping stare, the quick background check and almost melting relief… “Xio?” I whispered in that special, extra-quiet volume only drunk people can use. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Tell the whole bar, why don’t you?” she grumbled.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” I held my hands up placatingly. “I just…. I had a completely different idea in mind for your type, that’s all.  Took me a bit to realize I was so, so wrong.”

“Oh, yeah, peopling-queen?” she smirked. “Do tell, what did you have in mind as ‘my type’?”

“Well, I saw this video once of a lady who broke a pumpkin in half between her thighs…” I gave her a pointed look.

Next to her, Tyche nodded vigorously. “And more sharp objects.  We both thought your affections could only be won by someone who could best you in single combat.”

Charly scowled. “There are more types of combat than fighting, you two.  I bet Parvati has incited more political uprisings than any four people at this table.” My brows furrowed and I opened my mouth to say something, but Charly rolled her eyes again and cut me off. “Yes, Sophia. I am aware there are only four people at this table. That’s the point.”

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[corvid-420]

So here’s the situation in a nutshell: i’m long-term unemployed after a labor violation (which i recorded lmao; see readmore) and don’t even have a laptop after I and everyone at a more recent part-time job got fired. also i just found out my bank didn’t let me overdraft to pay the IRS the $226 i owe the little eichmanns for all four thousand dollars of my 2018 income so I owe that, too.

Here’s my PayPal. I’ll also be finishing and posting more content on my Patreon in the coming days. Botnik Strategies is the channel I want to use to teach y’all how to give scheming liberals and their fascist allies a taste of their own treachery; trust me i have experience with that.

Here’s some of the work I’ve done on The New Inquiry, and a case study of how I’ve used the Frankfurt School in strategic communications is here (password is in paypal).

For this to be sustainable and to just find a job I need to actually have a laptop, or at least regular access to the library’s computers which also costs money but with -10 cents on my clipper card, and .16 cents in my bank account with no certainty of income in the future (oh save for 50 bucks for a survey I did, and a 5 dollar starbucks gift card. oppalance!)

My goal of course is to avoid buying American or from any of its suzerainties, not just for political reasons, but that they’re crap (my old Acer is Taiwanese, and Fuck apple more generally; more on the acer below). Most importantly, I need to scrape through long enough to reunite with my husband overseas, and at least try and see family here in California, which I haven’t been able to since my purge.

Thank you all again for your support throughout these times! Even just a reblog and words of support really do help, for as Clausewitz says, the most important element in war is morale, and whether you realize it or not, someone’s already at war with you.

On the day of Trump’s election, the scheming vipers at the Sierra Club finally succeeded in purging me from the organization despite distinguishing myself from my “peers” for having the gall to anticipate trump. I spent literally all of 2016 trying to professionalize their election strategy, aka taking Trump seriously, and approach him as a political professional should, not as a drunken frat boy would just calling him “crazy”.

After Trump won, rather than say, “oh hey, you were right and maybe we should use your skills in some way,” they instead saw me as a liability that would undermine their Russian conspiracy theories and fired me despite my union. The maneuver they resorted to was a shady mode of termination known as an ‘amicable separation’.

They had to resort to this contrivance by maliciously recasting my attempts to optimize campaign strategy as my being “rude” and “unprofessional”. Once these accusations were made, I did relish in the opportunity to be petty, but I did so only once they began accusing me and only after it became clear they were making me jump through hoops rather than take my suggestions seriously throughout the entire year. 

And once I realized they weren’t going to reward me for my foresight but punish me for it, I applied my acumen by arming myself with a recording of a meeting with my manager for use in future separation negotiations, which I’m not sharing today out of need and desperation and in possible breach of the crooked deal they forced on me. In this audio, my manager’s low capacity for stratagem has him resorting to saying he loved me while demanding i apologize in violation of my Weingarten rights. The bourgeoisie is always laying a trap... (pw is in paypal, as well).

Note the difference in caliber and approach between my work, and their work, with careful attention to when they were uploaded, and it becomes clear why they plotted to purge me. The meeting in the audio took place the week before Thanksgiving.

Since then I’ve been unemployed, save for a few freelancing gigs. With these and the tireless work of my husband @bumbakvetch I was able to keep shelter for a time in a kitche-nless slum where I contracted H pylori, so things have been worse in some ways, but it’s been a steady decline since.

Most recently I had a gig that I won’t talk shit about until I decide in the coming days whether I’m throwing the Feds at them for firing everyone on staff after they tried to make us sign away unrestricted access to our phones without paying us for using our data for the job (which is illegal, btw).

Point is, since losing that job in March, I haven’t had a functioning laptop. The acer I relied on is breaking at the screen, it shuts off spontaneously even at full battery, it doesn’t always ‘register’ that it’s plugged in so it’s almost always at 20ish percent battery, the keyboard/mouse will often stop responding unless I let it spontaneously shut down or close/reopen the laptop, further degrading the already broken screen, it’s a mess. Here’s a few shots of just the cosmetic deterioration:

the other side is also threatening to fall apart soon, see the lower right corner, that’s a fissure that grows every time I have to close it, though I try not to if I don’t have to.

And if you have ADHD like I do, you know it can crater your productivity to have to spend 10-20 minutes every hour or so to troubleshoot the next problem while looking at the lights constantly to see if the laptop registers that it’s charging, and that’s if the laptop bothers to turn back on at all.

And yes, I’ve tried to fix it many times, but i bought it refurbished so there wasn’t warranty, and tinkering with the motherboard to see if maybe the power jack was just loose didn’t do anything, nor did buying different replacement cables.

I’ll send a picture of my IRS bill or amount owed if anyone has to see it to believe me, but here’s a screenshot of my bank account from this morning:

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

How I escaped my 'cult' in lockdown

▲ The Peace Palace of the Korean messiah, Lee Man-hee, is lower left. The Moon’s $1billion palace is upper right.

______________________________________

Jasmine*, 20, a former member of the South Korean Shincheonji Church, recalls her experience of detaching from the group due to Covid-19

The Telegraph, London, UK     1 July 2020

By Anonymous author

I was recruited into a cult during my second year at university, although I didn’t realise it at first. What started with a chat with two charismatic young recruiters outside the Salford University library last March lead to my attendance at Bible study meetings and services. I was in deep grief for my dad who died suddenly in 2016, and I was vulnerable.

Members of the Shincheonji Church of Jesus drew me in by asking some very big questions, such as: “If you could have coffee with God, what would you ask?” They asked me a lot of questions about myself, and seemed so interested in me. My recruiters came across as serious theologians with a big commitment to promoting world peace, and they were offering friendship, too. They seemed to have the answers to some big issues, and they did it all with subtlety and skill.

Very quickly, I was attending Shincheonji meetings, sermons and study groups for several hours each day. I was feeling a part of something, and it felt good. I learned that it was a Christian group founded in 1984 in South Korea by a messianic figure, Lee Man-hee, who believes that only he and his followers will survive the end of the world – they are obsessed with ‘End Time’. The Shincheonji position themselves as a Christian group who carry out social work and cultural events, and they are known for holding big athletics festivals in South Korea. There are more than 250,000 followers worldwide, and they are on a mission right now to recruit more and more from UK universities.

There were about 40 of us in my group and we were broken down into ‘cells’ of five with a leader and assistant leader for each. I became our cell’s assistant leader after few months, and I ran my own bible studies group after I had been trained.

Gradually, I was distanced from my friends and my mum, a nurse who lives in Surrey, and before too long the Shincheonji had taken over my life. I was spending 90 per cent of my time either in cult meetings, going out evangelising or attending the twice-weekly sermons, which were held in a local business park. My university work began to suffer. I was sleeping just four hours a night. I was exhausted. This is one of the reasons recruits stay loyal. They find they don’t have the time and energy needed to think properly and rationally assess what they have become part of.

All of my previous ideas about my faith and God had become replaced with the group’s beliefs, which were that we were helping to bring about world peace and that only we would survive the end of the world. Walking away would have been very difficult because I would have to ‘unlearn’ what I had been indoctrinated into.

But everything changed in February when news broke about coronavirus. I was already feeling very uncomfortable with some of the things I was having to do, such as policing the new recruits I had brought in and reporting them to our cell leader if they broke the rules. They might have met with a member of the opposite sex after the 10pm curfew, not turned up to Bible study or meetings, or not sat properly in the praying position, which is that you to have to kneel with the left hand on top of the right. Or they might have not said ‘Amen’ after a leader had spoken, or not done their homework. The rules are all set out in a PowerPoint early on in the recruitment process, and then repeated verbally until they have sunk in. They are very rigid about every single rule as it is a way of controlling people, even down to what you wear to the sermons – everyone has to look the same in white shirts and back trousers.

I really hated policing new recruits and I was having doubts, but you are conditioned to ignore your instincts and not to ask questions.

Then, one evening in February, I saw on the BBC News that the Shincheonji in South Korea were being held responsible for an outbreak of Covid-19 there, by holding tightly packed meetings and refusing to stop. I remember being very shocked. How could committed Christians do something that was putting lives at risk? We knew that lockdown was coming soon to the UK and I had started to feel extremely anxious. Were we going to be expected to carry on attending sermons after lockdown, and put our health at risk?

At the same time, my tutor expressed concern that I was missing tutorials and getting behind with my work. She suggested we meet. My friends were asking lots of questions about where I was and I just told them I was busy. We believed that only those who were part of the Shincheonji were going to be saved when the pandemic hit. After the news from South Korea broke and deaths from Covid-19 were being reported every day, we believed that God was close to picking just the 144,000 of his devotees who would survive and live forever, in line with old testament teachings from Revelations. What would happen if I wasn’t one of the chosen ones? Would I die? I almost didn’t leave through fear. I was absolutely terrified. I couldn’t decide what to do.

Later in February, we were all sent a message on the Telegram app – it’s more secure than WhatsApp – that all meetings, services, recruitment, Bible studies were cancelled because of Covid-19. Everything went online, but the virtual sermons had none of the power of an actual live service, which involved about 40 of us singing, swaying, praying and clapping, with some members so moved by the singing they openly wept. The emotion and the sense of importance and ceremony that the live sermons evoked was missing.

We watched pre-recorded sermons by Lee Man-hee, but the more they were repeated, the less impact they had – he wasn’t making any new recordings. By this stage, my doubts were overwhelming me, but I carried on taking part in everything online. I still felt under scrutiny from my leaders when I saw them on screen instead of live, but I found I could fake a decent “Amen” online far more easily than face to face.

Not being able to go out evangelising meant that we all had a lot more time at our disposal. I began reading a lot about the Shincheonji, that they are widely believed to be a cult. I couldn’t believe what I had become a part of, and I knew I had to get out. I just wasn’t sure if I had the strength. I wasn’t at all sure I could manage it. I had no one on the outside to rely on or who could help me, because no one knew about my other life. The Shincheonji are highly secretive and some believe that the devil will find his way in if you tell non-members – so I didn’t.

Just before the UK went into lockdown, I met with my tutor and told her that I had been a member of the Shincheonji for over a year. She was the first person I had told, and I broke down in tears. She immediately got me connected to the university’s wellbeing team who put me in contact with the Family Survival Trust (FST), which helps cult victims. Thanks to their guidance, I cut all my ties with the cult, changed my phone number and took myself off all social media. Then I got on a coach and went home to Surrey.

I later learned that two leaders had turned up at my university demanding to see me. They then went to my accommodation but my old flatmates turned them away. I had forgotten to block the cult leaders from my uni email and they emailed me quite a lot, and it frightened me because they can be so persuasive. The whole time on the coach home I was quite paranoid about being followed, and when I got home to Surrey I was constantly looking over my shoulder, but my mum calmed me down. They had had such a grip on me, I was frightened they wouldn’t let me go. I was in a terrible state at first because I didn’t know what I believed any more. I had believed everything they had taught me, but I now knew it was all untrue. My trust had been absolutely broken.

Life has been difficult in lockdown, but I feel free. I can sleep and spend time at home. The real me is returning and life is going back to normal. It’s terrible that so many lives have been lost to the coronavirus, but what happened during the pandemic gave me the freedom I needed to help me realise what had been done to me. The cult make you feel that they are your family. I lost a part of myself. My identity was all bound up with the cult, and I had no thoughts or beliefs of my own. Now I am back with my real family, and I am free once more to make my own decisions. I know of one other woman who left when I did, but I don’t suppose we were the only ones. I bet more have left since.

When I found out who I was involved with, I was shattered and broken. I am still in a state of shock, but it is receding. I couldn’t have done this interview a month ago. I didn’t know where I belonged at first, but the Trust has introduced me to other cult victims so I don’t feel so alone. I will find it hard to trust people again, to get close to anyone. The hardest part of the whole experience was when I felt I was losing my relationship with my mum. But I'm also sorry to have missed out on the social side of university, while I lived a secret life inside the Shincheonji.

You can be the smartest person on campus, but the recruiters can still get to you by making you feel special. The Shincheonji have been recruiting at universities in Birmingham, London and Manchester for over a year, telling young people they are on a mission to save the world. If coronavirus hadn’t happened when it did, I think I would still believe that.

*Names have been changed

As told to Lynne Wallis

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/life/escaped-cult-lockdown/

Rival Korean messiah builds workshop next to UC / FFWPU Cheongpyeong Center

Video of Messiah Lee Man-hee arriving at LAX, California, April, 2017

Korean messiah, Lee Man-hee, (Shincheonji) on takeover mission in New Zealand

Coronavirus Spread by a Second Coming ‘Cult’ Has Put South Korea on ‘Maximum Alert’

▲ Bo Hi Pak, the right hand man of Sun Myung Moon, is standing next to Lee Man-hee (wearing a red tie). Mrs Pak is wearing the pink outfit. Kim Nam-hee, with a pink scarf, was the wife of Mr Lee. The 50th anniversary of the founding of the Little Angels was being celebrated.

[brajeshupadhyay]

Thousands of us have picked up a surprise savings habit in lockdown, a Money Mail survey reveals today. The coronavirus crisis has inflicted job losses and pay cuts – and still threatens to kill off many struggling businesses. But despite the doom and gloom, many Mail readers have found they are saving hundreds of pounds thanks to lockdown, and becoming more financially secure as a result. Spending cuts: Despite the doom and gloom, many readers have found themselves saving hundreds of pounds thanks to lockdown and becoming more financially secure as a result  Large expenses such as holidays, commuting costs and entertainment have vanished following unprecedented social-distancing restrictions – giving households the chance to set aside money during an economically uncertain time. Exclusive research for Money Mail by Consumer Intelligence today suggests 16 per cent of people now feel financially better off. Almost half are spending less since social-distancing restrictions were introduced, with 38 per cent saving more. Nearly four in five families say they have more money to spend since lockdown, with a quarter having between £200 and £500 more in disposable income each month. The findings come as figures from the Bank of England yesterday showed the nation saved £16.2 billion in April. In the six months to February households saved an average of £5 billion every month. What is more, households cleared an astonishing £5 billion of credit-card debt, which was more than double the previous record of £2.4 billion paid off in March. In a standard month the nation would usually clear £300 million of credit-card debt. Becky O’Connor, personal finance specialist at insurer Royal London, says: ‘A financial divide has opened up during lockdown. ‘While some are really struggling on reduced incomes, there’s another group whose experience has been almost the exact opposite. ‘If you are in a position to do so, there might never be a better time to ‘build back better’ and save.’ Here, Money Mail meets some of the nation’s new ‘accidental savers’. At last, I’ve managed to build a little nest egg  By HENRY DEEDES  All my life I’ve been a spender rather than a saver. Whatever I’ve earned during my career, my bank account has always puffed and wheezed its way through to pay day. I’ve tried to be sensible. I’ve opened saving accounts, dabbled in Isas. I even bought Premium Bonds once. Much good it’s done me. You see, any disposable cash I’ve ever had has this annoying habit of winking at me through the computer glass, urging me to go out and enjoy it. Terrible, I know, but there’s something innately therapeutic about rewarding yourself after a busy week with a little something.  A case of wine, something new to hang in the flat. Perhaps another ill-advised addition to the summer wardrobe from a tempting online emporium. Invariably, no sooner have I clicked the purchase button and the boiler will suddenly crank to halt and there’ll be nothing in the cookie jar to pay for a repair. I never learn. Lockdown has changed all that. Like a lot of people, I imagine, being trapped inside an apartment for the best part of three months has brought about a vast reduction in expenses. No need now for expensive Travelcards, pricey gym memberships or all those overpriced cups of coffee every day. And that’s before you’ve taken into account what I used to spend going out to see friends.  Remember socialising? Drinks rounds, restaurant bills. I dread to think how much I used to splurge on late-night Uber journeys during normal times. But it was a lot. And so with all these weighty charges lifted from my balance sheet, I’ve started to experience a novelty. When I check my balance at the end of the month, there’s now actually something left in the kitty. In the past I’d have been tempted to do something extravagant. ‘Why not?’ would have been my attitude. But in these times of enforced isolation, that thinking has been replaced with what’s the point? Instead, I’ve been putting it in an online investment Isa with savings app Moneybox. I pay a set amount in each month, as well as any additional funds I might have left over.  It also has a nifty feature which rounds up all my debit card transactions to the nearest pound and automatically squirrels away the extra cash. H ow satisfying it has been, how oddly empowering. Each time I check to see how my savings are accruing I now get that same whoosh of excitement I used to get when an Amazon parcel would plonk through my letterbox. It would be nice to think that when this is all over, when the High Street tills begin to ring again and when the beer pumps start flowing, I will be able to maintain this spirit of restraint.  If nothing else, this pandemic has taught us how quickly life can go south. In bleak times it pays to be prudent. Doubtless this is the last thing Chancellor Rishi Sunak wants to hear. As we re-emerge from lockdown, he needs as many idiots like me as possible flashing their plastic around with reckless abandon to get our ravaged economy moving. But if this crisis does make some a little more financially responsible, surely that’s no bad thing in the long term.   I have cleared my credit card    Olivia McCulla, who works in PR, has saved by moving back in with her parents By moving back in with her parents, Olivia McCulla, who works in PR, has saved enough to pay off her £1,000 credit card debt. She still pays £775 a month in rent for her flat in North-West London but gets £100 back that would usually go on bills because she isn’t there. Her £120-a-month travel costs and £150-a-week work lunch habit have also disappeared while she works from her parents’ home near Leeds. She has also saved thousands after the two hen-dos and four weddings she was supposed to attend this summer were postponed. However, she now has eight weddings in the diary next year to budget for. Olivia, 29, who wants to buy a property in the next few years, has opened a new savings account. She says: ‘It feels more important than ever to have a rainy-day fund with things being so uncertain. ‘In London I was paying £9.50 for a gin and tonic and through the nose for a very small flat I dread going back to. ‘Lockdown has made me question if I even want to buy in London.’ Before the coronavirus crisis, Olivia was saving about £100 a month. Her father Bernard, 65, and his wife Susan, 66, have seen their household costs rise slightly since their daughter moved home but are also saving money each month.  They previously spent £100 eating out each week, so their bank balance is boosted by £400 a month. And instead of paying a tradesman £2,000 to replace his patio with a flower garden, Bernard did it himself and slashed the cost in half. Before social-distancing regulations were relaxed, Bernard was also saving £180 a month on his golf and walking-football memberships. He says: ‘We are very fortunate. Lockdown has made me think we should live more for today and enjoy our pensions more.’ I feel guilty I’m better off  Quids in: Ashleigh Meale is saving between £500 and £700 a month Ashleigh Meale says her ‘stripped-back life’ means she is now saving between £500 and £700 a month. This is despite her grocery bill doubling to £400 a month and signing up to a TV and film- streaming service costing £60 a year. Before lockdown, the 27-year-old recruitment consultant, who is currently working from home, was putting away between £250 and £500 but would spend hundreds of pounds a month socialising with friends at expensive bars and restaurants.  Now, she and her boyfriend Rob, 38, cook their meals from scratch at home. Ashleigh, who lives in Sheffield, is also saving £70 a month by working from home and not having to pay to commute by bus. She has also been unable to spend money on holidays since the Government warned against non-essential travel. Ashleigh admits that, while she is not a natural saver, she has now realised how much she spends unnecessarily and hopes to remain mindful about what expenses she reintroduces when restrictions are finally lifted. She says: ‘Feeling better off financially during this time is a strange position to be in and it does make me feel guilty when so many people are struggling. But it has given me time to re-evaluate things, and I have no intention of blowing what I’ve saved. ‘I don’t need to be out all the time spending money on eating out and drinks when I could be just as happy with a barbecue in someone’s garden. What I have missed the most is my friends — not the expensive socialising.’ Pay cut but £400-a-month saving  Sally Walsh is saving an extra £400 a month on top of £200 she was already setting aside in a help-to-buy Isa Sally Walsh was worried when she was told she would have to take a 10 per cent pay cut in March. But despite the shock announcement, the 24-year-old engineer has found her finances have improved during lockdown. She is now saving an extra £400 a month on top of £200 she was already setting aside in a help-to-buy Isa. Since working from home, Sally has saved around £200 a month by not having to commute to central London, and a further £200 by not eating or drinking out after work. The only bill to go up is her food cost now she cooks almost every meal at home. Sally, who has lived with her parents in Bromley, South-East London since graduating, is determined to continue saving even after lockdown lifts. She says: ‘My goal is to move out as soon as possible. I feel like I am closer to it now. ‘I don’t have to spend so much on going out. I hope I will soon be able to have people over and cook for them.’ Childcare cut by thousands  Claire Jarrett and her partner Jon Howell are saving £50 a day in train fares alone Claire Jarrett and her partner Jon Howell have saved enough since lockdown to pay for renovations on their home. The couple need to fix the roof on their house in West Malling, Kent, and want to make the garden more child-friendly for their one-year-old daughter, Eleanor, to play. Claire, 31, had only been back at work for two days after returning from maternity leave before staff were told they had to work from home. With Jon, also 31, working from home too, they are saving £50 a day in train fares alone by not having to commute to the insurance firm where they both work in Bromley, South-East London. They are also saving around £5 a day on lunches at work, £80 a month on petrol and £200 a month by not eating out. But their biggest saving has been on childcare. It usually costs £800 a month to send Eleanor to nursery — but the couple have not had to pay since March. It has helped the couple to replenish their savings after Claire’s maternity leave and move their renovation plans a bit further forward. However Claire says their financial gain is likely to be short-lived. She says: ‘Lockdown has made us realise we do not need to go out as much but lots of the costs will be re-introduced when life goes back to normal, unfortunately.’ Not relying on investments  Retired Gerry Short is making savings by not playing golf, employing a cleaner or taking weekend theatre trips Retired Gerry Short has seen such a drop in his spending that he has decided to stop withdrawing income from his investments for the next couple of years. Gerry, 61, a former college principal, has two pensions that pay £20,000 a year. He gets a further £16,000 a year from investments.  After the pandemic hit the stock market, his investments plummeted. While they have recovered slightly, he wants to give them time to recover. His reduced outgoings mean he can do this as he is making savings on weekend theatre trips which can cost up to £100 a time.  He was refunded £60 of his golf-club membership. He also stopped spending £20 on drinks three or four times a week after games.  The father-of-one, who lives in Leicestershire, also no longer employs a cleaner, which cost £100 a month. He says: ‘I was aware I was spending a lot as a distraction after my wife died and knew it couldn’t continue. Lockdown has given me time to plan further in the future.’ Windfall from lost holiday  Dannielle Phillips has had to put expensive holiday plans on halt Dannielle Phillips, 32, spends most of her spare cash on trips away. But since lockdown kicked in, expensive holiday plans have ground to a halt. She has already got an £870 refund for a trip to Mexico that was supposed to take place in April. And she has received a £500 voucher she can use to re-book her holiday to Portugal in June for next year. Dannielle, a senior marketing consultant, had always put £250 a month into Premium Bonds, but has since increased this to £750 a month. Since lockdown began, she has saved around £2,500 in total, which she says would have been impossible for her before. She has always checked her banking apps frequently, but is definitely more aware of incoming and outgoing transactions now. Dannielle, who lives in Croydon, South London, says she also feels very lucky it worked out like this because she had originally handed in her notice in February and was planning to leave after finishing a project six weeks later. But the new job she had been offered fell through so her company agreed to rehire her. Dannielle says: ‘I am looking forward to lockdown ending but also dreading it because I will need to rebalance old habits. ‘I’m going to try to budget more at the weekends because I want to keep saving to buy a house. ‘Building up my savings has become more important to me because the future feels so uncertain.’ a.murray@dailymail.co.uk Some links in this article may be affiliate links. 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