#it’s about the childhood friends and the cycle of violence and living up to a legacy

[mossflower]

ough. vrisrezi. if you even care

[me-uglypretty]

a tutor and a kiss

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: A suspicious tutor for the Barton’s children results in Natasha taking caution steps, while trying to enjoy Christmas and discovering something better.

Warning: (18+) fluff, minor violence, use of dagger | 4k words

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The bonfire crackles, gleaming in tinge of amber, and gleamed wondrously on gleeful faces. Conversations buzzes around, whirring together with the cold wind, and sounds of tree brunches rustling in response.

“We’re putting up the tree tomorrow,” a voice exclaimed, buried by another trying to pass through in fumbles of heavy breaths. “And Miss Tu— to, toto, is helping!”

Natasha amusedly observed the children energetically exchanging their opinion on said wrong name and perceived her friend’s tried sigh. Clint waves his hand at her, a silent plead, please distract them, and she shrugs her shoulder.

“Kids, why don’t we hear some stories from your dad?” Natasha perched her elbows at the edge of her knees.

A glare settled on Clint’s face till his children’s attention was drawn to him. Cooper was profusely wishing to hear more about his father’s action filled stories. Nathaniel squealed excitedly, not entirely understanding, but simply sharing his excitement.

While Clint struggled to prepare a story that wasn’t gory from his past, Natasha tentatively surveys their surroundings. A habit picked up, and never forgotten in the name of ensuring those around her were safe. Although, they were very safe in Clint’s farmhouse.

Sound of footsteps peaks her attention as she stared ahead. Familiar reflective shade of pink and the distinct voices draws a smile on her face. Lila waves animatedly at her, and she pats the space beside her as the young girl takes the seat there.

“Dad, you forgot the marshmallow.”

The enthusiastic children, frowns gloomily, and the youngest was at the edge of crying. Natasha shakes her head, noting down her friend’s offended look, then the flash of reminder and he’s meeting her eyes, another pleading look.

He had inadequately forgotten his children’s request of marshmallow for their family’s weekly bonfire. Thus, his escape was in the name of his friends’ distraction because his children adored their Auntie Nat.

Laura, his lovely wife, shares a knowing look with Natasha, then diverted her attention to her guilty husband. “I’m sure, daddy would happily get some tomorrow. Now, who wants hot chocolate?”

Thrill cheers erupt, and Natasha giddily admires the sight. The absent innocence of her childhood wounds her heart, but she devotes her heart into these special moments together. The innocence smiles and kindness, it gradually heals her inner child.

“Is Auntie Yelena coming tomorrow? I want to show her my new ninja move,” Nathaniel tugged the ridges of Natasha’s sleeve.

A smile appears on her face, spreading wide to the glint in her eyes. “Yes, she’s bringing Kate along too.”

The conversation continues energetically. Natasha reminisces the minimal period when she was allowed to pretend that life was that—purely living as any other kid around her, freely cycling around her neighbourhood as she pleased, free to lay on the grass and play at the playground with her young sister, and so naïve of what was actually real, but still, she immersed herself happily in those precious years.

Reuniting with Yelena after all those years, missed adolescence years, the conversation between sisters—which does happen now, just not entirely icky as Yelena would whine about, and more them, two former assassins and their stolen childhood—and experiencing life that wasn’t crafted for them.

It wasn’t easy, but that bond shared from years ago, still flutters at every soft smile and the seconds before danger collides upon them.

They were still kids, simply older and bearing years of trauma.

“Miss Tutor promised to teach us how to make snow globes! I hope she does that cool magic trick…”

Natasha’s furrowed her eyebrows, entertained by the recurrent mention of someone unknown and curious at the sheer eagerness on the children faces, even the oldest ones were excited.

Laura noticed her expression, and reached her hand forward, tapping Natasha’s thigh. “Clint hired a tutor for them. She’s great, but I think they might love her, a little too much,” she explained, “Don’t worry. She’s clean.”

Clean, and yet, curiosity surges in her chest. She wouldn’t find said person utterly clean or safe, till herself had interrogate the person thoroughly.

“Hmm, we’ll see,” Natasha nodded her head, gaze falling on the flickering fire and particles of ash drifting in the air.

Clint grunted after his youngest son playfully punches him in attempt of showcasing his ninja move. “She’s a good one, Nat.”

Natasha doesn’t question them, but hears the conversation hovering over the same person, and remained as that, someone who’s good and loved by the children.

They giddily huddled around the bonfire, drinking hot chocolate and munching on cookies. Natasha’s hand always being held by her own cup of hot chocolate and the other by one of Barton’s children, all appearing as her favourite, even little Nathaniel who was meant to be little Natasha.

The evening gave them relief, especially Natasha. A beautiful family tradition, sounds emitting of joy and gleaming eyes. Just lovely for hearts pulsing during a festive month.

Natasha couldn’t find herself among stranger without questioning their sinister creature. In the company of those known widely by their broad smile and wealth or those simply offering drink to her with their failed flirtatious tricks, her mind doesn’t permit rest till she was aware that danger wasn’t lingering around.

Thus, she was agitated by the lateness of her God children’s tutor.

“Oh god, Natasha, please relax, okay? Chill,” said her sister, briskly downing her cup of hot chocolate then eyeing Natasha’s untouched cup. “You don’t want?” Yelena gestured to the cup, hands already clasping the handle.

Natasha shakes her head. A small smile curves on her lips as she gentle push the cup towards Yelena. “You’re going to get a stomach ache.”

Yelena waves her hand, disregarding her sister’s advice as she hungrily bites another cookie and dunking the half-eaten cooking into the cup. “It’s very good. You should learn, sestra. We can finally have good home cook meal.”

Take-out has been their surviving nutrition since the sisters’ rented out an apartment together. Natasha has always been excellent at her presented task, but cooking wasn’t the one.

Take down an entire operation? Give her a week or less, and she’d have their entire history data too. Battle aliens without any sort of extra energy? Watch her jump on an alien vehicle without a worry. But ask her to cook a decent meal that wasn’t boxed and instant? Expect something burnt, spoilt or tasteless, or extremely bitter for some bizarre reason.

However, Yelena pride herself on preparing the best macaroni and cheese. At some point, both sisters became progressively tired of the same food which lead them to ordering take-outs. Every single day.

“You can’t survive on sugar, Yelena,” Laura’s voice quipped. “But I can teach you how to bake cookies and cook, you know, so you don’t expect your sister to do everything.”

The offended gasp from the youngest of them, received hefty laughter in return.

“Natasha don’t think you got out of this. You need to learn too,” Laura added, which made the latter glare at her, because it was enough for her younger sister to laugh and point accusingly at her sister.

“Hah! I’m telling Kate Bishop.”

They watch amusedly as golden head of hair bops excitedly, hands waving in the air, mouth wide and happy. The opposite, taller with messy brunette hair, Kate, mirrors her excitement.

“It’s so nice to see her like this,” Natasha muttered, and exchanging an understanding smile with Laura. “And for your information, I’m not a bad cook. I’m simply not good at it.”

Laura laughs as her hand rest firmly on Natasha’s shoulder. “Sure, if it makes you happy. But I’m still ready to teach you how to cook.”

“Who’s learning to cook? Can I join? I’m good with heat!” a loud voice rings, inciting optimism greetings from the Barton children.

“Miss Tutor!” Nathaniel exclaimed, pushing pass his siblings. “Did you learn a new trick yet?”

From the kitchen, Natasha witness the scene unfold. Heavy coat hanging on sturdy arm, along with several Christmas themed paper bags. You weren’t aware of her wary eyes on you, but simply allowing the young boy to drag you away.

“That’s Miss Y/n, she’s the new tutor,” Laura explained. “Don’t scare her off,” she pointed, eyebrows raised and waiting for a tolerable answer.

Natasha shrugs her shoulder indifferently. “We’ll see.”

An elbow on the table, her cheek comfortably resting on the palm of her hand, she observes you from afar. The warm air of the Barton’s house calmed her scorching curiosity and aid her into watching than instantly falling into her customary interrogation routine.

You were a young woman, painfully donned in simple attire, flashing a bright smile that triggered waves of grins in return, and a noticeable flair in your movement. Seemingly accustomed to your environment, hand extending precisely when one of the snow globes rolls off the table, then another guiding young Nathaniel’s paint brush.

“Go join them.”

Natasha doesn’t meet her friend’s gaze. “Where did you find Miss Tutor?”

Clint huffed. “You do know that I don’t allow just anyone here, right?

There’s a hint of offence and tease in his tone. Natasha spiritedly slaps his arm, “I know, old man. There’s just something about her.”

“She seems to really know herself around here, uh? And she’s pretty too…” he added the last part hastily, and smile victoriously as his friend nods, gaze captivated on you.

Natasha became lost in contemplation of your modest state. Perhaps, a part of her mind could agree, you were indeed pretty, and whereas the other, solicits to obtain your motive. Someone that kind, attractive, good with children, eyes glimmering beneath fairy lights so enchantingly—

I don’t trust her, said in disdain groan, and more when she’s dragged into the hall room, compelled into joining their yearly tradition of decorating the Christmas tree.

“Natasha, meet Miss Y/n,” Clint introduced, persuasively nudging his friend’s shoulder towards your direction.

A friendly smile curves on your lips. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” the greeting fell gentlely from your mouth. The brush left deserted on the table as your hand extend to shake hers.

Natasha gawked at your hand. Red paint was smeared on your hand, the tips of your fingers shimmered with silver glitters, and the sight mirrors those of the children around. Her stern gaze must had caught your attention when you bashfully recoiled.

“Sorry, I get carried away sometimes,” you excused, trying to remove the stained colours on the an equally stained rag. “Okay. This isn’t working out. Yelena, please take over?” you presumedly stood, “Do not go overboard.”

Yelena scoffed. “I will never. Tell that to Kate Bishop.”

The exchange appeared habitual which vexes her. Why were you familiar with her younger sister? How dare you straightforwardly have things in order? Who allowed you to signal her into following you? And why was she soundlessly trailing behind you towards the kitchen?

“I’m sorry for not introducing myself earlier,” you glanced at her, a nervous smile on your face before diverting your attention to the sink. “Hmm, the water’s pretty cold.”

She attentively watches the movement of your hands beneath the tap, scrubbing as though you were removing something far worse than paint, then turning the tap off and lathering your hands with soap. The fragrance of lavender reaches her nostril. You carefully clean the crook and corners of your hands, even beneath your nails.

Most don’t do that—it must mean something awful.

“Who are you?”

The question halted your movement. “Didn’t think you’d start so soon.”

Natasha frowned. “Excuse me—”

“Let’s go for a walk and you can ask me everything,” you continued washing your hands. “Clint warned me so, I’m prepared,” and you turned around, crossing your arms as you lean back on the counter.

She doesn’t like it. The utmost confidence in your stance. A delight glint in your round eyes. Where the faux white light in the kitchen, cast a mysterious glow upon your head.

“Should we go?” you thumb pointed towards the door, and she nodded her head.

Natasha was astonished to find your good-mannered act of pushing the door open, and gesturing for her to walk forward first, then closing the door behind. The cold wind dispirits herself from what’s bound to ensue after questioning you, because she rather engulf herself in a warm blanket and watch her sister’s tantrum with children much younger than her.

But she demands to know your intentions.

As the distance expands, the Christmas melody and murmurs of conversation fades. Natasha contemplate each step you took beside her. The twitch of your fingers, as if you were reaching for something, then the subtle glance towards her, like you needed to know if she was still there.

“In there,” Natasha pointed towards the barn and you undoubtedly obeyed.

The barn tracks an earthy scent. Inside, it’s almost dark, if not for the moon’s soft obscured glow through the windows. An eerie silent emits from lack of voices and more so, the buzzes of insects. Several pieces of Christmas ornaments were chaotically thrown around. Tinsels hanging awkwardly from the window to the length of an extensive timber. Miniature reindeers hanging from fish strings that gives off an illusion of flying reindeers. It was absolutely the work of her God children.

Natasha stealthily admired the decoration and doesn’t utter a word. She looked at the dirty ground, walked around the barn, frowned at the disheartened look on your face as you shivered.

“Okay, I’m ready, hit me,” you professed, taking a seat on the nicely kept hay. “Not literally though. This is my favourite top.”

She casted a vague wandering look upon your supposed favourite top which was, expectedly, smeared with paint. Then, a playful smile widespread on your face, because you were joking, and she didn’t catch on.

“No.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “No?”

Natasha crossed her arms, standing straight and robust, with a strict complexion and an unspoken warning that blaze dangerously in her eyes. One wrong move and there would be consequences.

“Clint never had help around here. So, suddenly, you’re here? Come on, cut the shit. Who are you working for?” Natasha voiced sternly, and takes a taunting step forward, while you gulped, appearing afraid.

“Clint did not— sorry— whoa, you’re really into this and—” a shaky voice resonates in your throat, and it’s different than your lively voice she had heard before.

You averted your gaze from Natasha, and it troubled her, who, nevertheless, still viewed your characteristic as suspicious. When you ceased speaking and meeting her gaze with those eyes gleaming in excitement, she warily takes a step forward, at arm length from you.

A deep intake of breath, then it’s soft, but it’s clear, the chuckles that came from you.

“That’s what you expected me to say? Wallow in fear before the great Black Widow?”

Natasha doesn’t bother to hear more as she acted on reflex. The swift grasps of a dagger hidden in her black boots, and she lurched forward, her arm pushes your down from between your neck and chest. More pressure and your breathing circulation would had be disturbed, or a heavy ache would tremble in your chest. While her right hand readily held the danger close to your cheek, despite its petite size, the glint of sharpness makes you shudder.

“Okay! I give in! Clint bet me that I wouldn’t dare— why does this knife look so cute and dangerous— he said I wouldn’t dare challenge you!”

She paused, challenging eyes scrutinise every single reaction on your face to where your eyes flickers to her then the dagger and how your body struggled pathetically beneath her hold.

In the distance, she perfectly distinguishes the song of Silent Night plucking at her brain. It’s Christmas and I’m doing this, where’s the fucking break?

“Who sent you? What’s your name?”

You coughed, trying to ease the pressure brought upon your throat at her assault. But she was relentless and entirely too strong.

“What does Tutor stand for Miss Tutor? I would not hesitate to end you. Answers me!”

What she had expected—wasn’t the flutter of laughter or her heart’s sudden interest to hear more of that unique sound, and the way your smile seems ample to submerge her mind into that sound. It’s unconventional. Natasha expected to prod into your mind, gather needed information, and detent your further danger on the Barton family.

But you were bursting in surprises when you swiftly pushed her backwards, then tackled her on the hay that was once uncomfortably scratching your clothed back. The dagger fell from her hand at the sudden attack. Russian curses spew from her mouth while your eyes widened curiously, then a gentle smile curves on your lips.

“You don’t speak Russian much,” you noted with interested. “Angry or whatever, really, it’s nice to hear you speaking your mother tongue.”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed. “You speak Russian?”

“Among other languages. I am a tutor as in Miss Tutor. Tutoring…someone who tutors people.”

Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. Natasha doesn’t like that—the indifferent in your voice, like she wasn’t holding you down before and expecting answers than be held down in return and carelessly at that, because she could easily switch her position.

But she wanted to know.

“Clint did really bet me though. I’m sorry for not being more exciting and cooler, but just really reckless,” you humoured, “But I’m kind of liking this position. It feels like I’m all powerful. Yelena’s not wrong about the whole superhero thing.”

Natasha lifted her head, “Yelena? How do you know her?” she pushes you off her, “Why do you know my sister?”

You raised your hands as she takes threatening steps towards you. “We met when she came over with Kate and I was tutoring the kids.”

“Who are you?”

The question spat angrily from her mouth, and yours wide, unable to utter an answer back that would avoid any sort of violence. Natasha arched her eyebrow, still giving you a final chance. One second passed then two, three, and the fourth befell upon you with her harsh shove and your back pressed on brittle wood.

However, you refused submitting to her brutality. The abrupt shove of your hands emits a warmth, a scarlet tint canvassing your skin and cheeks, vast different from the tone of your skin. It leaves her shocked, gasping as her hands smoothens over her clothed collarbone.

“What the hell,” she glared, while you snickered.

“Oh come, it’s Christmas! Let’s toast some marshmallow and not ourselves,” you jested, “Burned human flesh…isn’t really appealing.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched. Anger flairs dangerously in her eyes, heart blazing with passion to eliminate a supposed threat, and she rose, readily staggering towards you.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop! That’s enough! Cool down kid!”

Amber flame flickers through the width of your hands, reflecting hauntingly in your eyes, and your rigid stance. But a coy smile was smeared teasingly over your lips, and she’s angrily glaring at you.

“Ha! You owe me Kate Bishop.”

Natasha glance to where several bodies were huddled together by the barn’s door. Yelena was contentedly taking cash from Kate, while Clint shakes his head and pushed them aside as he stepped entirely into the barn.

“Natasha, Miss Tutor is not lying. She’s a good kid. We put her up to it. Please, stop, everyone,” the latter part pointed accusingly at the two friends arguing in the back. “Y/n isn’t bad news. Just trying to have a second chance in life, like you, like Yelena, and she’s not bad,” he breathed out.

“What?” Natasha was baffled. “You pranked me. You fucking pranked me? Thing one and thing two was in it too?”

Bunch of heys resonates in response, and Clint nods his head.

Natasha takes a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Then, she meets your gaze. “You’re cool?”

The flames in your hands extinguishes swiftly and you waved them with a jovial smile. “Very cool.”

“Ugh, their dropping puns now. Let’s go,” Yelena assured her friend, and gave a pointed look at Clint. “Old man, your children are waiting for you.”

Clint huffed. “Don’t burn anything down.”

As the group walked away, Natasha relaxed the tense in her muscles and you watched her with that aggravating glint in your eyes.

“If it makes you feel better, Kate was sure that you would had attacked me the second I walked in,” you pursed your lips, the next words seeming complicated for you to utter. “But I’m fifty dollar richer cause I said you wouldn’t, and we’ll do this in private, which Clint disagree— they just assume you’d find target and hit.”

Natasha restrained the smile on her face as she watches your commitment on proving them wrong. The motion of your hands, eyes widening when your speech stretches to different part, and maybe, for a fleeting second, she was admiring the spark within you which seems to spread warmth.

Not just the abrupt flairs of fire, but the person that you were—not exactly bad, just someone she doesn’t know.

At that moment, she overhears the melodious voices of her family and the tunes of Christmas dispersed delight in her chest. And you, seemingly standing there, staring at her, waiting for something else to be said or happen.

“It’s cold,” you murmured.

Natasha smiles—her famous lopsided smile blooming gleefully on her face, and you were shocked, then you’re smiling just as wide. She remained there, few minutes of facing each other, and without a word, she takes steps towards the exit.

“Hey, you dropped this,” you hastily reached her side. The dagger held softly in your hand and she takes it, the feeble graze of skins made you shiver, and she hasn’t stop smiling.

You were warm, and she was cold, and it felt as though, this puzzle was meant to unite like this.

“Oh look,” you lifted your gaze upwards, a shy smile adorning on your lips as she follows your gaze.

A mistletoe dangles above heads, brilliant green and red, so lively and teasing those who falls beneath.

Natasha couldn’t ignored it, the thumping in her chest, your warmth body close to hers, the anger that was reduce to something—it’s different, and she wouldn’t dare admit, but she likes the feeling spreading through her chest and where her fingers twitches.

And you appeared the same, bashful smile, the secretive look in your eyes that she understood. Why does she understand you?

It takes her one deep breath, your curious look, the dagger thoughtlessly kept in her pocket, and her hands grasps your face. She contemplated the idea of a silly tradition, then, in one sudden move, she pressed her body into yours and crushes her lips over yours.

You made a noise, giving into her touch. Words weren’t exchanged, just the knowing touch and a needed silence. Your hands rest firmly on her waist, gripping her clothed flesh as you allow your body to slack into hers, and she’s holding you close.

Natasha leans away first, while you hazily chased after her—wanting to feel her more, a hunger that erupts in your chest for her, and she finds it funny that you were readily giving into her.

“You are really warm,” she whispered, her thumb pressed at the edge of your lip, and trails her thumb to where your chin ends. “You got my attention,” she pats your chest softly, then removes herself entirely.

“What?”

The ardent glow of night casted an attractive gleam over your face, and hers, each other admiring the sight adoringly. Natasha doesn’t wish to risk ruining a truly, joyful moment, so she extended her hand for you take and hummed when you easily accepted.

Beside her, you were giddily smiling, fingers firmly enclosing around hers. “I love Christmas.”

The cold evening propels chills on skin, while smiles spread and hearts pulses happily. Natasha glances at you, once, twice, and each time overcomes her with a certain joy, perhaps, this was the so-called Christmas magic that flutters in her chest.

The smiles on those she loves, her sister already waiting by the door with a cheeky expression, the children that she swore to love and protect, and you—a stranger she finds herself completely drawn to.

And when the next year arrives in its merry cheers, Natasha gleefully introduced you as her wife, and kissed you as though, life was bursting colourfully at every second her lips met yours.

And that—a mistletoe that was securely kept in her pocket for the years after.

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

Had a busy couple weeks, but here I am, returning to @bengiyo’s queer cinema syllabus. I am currently working my way through Unit 4: Heartbreak Alley, the totally light-hearted, definitely not agonizing section of the syllabus where I get to watch countless acts of violence be committed against queer people. Thank fuck I have Lesbians waiting for me at the end of this unit. The films in Unit 4 are: Bent (1997), Strange Fruit (2004), Boys Don’t Cry (1999), Brokeback Mountain (2005), Parting Glances (1986), Philadelphia (1993), The Living End (1992), Holding the Man (2015), Jeffery (1995), and Boys on the Side (1995).

Today I will be writing about

Strange Fruit (2004) dir. Kyle Schickner

[Run Time: 88 min, Available: had to purchase a DVD, Language: English]

Content Warning: lynching, racism, homophobia, rape, violence/gore

Summary: A New York attorney must return home to Louisiana to investigate the death of a childhood friend who, like Boyals himself, was both black and gay. 

Cast: 

Kyle Faulcon as William Boyals

Berlinda Tolbert as Emma Ayers

__

Well.

First of all, I guess, a thank you to @bengiyo is in order for discovering that Strange Fruit was available on DVD so that I was actually able to watch it. This has joined the likes of Mysterious Skin on my ‘definitely something I needed to watch, but can probably never watch again” list. 

I want to warn anyone that is considering finding this film and watching it that it starts with a lynching. I…. I’m not sure I have the words. Not to get too real on main, but I have some pretty major trauma related to hangings, and I am just desperately glad that I did not watch this last week, as that was the anniversary and I am not confident I would have been able to finish this film. As it is I have been sitting in complete and utter silence since finishing the movie because a) holy shit b) the rope burns on his neck c) holy shit. 

How do you watch a film like this knowing that lynchings still happen all the time? How do you watch a film where a gay Black man in a small, rural country town is brutally beaten, raped with a branch, and hung from a tree on screen while knowing that just last week a Black man was found hanging from a tree in a small, rural country town? For a movie that was filmed on a budget of only $250,000 (according to Wikipedia, the director was offered 6 million if he didn’t make the lead character both Black and gay and he turned it down) it is absolutely packed with very important, nuanced social commentary around queerness, around race, around homophobia in general and homophobia within the Black community specifically, around how the police uphold power, around the relationship between intellectualism and the South, and around how the queer community survives. 

(sorry for the abysmal photo quality, there are no photos of this film and I watched it on my TV so I was not able to take screen shots)

For as cheaply as it was made it packs a motherfucking punch let me tell you, watching Kelvin scream for help, call for his mother, was just gut wrenching. Watching William desperately plead with the Black men who were lynching him not to do so because they were perpetuating the cycle of violence done by white men to black men not that long ago. How some Black men were fine with that because Kelvin, because William were faggots. How others killed themselves when the dust settled, understanding the realities of what they had done. The speech at the grocery story between Mrs. Ayers and Mrs. Boyals about how desperately Mrs. Ayers had wanted to disown Kelvin for being gay and how grateful she was that she hadn’t because she lost Kelvin too young. 

The way small town loyalties and small town fears intersect, Matthew being so grateful that William protected him all the way back in fifth grade that he went against the orders of the other cops to tell William everything he knew, and how he was so afraid to be considered a homosexual if he stood up for a queer man. The way Sheriff Jensey was a racist, homophobic piece of flaming dog shit who still was doing everything he could to prevent people from knowing his nephew was gay. How he was reduced to ground meat for it. (Though, he can die, I have no remorse for him whatsoever). The way Mrs. Ayers calls out the fact that William can pass as straight but Kelvin couldn’t. The way that the queer community was silent in the wake of Kelvin’s death because that was the only way to guarantee the survival of community pillars. The fact that there was no new coverage of Kelvin’s death that we could see, but when the white man was lynched, there were news trucks all over the place because someone in power was affected. 

And perhaps my favorite example, Duane, who refuses to step foot in a gay bar for fear of looking gay when he first starts investigating his brother’s murder with William who is ready to throw hands at Sheriff Jensey’s nephew when he makes a homophobic comment, putting his parole at risk, who ends the film driving around in William’s rental car which has the word Faggot spray painted on the back. The way he was angry at William for the stupid, elitist shit he was saying, about how everyone in Louisiana had an IQ below 80, how he refused to call this place his home anymore. Duance handled those moments so beautifully. There are so many important scenes in this film, I don’t think I can count this one as my favorite, but I do need to acknowledge how happy I was that Strange Fruit let a Black man cry on screen. Like, so much of Kelvin’s murder, and William’s attempted murder was incredibly upsetting, but I felt very deep in my soul the pain, the grief, the nausea that Duane must have been feeling looking at the memorial to his brother at his murder site. 

I know because (again to get too real) for every day for months after my hanging related trauma I had to walk past a memorial for the person who passed, and let me tell you that shit was fucking brutal. 

There is so much more that could be said about this movie, but genuinely, I cannot find the words. The production team knew what they were doing when they didn’t put a backing track on the end credits, opting for a silence that was interrupted by only the chirping of crickets. Because that is what this movie is, that is what this movie does. I am not exaggerating when I say that the only thing I could do for thirty minutes after the screen went to black, was just sit on my couch, frozen, and feel the weight of the silence around me. 

Favorite Moment 

I talked about this a bit above but my favorite moment in Strange Fruit is when Mrs. Ayers and Mrs. Boyals run in to each other in the supermarket and Mrs. Ayers gives a very passive aggressively polite talking to to Mrs. Boyals about her homophobia, trying to get her to go back on her decision to disown William after finding out he was gay. I do think it is vitally important that we get a scene where a mother of a queer son, who just lost her child because of it, is able to admit that she struggled with his sexuality, that she desperately wanted to be rid of Kelvin, that she desperately wanted to forget he even existed. The way she was spared from having a major regret in her life because she ultimately did not do that. She lost Kelvin when he was too young, she understands at a cellular level the precious nature of time, and how easily it can be squandered and she is trying to spare Mrs. Boyals from that pain. I appreciate it strikes enough of a chord with Mrs. Boyals that she attempts to visit William at the hospital, even if ultimately she is not able to make it through the doorway to his room. 

Favorite Quote

“See that’s the thing about the bayou, no matter how much you try to push it back ‘ventually it’s gonna claim what belong to it. This is where you from man. This is where home is. Don’t matter how many degrees you got, you country.”

As a Southerner who did flee North, Duane’s words are still ring true. Even when my home state wants to dispose of people like me, even when states I have called home express their hatred of people like me, there is still a part of me that feels the emptiness of being away from home. I miss the mangroves, I miss the mountains, I miss the food, I miss the people I love who love me. It feels impossible to have the type of community I had back home up where I am now, and I am trying as hard as I can to cultivate it. I just love this line so much because I think it is important to remember where you came from, especially because William just before this was insulting the intelligence of people in the South, his people, from his home. I’m really glad he apologized for that. 

Score

8.5/10

If this was a grade based on just emotional manipulation, the film would get a 10 cause...fuck. But structurally I think it's probably like a 7 or an 8 so I am gonna give it an 8.5.

[accidentalshifter]

Vampire Diaries/Originals-verse [Dawn Misplaced] DR:

⚜️ TW: My Mikaelsons are a ✨️ problem ✨️ and how they behave (or don't) will probably be unpredictable. Blood, sex, death, abuse, violence, & dark themes. I don't condone any of their actions, I'm just documenting them for science.

*Some things from previous posts might be reiterated upon in this one. Y'all this is super TLDR, be warned.

It's impossible to talk about this DR without talking about the unfinished fanfiction that sprang into my brain last year and refused to die; "Dawn Misplaced". After watching half a season of the Originals & relating heavily to the Mikaelson's generational trauma/cycles, this plot bunny appeared, assuring me that I should totally sin against the canon & create an alternate universe before I watched all of the source material...

So, William Webb and his adopted daughter Zoey St. Claire (Webb) was born. My OC had so much of myself inside of her that she was technically a self-insert or in shifting theory, a DR self. And William, now that I think hard about it, is probably a representation of my own generational trauma that I saw playing out in the show. Ahh, apologies for reading too much into that. Anyways!

Keep in mind that I had only watched season one and two of the Originals (and half of the first season of Vampire Diaries) before Zoey self-insert brain rot took full effect. Little did I know that many of my plot ideas for Dawn Misplaced ended up being explored by TVD in season three/four via Alaric Saltzman and The 5. (It was a trip watching those episodes for the first time recently with a friend) Like Alaric, William was a vampire hunter forced into action by tragedy & succumbed to the dark obsession inside of him that urged him to kill vampires at all costs. There's only one real difference between Alaric and William's slaying methods; killing innocent kids. Alaric at least had some sort reasonable criteria for who he'd murder. William Webb, on the other hand, was willing to slaughter a whole damn orphanage if it meant putting a stake in the vampire menace forever.

Zoey St. Claire was one of the seven children who managed to survive William's slaughter. Although, he insists it was a "necessary evil" for his experiment to work. You see, he'd run across a very old book that his ancestor, Will Webb (the first) had written, documenting a ritual meant to create a super slayer. A living weapon. Just as strong, fast, invulnerable to compulsion, and able to withstand a beating from a vampire. But was more intended for the sole purpose of killing The Originals. Yes, my DR self is fighting her intense instinct to murder her neighbors. (Are you getting that FNAF vibe? William Webb=TVD Purple Guy).

Basically, it's the Missing Children Incident all over again.

My super slayer idea was real close if not the same as "The Five." Of course, I'll never know because all Dawn Misplaced ended up being was this:

As I mentioned in previous posts, the waking dreams started with that simple plot bunny and did not stop. Growing a life all their own despite my best efforts to starve it, uproot it, and purge it from my memories. I've written other fanfics before, abandoning them when I eventually lost my muse, but this one? Like a vampire, refuses to die.

Half a year is a long ass time to keep having intrusive minishifts, so. My friend in fandom crime suggested I should give into my delulu and start yanking back on the tugs. Even if it is just all in my head.

Now, I'm not new to shifting practices. Since my childhood days locked in a bedroom, I've been super good at dissociating & exploring different realities within my dreamworld. But that's just it isn't it? This DR isn't really mine. Sure, the Dawn Misplaced elements of it are. Will and Zoey are. The rest of it, though? It's built upon a foundation I didn't lay. It's a sum total of the books, the TV series, & all of the dreamers who've dreamt of the Mikaelsons. Of course it's resistant to scripting and has a life of its own. I'm only one singular drop in a pond.

It's like...

So, while I can't control what the characters will do or the scenarios that'll unfold once I begin shifting to [Dawn Misplaced DR], I can control how I choose to react. I'll have to be more cunning than the plot. The only thing I seem to do okay with is "I'm back in my CR" and (recently) which location I get dropped into. Mystic Falls or The French Quarter. Idk, maybe I'm just a bad shifter even if I've been doing it for a while...

I'm going to have to be more stubborn than the sum total of the fandom itself.

*Using the Taglock Method has been helping me somewhat in focusing.

However, here's the scripts that I HOPE I can get to work:

⚜️ While in DR, I share the strengths & skills of Zoey St. Claire (Webb) as a slayer.

⚜️ Using Taglock Method bound to an epoxy ring I wear both in my CR and DR, I can eject myself from the DR when taking off the ring and enter it when wearing the ring. (This one seems to work)

⚜️ All houses owned by William Webb are a safe spot. (This one should work because it cooperates with TVD/Originals canon)

⚜️ Retain memories of CR self while in DR. (As long as I'm doing awake daydreaming, I seem to be able to do that)

...And what about an s/o, you say? 🫠 I think I've got bigger fish to fry. I'm not going to try and force anything to happen if it even does. After all, I'm no Elena Gilbert! Trying to date in the "real world" is already hard enough...

Additional BONUS LORE for DM that may or may not become relevant because my DR is an unruly child and it was only just ideas I'd casually thrown around in my brain for the fanfic:

⚜️ William Webb (the first) was an exorcist priest for the Vatican. His journals document the various "demonic spirits" he expelled and eventually spiraled into unhinged ranting. On the surface, at least. William Webb (the later) was able to decipher the super slayer ritual from these journals with the help of a witch probably.

⚜️ Either William Webb (the first or the later) was ex-communicated by the church for his inappropriate use of witchcraft against "the demonic spirits." He's become a boogeyman (much like Mikael) with a bad reputation that has preceded him and casts a shadow on all the Webbs.

⚜️ TVD/Originals seems to have werewolves and vampires, vengeful ghosts, witches, and hybrids. Along with doppelgangers & magic miracle babies. But what I noticed it doesn't have is angels. The seedling concept for my DR's super slayers are humans possessed by the blood & flesh of the archangel they were forced by William Webb to eat. Kind of have a zombie vibe to them, huh??? Can you tell I probably have religious trauma, LOL?

⚜️ William Webb's descendants eventually made their way to the new world during the time the Originals were in New Orleans and mingled within the same circles. The Webbs later settled down in Mystic Falls working as textile merchants of European fashions. You kinda gotta do what you can when you stop benefiting from the Roman Catholic church.

⚜️ While not technically a "founding family," the Webbs do possess a spot on the Mystic Falls council. For once, the shadow of their ancestor's legend pays off big time for them. Especially in a town plagued by real "demonic spirits." Originally, I thought the Webbs were ex-communicated from the town council but my first controlled shift (yesterday) into my DR revealed that wasn't the case. See what I mean by the DR choosing which bonus lore it wants to validate?

⚜️ In TVD/Originals it's mentioned that each and every supernatural creature in Universe must have a set of strengths/weaknesses. I had originally planned that my super slayers were disabled by sulfur, solar eclipses, and had a tendency to "go corrupt" if they broke an angelic virtue. However, what an angelic virtue is is open to interpretation. It likely is similar to what Dark!Alaric was.

⚜️ Elijah Mikaelson and a descendant of Will Webb knew each other. Elijah was interested in the journals of William Webb (the first) for whatever reason. Intrigue, maybe? Or maybe something more serious than that...

⚜️ The most recent William Webb (the later) hid his super slayer project from the Mystic Falls council. The majority of them, at least. I'm almost certain that if he told anybody at all, it was probably John Gilbert. Hell, given John's attitude and medical knowledge, he might've been in on it with William.

⚜️ William Webb (the later) raised the seven surviving kids to be hunting machines. Zoey is the last one standing who didn't corrupt & chose to turn her back on William at the age of 15, emancipating herself (legally) as soon as she could to live a "normal life." D.M. was going to take place after William's untimely death where Zoey St. Claire must return to Mystic Falls to settle her father's accounts and do something with the property she has now inherited.

⚜️ Zoey has vague, fleeting memories of her childhood in Mystic Falls. She (alongside her 6 other "siblings") only experienced a couple of years living there "peacefully" in the Webb estate before William took them on the road to hunt. Zoey was homeschooled much like the Umbrella Academy kids. It's nebulous at best whether Zoey (or the 6 other kids) ever met Elena in their childhood much less any other character living in Mystic Falls.

⚜️ Unlike her six siblings, Zoey never took to slaying vampires half as fervently as William wanted her to and rejected his doctrine soon after witnessing the corruption of the eldest of her siblings during a vampire hunt. Being a deserter earned her no points from Will or the rest of the Webb family. She is now more likely to sympathize with vampires than side with hunters despite her awkward position of being the last remaining Webb, having to be present for council meetings for as long as she is stuck in Mystic Falls settling Will's legal accounts, estates, & the things he left her in his will.

Some last, finalizing thoughts on this TLDR, DR Intro before I start actually documenting my shifts...

In my last post, I said it was all real. Shifting is real and it's really happening. Somewhere. And that somewhere is inside of me as well as outside of me as an objective reality all its own. Theoretically.

I wanna add a "yes, and" to this theory for the preservation of what little sanity I have left...

Yes, it's all real. And I'm pretty sure the thing that forged this pull, this...link...to the TVD & Originals-verse was/is my shitty childhood. I see a lot of my own family trauma inside the story of the Mikaelsons and the Salvatores. I think that by exploring this link and allowing it to show me things, the adventure I plan to embark on might give me an opportunity to reflect on my wounds. Maybe even heal...

If it's all real, then confronting my DR-self's trauma could help me find closure with my CR-self's trauma as well. And if I get to have anything from this experience, I'd like it to be healing.

It's a good thing I'm a vampire slayer then, right?

[go-to-the-mirror]

Becoming a Fear Entity Avatar in The Magnus Archives, and Trauma

The characters who become monsters – or avatars – in The Magnus Archives also become something else: traumatised. The Magnus Archives, a horror fiction podcast written by Jonathan “Jonny” Sims tackles nuanced topics such as personality change and addiction due to trauma, as well as the perpetuation of the cycle of violence, through the lens of becoming an avatar.

Personality change is hypothesised to be a symptom of trauma, specifically childhood and complex trauma (Rutkowski et al.) (Taycan and Yildirim). Helen is a formerly human character in The Magnus Archives who gave a statement of her supernatural experience to the Magnus Institute but was taken and transformed into the same monster which took her (Sims, “MAG 47”) (Sims, “MAG 101”). Helen is the character with the most drastic change when she becomes a monster, as even the fact that she was ever Helen is called into question, because of the way the Distortion, the creature that she has turned into, functions. Helen’s transformation into monsterhood is directly paralleled, by the Archivist’s. Both she and the Archivist are afraid or are stated to be afraid of what they are becoming and what them becoming means for their identity.

ARCHIVIST. You’re still wearing her face. HELEN. Not this again. I’m not “wearing” anything, Archivist. I am at least as much ‘Helen Richardson’ as you are the ‘Jonathan Sims’ that first joined this Institute. Things change. People change. It happens. ARCHIVIST. We’re not people, though, are we? Not anymore (Sims, “MAG 131”).

This dialogue is after the Archivist chooses to wake up from a six-month coma by sacrificing his humanity. He is having a difficult time coping with his loss of humanity, as evidenced by this quote. Both Helen and the Archivist use different titles to their actual name, the Distortion instead of Helen and the Archivist instead of Jonathan Sims. The Archivist’s acceptance of his title is directly correlated to his monstrosity, as he begins to call himself “Jonathan Sims, the Archivist” in his introductions to reading statements only after he chooses to become a monster (Sims, “MAG 122”). Additionally, he is called only “the Archivist” in the description of episode 142 – an episode mainly about the Archivist’s growing monstrosity – and throughout season 5, when he is much less human than he was in seasons 1 to 4 (Sims, “MAG 142”). In this quote, the Archivist and Helen use their names as shorthand for their identity, and their identity changing as they became monsters.

DAISY. And of course, for John there’s survivor’s guilt in there too. He thinks he’s not human. Makes him very... self-destructive. MARTIN. Yeah, well, we’ve all had trauma. DAISY. And everyone’s changed (Sims, “MAG 142”).

This dialogue takes place during episode 142, immediately after Martin, a main character and the Archivist’s boyfriend from episode 159 and beyond, takes the statement of one of the Archivist’s victims, a woman named Jess Tirrell who was forced to recount her traumatising supernatural experience to him (Sims, “MAG 142”). The Archivist’s friend and former supernaturally influenced corrupt cop, Daisy, has no idea that the Archivist has been hunting for victims. She is discussing the Archivist’s decision to go to a Norwegian town to stop the potential end of the world due to a ritual planned by a cult based there (Sims, “MAG 142”). Martin is worried about the Archivist and does not understand why he repeatedly puts his life in danger for seemingly no credible reason (Sims, “MAG 142”). Daisy explains that the Archivist is suffering from trauma, survivor’s guilt, and a belief that he is not human, which makes him believe he does not deserve to live (Sims, “MAG 136”) (Sims, “MAG 142”). Due to the context of this episode, Daisy is unknowingly referring to the Archivist’s change into the kind of person who would perpetuate the cycle of violence and harm an innocent bystander at a café. The Archivist’s personality changes due to becoming a fear entity avatar are equated with the personality changes that come from the many traumatising events he has experienced. This is most notable in episode 142, when both Daisy and Martin are commenting on the Archivist’s changes, though Daisy’s perspective is of the Archivist’s guilt and feelings of inhumanity, and Martin’s perspective is of his victimisation of innocent people and repeated, unexplained, self-destructive actions.

            Many avatars go through a similar change to the Archivist, beginning their journey to become a monster due to a traumatic event or events. For example, Daisy Tonner – a corrupt detective who killed many, both monsters and people, while working for the police – experienced a traumatic event when she was eleven years old, when her friend was influenced by the supernatural and attacked her (Sims, “MAG 82”). This directly led her to becoming an avatar, as her former friend was the first human she killed (Sims, “MAG 82”). This parallels the Archivist’s reasons for working at the Magnus Institute. The Archivist had an encounter with a giant spider monster when he was eight years old that ended up eating his childhood bully (Sims, “MAG 81”). Trauma is linked to becoming an avatar, connecting to the hypothesis that victims are likely to become victimisers, also known as the cycle of violence. The Magnus Archives also tackles the abuse of power, and how this relates to the cycle of violence. In season 5, the Archivist gains significantly more power over other avatars, and uses this power to kill the avatars who hurt him in previous seasons. At first, Martin encourages this, seeing the Archivist killing avatars as a righteous quest for vengeance, however in episode 174, the Archivist decides not to kill an avatar, who, notably, had not hurt the Archivist, but had hurt Martin (Sims, “MAG 166”) (Sims, “MAG 174”).

ARCHIVIST. I just— This whole... avenging angel thing, I, I'm not… It doesn't feel right. MARTIN. (With a humourless laugh) It seemed to feel right when we were avenging all the wrongs done against you. ARCHIVIST. I-I know. I, I, I know, alright? But well ah—That's kind of the problem; I-I have all this power, and, and I, I want to use it totry to help, but I — (under breath) I don't know — (normal) I mean, I do. (emotional) I-I've done so much damage, and- and anything that might help to balance that is— (composed) But killing other avatars is, is not— I, I don't think it makes anything better. I think it just makes me worse (Sims, “MAG 174”).

This quote is from a conversation between Martin and the Archivist. Martin asks the Archivist to kill Simon Fairchild, an avatar who threatened to throw Martin off a rollercoaster. The Archivist feels guilty over his role in perpetuating the suffering of billions of people and wants to make it up as best he can, however he recognises that making more people suffer is not fixing the situation. Martin is angry as well, and he too is perpetuating the cycle of violence by encouraging the Archivist to take revenge on both the Archivist’s and his victimisers. The Archivist’s acknowledgement of the fact that killing other avatars is repeated back to him in episode 194, where Martin corelates the Archivist’s satisfaction in seeing his victimisers suffer with the desire that the supernatural entity that made him into an avatar, The Eye, gives him to replace the main antagonist of The Magnus Archives in the Panopticon, which would grant him immeasurable power (Sims, “MAG 194”).

MARTIN. I know what it’s like to be powerless. A-and I know you do too. And I also know what it’s like once you get a taste of— wh-when you’re finally able to— ARCHIVIST. That’s not what this is! MARTIN. I’ve been out there with you. I saw the kick you got out of making them scream for once. ARCHIVIST. (Snarky) What happened to “Kill Bill”? MARTIN. You weren’t meant to enjoy it this much! ARCHIVIST. Why won’t you believe me when I say that this isn’t something I want to do? MARTIN. Because I saw your face when we walked into that room! (Despondent) That wasn’t fear, it, it wasn’t even anger. It was envy. And it scared me more than anything else I’ve seen (Sims, “MAG 194”).

This quote takes place during an argument between the Archivist and Martin. The Archivist believes that right course of action is to take his place in the Panopticon and try to make the world fairer to the billions of people he trapped in eternal torment. Martin believes that this desire is borne out of the Archivist’s self-sacrificial, and oftentimes suicidal, tendencies, in addition to his feeling of empowerment when those who have victimised him suffer at his hand. During season 5, the Archivist perpetuates the cycle of violence, due to desires that originate from trauma, and desires that originate from the supernatural entity influencing his mind. These desires are often equated, and it is unknown where one begins and the other ends. This is especially apparent in episode 174 and 194, where both the Archivist and Martin recognise that his revenge on other avatars and desire to take his place in the Panopticon is borne of a desire not to feel powerless or guilty, emotions often seen in trauma survivors.

            The Magnus Archives is influenced by the writer, Jonny Sims’, personal experiences and fears regarding addiction (@jonnywaistcoat). This is apparent in the Archivist’s hunger for statements and its in-text parallels to addiction (Sims, “MAG 107”). The Archivist experiences both supernatural and mundane addiction, relapsing in his smoking addiction in episode 80, and struggling with his addiction to statements in season 3 and 4 (Sims, “MAG 80”).

GEORGIE. So, what? You were just packing this away? ARCHIVIST. Georgie, I just, I needed to do one more. GEORGIE. I asked you not to record them here. ARCHIVIST. I’m sorry, I… I honestly forgot. It’s been a hell of a week (Sims, “MAG 93”).

This quote is from episode 93, where the Archivist and his friend, Georgie, have a confrontation regarding the Archivist’s self-destructive habits and recording statements in Georgie’s home when she asked him not to. Their conversation has parallels to a conversation regarding addiction, with the Archivist stating he “needed” to read one more statement. Self-destructive behaviours, such as risk-taking and substance abuse, are common in trauma survivors and are symptoms of PTSD. Here, the Archivist’s compulsion to record statements is directly related to the traumatising events of the past week and are implicitly connected to addiction. This becomes more explicit in season 4, particularly in episode 147.

So, I thought perhaps I should leave a little something to reassure you that, yes, your actions and your choices have all been your own. Have they been controlled? No more than gravity controls you when you walk, or hunger controls you when you choose your meal. There are certainly new forces, new instincts and desires that influence you and shape your actions. Perhaps you’re unprepared for them, but if you choose to believe in free will, then yes, all you have done has been of your own free will. They have all been your choices (Sims, “MAG 147”).

This quote is from Annabelle Cane, an avatar, in a statement, regarding the Archivist taking statements from innocent bystanders. In this quote, she compares the Archivist’s dependency on statements to a hunger, however it can and has been compared to an addiction due to the Archivist’s compulsion to take statements, and how it feels like it’s out of his control. In her statement, Annabelle states that “addiction is one of the strongest vectors of control there is” (Sims, “MAG 147”). A common stigma around addiction is that it is a choice or a moral failing, and a common result of that stigma is hiding one’s addiction and being afraid to get help (Canada). This is what the Archivist experiences throughout season 4, as he is repeatedly blamed for his choice made under duress to become an avatar, and once his addiction to statements is found out, he blamed and threatened for that as well. The Archivist’s addiction to statements is paralleled to real life ones, in how it affects the Archivist, how the Archivist and those around him view it and how it affects his morality, and its formation because of an experience that can be equated to a traumatic one.

            The Magnus Archives uses the process of becoming an avatar as an allegory for trauma and its effects. It highlights this in many ways, such as personality change because of trauma being compared to the loss of humanity that comes with being a fear entity avatar; the Archivist’s revenge on avatars who hurt him in the past as a way he perpetuates the cycle of violence; and the comparisons between mundane and supernatural addictions, both in how they directly affect the Archivist and his actions, and in how the stigma around it causes him to hide it.

Works Cited

Canada. Health Canada. “Stigma around drug use.” Canada, 2 May 2023, canada.ca/en/health-canada/services/opioids/stigma.html. Accessed 19 June 2023.

@jonnywaistcoat. “Just to say, this episode of Magnus is a lot, so please read the content warnings. A few people have asked, so I'll say that this episode mainly comes from my own experiences with addiction and the fears I associate with it and, like all of season 5, it is about fear, not truth.” Twitter, 18 June 2020, 12:38 p.m., twitter.com/jonnywaistcoat/status/1273656411025784832. Internet Archive, 7 November 2020, web.archive.org/web/20201107031909/https://twitter.com/jonnywaistcoat/status/1273656411025784832. Accessed 19 June 2023.

Rutkowski, Krzysztof, et al. "Effect of trauma onset on personality traits of politically persecuted victims." BMC Psychiatry, vol. 16, no. 149, 17 May 2016. Gale OneFile: Psychology, link.gale.com/apps/doc/A452641704/PPPC?u=ko_k12hs_d73&sid=bookmark-PPPC&xid=a8229ab3. Accessed 13 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 47 – The New Door.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 47, Rusty Quill, 12 January 2017, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag-47-the-new-door. Accessed 13 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 80 – The Librarian.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 80, Rusty Quill, 31 August 2017, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag80-thelibrarian. Accessed 19 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 81 – A Guest for Mr. Spider.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 81, Rusty Quill, 23 November 2017, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag81-aguestformr.spider. Accessed 19 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 82 – The Eyewitnesses.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 82, Rusty Quill, 30 November 2017, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag82-theeyewitnesses. Accessed 19 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 101 – Another Twist.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 101, Rusty Quill, 17 May 2018, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag101-anothertwist. Accessed 13 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 107 – Third Degree.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 107, Rusty Quill, 28 June 2018, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag107-thirddegree. Accessed 19 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 122 – Zombie.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 122, Rusty Quill, 17 January 2019, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag122-zombie. Accessed 14 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 131 – Flesh.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 131, Rusty Quill, 21 March 2019, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag131-flesh. Accessed 14 June 2023.

Sims, Jonathan. “MAG 136 – The Puppeteer.” The Magnus Archives, Episode 136, Rusty Quill, 25 April 2019, play.acast.com/s/themagnusarchives/mag136thepuppetter. Accessed 15 June 2023.

[c0rpseductor]

i complained briefly about this on twitter (“briefly,” he says. Actually i complained about it for quite some time and with vigor) but i hate that godawful website because i am a verbose autist and a tweet is only about a sentence or two long. for me. so i will try to pursue a thought about it here from beginning to end, outside of the constraints of twitter’s character limit (which is targeting me personally)

i have tried on and off for hours to get my mind off this, but i was really upset and disappointed to find out that richard siken not only did write wincest himself but seems to approve of approaching incest from the angle of sexual fantasy in general — these tweets about it are really sticking in my craw, and apparently they are from an interview he did in 2015, but the whole thing just came up again and it’s not my favorite take!

the question about consequences — and “question” is generous, i know he’s already years ago come to the conclusion that whatever consequences exist as a result of such narratives do not matter — gets me bc it’s like, dude, i KNOW what the consequences are. from experience. i have lived with them all my life.

the cycle is as such: writers portray incest as mutual sexual deviance as opposed to the reality of it being violence. literature portrays it as such, pop culture portrays it as such, fanfiction portrays it as such, it is widely discussed as such — as an example, try really thinking about how often perceived promiscuity is blamed on “daddy issues,” and what that may imply. many people never have any personal experience with incest or with survivors and come to regard it as a distant sort of kink activity, or an imaginary, almost fun and racy sort of violence that happens to a distinct class of subhuman other totally segregated from human society. survivors are blamed because the dominant cultural narrative believes they are willing participants and not victims of rape, survivors internalize shame and do not come forward. survivors often come forward to partners who find their childhood trauma (incestuous abuse is most often CSA) arousing. the online support group i frequent has a recurring problem of lurkers who use DMs to sexually harass psychologically vulnerable victims of abuse while they are in crisis. society does not take us seriously because the violence we face is seen not as violence, but as a category of pornography.

furthermore, trying to say this makes me the bad guy. to frankly and clearly state the harm perpetuated against me and others by these cultural narratives & their continuation in every aspect of life is regarded as puritanical and Orwellian. nevermind that the proliferation of such ideas & narratives and my exposure to them left me terrified that my closest friends would think i was a pervert for disclosing sexual abuse from my parents, nevermind that I spent years being told by my abusers and society at large that i’d brought it on myself, nevermind that i’m continually surrounded by that rhetoric every day and continue to have salt rubbed in the already unbelievably painful wounds — some people are criticized for publishing wincest fic in ao3, and this is the truest sort of victim; surely someone who was merely raped by his father for years could not understand the pain and martyrdom of being called an asshole online. THIS is the real concern. upholding the secret and mystique around intrafamilial sexual violence for the sake of shippers’ enjoyment of a middling CW show from 2004 is how we will fix society, no matter how many incest survivors’ dignity we must sacrifice to make it happen

anyway. i think this guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but trying to convince anyone that this stuff is even tangentially related to the experiences of real human beings who may see it and be hurt is a good deal like trying to tell people unicorns are real, in that they will laugh in your face.

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group A Round 1: #A2 vs #A7

#A2: Girls do DIY together, but after a new industrial revolution

This series takes place after the Fourth Industrial Revolution. Serufu and her childhood friend Miku/“Purin” both applied to an elite school, where advanced technologies are incorporated into the curriculum. The tech-savvy Purin is accepted into the school, but accident-prone Serufu is rejected and enters a traditional school instead, driving a wedge into their friendship.

On her way to class one day, Serufu encounters Rei, who has a passion for old-fashioned crafts and is the head of the school’s Do-It-Yourself (DIY) Club—which is in danger of closing due to a lack of members. Realizing that this may be her chance to repair her relationship with Purin, Serufu joins the club in hopes of creating projects that could bring them together once more.

#A7: Immortal being learns what it’s like to be human

This show is about an immortal being learning of death, life, and what it means to be human. They’re able to shapeshift into anything they create an emotional bond with, but with a cost: if they wish to transform into a living being, including people, that person has to have died.

Titles, propagandas, trailers, and poll under the cut!

#A2: Do it Yourself!!

Propaganda:

It’s just a really feel-good series with some really good characters. I adore all of the characters and their dynamics with each other, especially the main dynamic between Serufu and Purin as it develops. I’m a really big fan of the show’s angle on stuff such as do-it-yourself crafts following another industrial revolution, just because it does frequently bring up the question of “What’s the point of DIY if in a year or two/maybe even now a robot could recreate the exact same result?” through characters like Purin (who is the major character with the lowest opinion on these kinds of crafts at the start, since she’s in the technologically advanced school and has beliefs more in line with the efficacy of technology rather than the joy of human creation), with the short answer largely being because it’s just fun!

I first watched this show before I saw a lot of AI stuff intruding upon art and rewatching it after sure was fun, because I love its ideas on the worth of doing stuff that machinery could do much faster. It’s not super complex or emotional, but that largely goes in its favor, because it really doesn’t need to be those. It’s just a fun little anime about a bunch of girls having fun together through one shared hobby that some of them had from the start and some of them adopted. I also love the opening, and the ending is a massive comfort song for me. The series can also be very funny at points, and is usually super heartwarming.

Trigger Warnings: None.

#A7: To Your Eternity (Fumetsu no Anata e)

Propaganda:

I don’t think I’ve ever watched an anime that has meant so much. Fushi’s journey from being born as nothing and without emotions, to becoming a genuine, real person who loves and cries is so special to me. The constant war he’s in between being too human and being not human at all is written so well—for him to love so much it hurts, leading him to isolate himself for years on end, for him to want to make friends, to love, but too afraid of them leaving and eventually dying to meet anyone new. For him to get so detached from life and death and the cycle it perpetuates that he loses understanding of why human life is so special—why should he save people, if they will die anyway? Why should he save them, if he can just bring them back to life, if he can just become them? The constant cycle of him learning to love again, and learning to treasure life again, only to lose it once he’s experienced death in a new and agonizing way. It’s about love, and it’s about humanity. Always.

Trigger Warnings: Animal Cruelty/Death, Child Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Cruelty/Violence/Gore, Racism, Rape/Non-Con, Self-Harm, Suicide

All TW’s apply to the protagonists, except child abuse and the racism. The world itself has hints of racism/discrimination throughout the anime, and not directly towards the protagonist. As for the rape, an antagonist attempts to rape the protagonist. There is a ton of self harm (protagonist and side characters) and blood as there is a lot of wars also happening in the anime

If you’re reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

[anonymous-dee]

Akutagawa Thoughts...

I definitely think that Akutagawa is a misunderstood character, unless he's not and I'm just rambling for no reason LOL. Regardless, he's my favorite character so I just wanna talk about him so please hear me out! (obvious spoilers ahead)

I don't think that Akutagawa is as evil as many people may portray him as. I definitely think that Akutagawa has the potential to be a good person but he simply doesn't know how to.

HEAR ME OUT THOUGH! So obviously we know that Akutagawa's childhood was not pleasant: he grew up in the slums, where it was a dog-eat-dog world. If he wasn't constantly guarded and ready to attack at any given moment, he would lose those closest to him. He grew up in an environment where, if he didn't learn to kill others, both he and his sister would not survive. This was all that he knew, up until Dazai took him in and inducted him and Gin into the Port Mafia.

From there, what he already grew up with was enforced tenfold. Though he wasn't living in squalor anymore, he was raised in a world where killing was the only way for him to survive. Not to mention all of the trauma and the inferiority complex Dazai gave him.

While I don't think that Akutagawa should necessarily be excused for hurting Kyouka, but I also think this is an excellent example of how the cycle of abuse works. Abuse and survival are all that he has ever known, and I think that in a sense he was trying to teach Kyouka that this was how life operated in the Port Mafia. Trying to see the light, being a good person, and acting on one's feelings could very easily lead them to an early death. Think of Odasaku. The Port Mafia is not the place or profession for one to be weak or soft, and Akutagawa was probably trying to rid Kyouka of what he perceived as "weakness," unaware of what the actual truth was. (The truth being that there is good and light and that Kyouka should not be shamed for wanting to be a good person).

I think that Akutagawa has the potential to be good and we can see this very clearly through Wan, as well as Beast. Akutagawa has been upholding his 6 month promise to Atsushi not to kill, and although this may be for his own desire to fight Atsushi rather than an innate desire to be a better person, we at least know he is capable of not killing.

In Beast, the entire premise is that Akutagawa joins the ADA (I've only read the first two volumes to bear with me here); But I don't think a person who is inherently bad would care that much about their friends and family (Gin). Also, the fact that he got mad at Tanizaki for treating Naomi roughly during the entrance exam also shows that Akutagawa has human empathy (even if Naomi liked the rough treatment but we don't need to talk about that).

Another thing to mention here is that Akutagawa ONLY knows how to be in fight or flight mode and he GENUINELY only knows how to respond in extremes. When he's supposed to question people, he threatens them. And when he wants something, he can only think of using violence or force to achieve his goal. He is a direct product of his upbringing in the slums. (and in the main storyline, the Port Mafia as well).

And when we get later into the manga (main canon) we can also talk about how in Chapter 88 we can see how much Akutagawa has changed and the amount of influence Atsushi has had on him. Akutagawa sacrificed his life for Atsushi, knowing that he himself didn't have much time left. The CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT he had to undergo to get to this point *sobs incoherently*

ANYWAYS That's it for my little ramble thank you for your time

[slyfire]

Just finished a few questlines, and I wanna write my thoughts on the character questlines I've finished.

Spoilers for Act 3, as well as spoilers for Astarion's & Shadowheart's (but general spoilers for other companion questlines too)

Starting with the first one I finished: Astarion.

His quest was very well done IMO. Ultimately it's about overcoming the cycle of abuse, with one of the last choices with him being whether to help complete Cazador's ritual and allow Astarion to 'ascend' in Cazador's place, or convince him to not complete the ritual. I chose the latter, as well as letting the 7,000 spawn leave to the underdark.

I wasn't planning to, but I got too curious and decided to look a little at what happens if he takes on the ritual, and although I only saw a little, I definitely feel like keeping him a spawn is the better & more satisfying ending for him. Otherwise he it seems like he's on the path to becoming another Cazador if he ascends.

The scene of Astarion just repeatedly stabbing Cazador may be my favourite cutscene so far. The depiction of the strong emotions that comes with someone overcoming their abuser was really well done. From the rage he felt though the violence, to the sobbing afterwards...shout out to his VA for really selling it because I was almost about to join him...

The grave scene afterwards was also quite sweet (unsure what plays out if you're not on his romance though). I think he adds a new date of birth to the tombstone? If so that's amazing!

Of course, it's still a little bittersweet knowing that he'll have to go back to the shadows if the tadpole comes out, but unlike before, he'll have people in his life that genuinely care about him. I would like to think he could connect with his spawn siblings too (something that I wish got more focus during the direct aftermath of Cazador's death). While ascending may fix his vampiric issue, it's just incredibly sad that the price of that is his true freedom.

Onto the next one I finished: Shadowheart.

I really loved her questline as well!

Shadowheart was probably the first character my character bonded with as she was the first permanent party member, as well as making a lot of choices she approved of. Then of course as a Dark Urge, both characters have memory loss.

It's interesting that while my character made reassure her it was okay to worship her Goddess, as well as showing respect to Her in some places, when it came down to whether to kill the Nightsong or not, I let Shadowheart choose for herself...and she chose to throw the lance away! Honestly one of the most satisfying moments of the game so far. I thought Shadowheart would have gone through with it. While my character didn't want to kill Aylin (and well, neither did I), she wouldn't want to stop Shadowheart if her heart was set on this.

I also though her new hair was neat! Also a little funny since my since it seemed like my white-haired character is the closest to two other white-haired characters. Plus, Astarion & Shadowheart by themselves are an amazing duo. Shout out their dialogue from the Loviatar ritual. But it's also neat she keeps the braid since we find out it was her childhood friend that used to do her hair that way (even if on Shadowheart's request).

For House of Grief stuff, It was sad to see how a younger Shadowheart has to learn about torture for her faith, as well as partake in it... and man the fact Viconia turned into a wolf just to scare Shadowheart... like actually fuck Viconia, as well as Shar for the mission. Also fuck the fight 'cause of all the darkness thrown out at my party 😑. I did leave Viconia alive though.

The scene with Shadowheart's parents actually did make me tear up. It's a choice no one should go through. Thought it was terrible with Wyll too...like let the characters have one nice thing, no strings attached. I once again let Shadowheart choose her own fate, and she chose to listen to her parents in remove Shar's curse at the expense of their lives. Unlike Wyll, Shadowheart was able to have a genuine conversation with her parents again which was a small blessing.

To find out her mission as well a lot of her life was a lie, then when a chance of reconnection with her parents comes, it gets crushed in front of her...yeah she really need to cry a little afterwards. I wish we had a choice to comfort her more though.

Also, I'm glad she was able to meet her childhood friend again though, though it was a shame she left too quickly (but I'm also so glad she wasn't in the previous fight). And while Shadowheart can't remember her perfectly (I had her use the noblestalk), Nocturne basing her name on Shadowheart's was really sweet.

I really love how overall how similar the questlines are regarding the companions. While they're all different in substance, there are so many overlaps in themes & ideas, and it works amazing into making this group so good together. The person you spent so much time in devotion too isn't as they seem? Shadowheart & Lae'zel. Conflict between Gods and their worshipers, leading to possible punishment from said Gods? Shadowheart, Dark Urge, & Gale. You could make a lot of interconnections.

Anyway, I wanted to make a write up since I thought I was finished with the Dark Urge quests, but it seems there's still more to go? For context, I've gotten Orin's stone. I may make a write up later on. I just wanted to put my thoughts down...somewhere.

[ofgentleresolve]

hunger games au for my muses ( mana and patrick ) bc i have fallen down a rabbit and will not be able to concentrate on anything else until i have at least written out the basics of what i came up with in the last two days-

Okay so…we’ll start with the basics: mana, calum, daniel, and patrick all live in district 3.

mana

grew up with her grandma in one of the poorer sectors of district three. her mother disappeared a long time ago and her father, who had been from the merchant sector, remarried someone from that sector and more or less doesn’t consider her his child.

is childhood friends with calum and daniel, both boys who were from a wealthier sector- an odd trio that strangely worked; she was familiar with the backalleys of district three ( daniel bc he was curious and wanted to see more of the outside world and calum, because he was worried they would get caught ).

she’s good with a knife...especially throwing knives for defense’s sake.

calum was adopted by the family who ran the apothecary...treated more like a free pair of hands rather than an actual son.

mana always took out two tesserae for herself and her grandma and forbid either calum or daniel from taking any out for her as well.

when they’re sixteen, calum is reaped for the 73th games. daniel volunteers for him and while he does make it to the final four, is killed by a career in the midst of protecting another.

a day after the victory parade, calum mysteriously disappears as well....

which brings us to the 74th hunger games...which mana is reaped into

patrick

okay so we gotta go back at about twenty years ago- he grew up in a community home but when he was nine, was luckily adopted by a relatively wealthy couple in district three after showing an aptitude for learning quickly. they gave him an education, enough so that he could read.

read obsessively from then on. think of belle’s home life from b*eauty and the b*east

has a dear beloved friend ( hyuk is that you ) growing up and kept in touch with him even after he was adopted.

took out one tessrae for that friend whenever the reaping came around because he didn’t want that friend to starve. life could be better but it’s not terrible-

that is until he’s sixteen. just two more years until he and his friend are safe from being reaped- patrick’s name is not drawn from the jar but-

his dear friend’s is.

patrick’s stomach drops. no. no.

a life without his dear friend? the one person who is his rock, his family, and more?

patrick volunteers to take his place. he doesn’t know what scares him more; the fact he’s just signed up for his own death or the fury and despair that comes out of his dear friend as a result.

he promises his dear friend he’ll try to come out alive.

miraculously he does come back. well, not completely.

it’s only after the games does he realize that dying is easy. living is harder.

sometimes he can’t help but think since the day he was reaped, he’s been living in a nightmare...as a victor, one of the few from district three, that means he’s in charge of mentoring the tributes at least every other year.

a horrendous cycle between peace and violence, the kind where he will continually keep sending children to their imminent deaths.

one hope spot: a few years after his victory, he meets a young woman in his district. felicity. felicity who feels like the sunrise after a dark, dark night. felicity, who he confides in about the horrors of the games, about how he feels like a monster, how he doesn’t deserve to be happy- and yet she understands better than anyone else.

he can’t help but think if she and his dear friend are by his side, maybe he’ll be okay-

looking back, he knows he was naive; it was too good to be true. or maybe it was his fault for seeking a way to end the games, find the resistance-

because one night, felicity is executed by the peacekeepers. the crime makes no sense, but patrick gets the message loud and clear from president snow: you belong to the capitol.

how he managed to survive after that, is unbeknownst to him ( it wasn’t a pretty sight either ). life goes on, until that faithful day on the reaping of the 73rd hunger games. a young man volunteers to save his friend. the past repeats itself right before patrick’s eyes.

although that young man dies, his fire does not. when the girl who carries that same flame sits before him on the way to capitol, patrick, for once believes.

perhaps there is a way out, after all.

[zapsalis-d]

Narudar: Chapter Thirty-Eight—The Hunt

SUMMARY: You spend some time traveling through a planet in search of an old friend. Past occurrences may or may not be brought to light…

WARNINGS: Mild violence, mentions of sex

WORD COUNT: 4.5k

MASTERLIST >>> MAIN MASTERLIST

Din could clearly see the excitement that brightened your eyes.

It practically bled through your pours. Soon enough, you were going to meet with the Jedi—Ahsoka Tano—whom Din assumed had been a friend of yours since childhood. Hence, the thrilled expression on your face. He couldn't blame you. After cycles and cycles from not hearing from each other, realizing she still lived must've relieved you of some of the pressure off your chest when Din informed you of the Jedi. The Purge had costed him everyone and everything he ever knew as a child, so he was pleased to see you could reunite with a past friend you always believed were dead. He was happy for you, and he hoped you could remain like this for a while. He liked seeing you happy. Your smile brought an involuntary smile to his own lips, without him even realizing it.

Corvus—dull, desolate, and somber. Soon as Din stepped foot on the Razor Crest's ramp, fog drifted into the ship, tinted green. Mist enveloped the leafless trees that stretched out for miles and miles—as long as he could possibly see. Native creatures roamed in the distance, their large silhouettes visible over the dim sun that backlit them. Quietly, they munched on the dead branches, slowly and tranquilly moving from tree-to-tree. Their footsteps vibrated the ground, although they were still mainly silent—much like the rest of the planet. 

Your figure appeared besides him, and Din watched from his peripheral vision as your gaze took in the environment for a second. Once you were done, you were already beginning to hop off the ramp with the Child pursuing you closely. 

"Wait," Din called out for you. You stopped in your tracks, and your attention was directed to him. "Can you wait here with the kid for a second?"

Considering he didn't recognize the planet well, he didn't know what could be out there, exactly. Din had traveled to a vast variety of planets, and each of them had its dangers... Like he said, he couldn't let anything happen to you or the kid. And he meant it.

You seemed confused. "Why?"

"We don't know this planet," he reasoned. "I'd rather check the area out first before bringing you guys out."

You rolled your eyes, although the ghost of a grin gently lifted your lips. Din recognized what you were capable of, and you were definitely able to defend for yourself... But with the kid, he simply didn't want to risk it. Especially since he's been wanting to walk by himself more often, rather than being carried by someone. Much to his surprise, you hadn't put up much of a fight, and had agreed to the idea. "Fine. Be quick, though."

Din wandered off the ramp first, leaving the pair of you behind. He didn't stray too far from the Razor Crest. Instead, it remained in his line of sight, while still traveling far enough to familiarize himself with the planet and its inhabitants. So far, nothing out of the ordinary was in sight. His eyes proceeded through the empty trees and their thick branches. Through the small shrubs and bushes that contained a diversity of miniature creatures that Din assumed meant no harm. Through the distance, to see whether civilization were visible from here or if he could spot people (which there were none from here, at least). Finally, his visor landed on the beasts that fed on the dead trees. From a distance, they seemed docile and harmless. He presumed they were simply gentle giants, although of course he wouldn't mess around with them. When everything seemed to check out, he returned to the Crest and gave you the approval to leave the ship.

Though something shiny that the Child concealed between his claws had captured his attention.

"What did I say about that?" Din voiced, crouching in front of him to take the silver ball from his grasp. He knew he liked the metal object for whatever reason, but he couldn't risk losing it as it was part of the control panel. "This needs to stay in the ship."

The Child whined, earning a frown from you. "Come on, Din. It doesn't matter."

The kid's bright eyes looked fixedly into Din's visor, downright disappointed—and Din almost, nearly gave in and handed the item back to him, but he managed to resist and stuffed it into one of his pockets. Once again, you didn't seem too pleased. "It's okay, kid, we'll get it back."

Din remarked, "And you say you don't spoil him."

"I do not!" You scoffed, briefly entering the ship and returning with a satchel swung over your scarlet cloak. "You're just jealous he prefers me."

He hummed. "Sure he does."

You shook your head at him, allowing yourself to step off the ramp.

Din caught up with you, along with the kid still waddling off the ramp himself. Originally, the plan was to place him in your satchel to conceal him from anyone who may recognize him. But considering he seemed to be beginning to prefer walking himself more, Din guessed he should allow him to travel by himself until you encountered the town (or until he grew tired. Whichever came first). Din's eyes shifted around the environment again. Then,  "Not much to see out here."

"But she's definitely here," you answered confidently. "I can sense her presence... I haven't felt it in so long."

It was news to Din that you could feel she was here. That meant that Ahsoka Tano could also sense yourself and the kid, so it shouldn't be too difficult to find her. "Can you pinpoint exactly where she is?" 

"I can't. I can tell it feels pretty distant, though. We're gonna have to walk far and take a look around for her."

"Let's head into town," Din suggested. "See if we can pick up a lead."

Trekking through Corvus wasn't a simple task, but it was necessary. There were constant obstacles along the path—whether it be trunks, fallen trees and branches, or large rocks in the way, there was always something you either had to jump over or duck underneath. The Child walked slowly, and so that meant that the rest of you needed to walk slowly as well. Which lengthened the trip even further, but it was fine because he enjoyed seeing the Child waddle around—and so did you. It was cute. You, though, were strangely silent for the grand majority of the time. You seemed to be lost in your thoughts, rather than having your eyes dart around as you explored the area you passed through. No, Din recognized that look. You were thinking, and... though he failed to admit it, that made him nervous.

"Hey, Din?"

And  when you called for his name? Even more nervous.

"Hm?"

"I know I already asked you this before, but..." you trailed off for a moment, and Din could only wait. You seemed to be struggling to form the proper words to ask your question, for a reason unknown to him. He wasn't sure whether he should coax you into saying it or not—because he wasn't sure whether he'd like the question or not. Eventually, though, you were able to formulate your thoughts into your question: "Do you... Are you sure you don't remember anything from when we were drunk?"

His mind faltered at that—and apparently so did his feet because he nearly tripped over something. "I don't."

He did. And while he hoped you would believe his lie... he doubted it, given that you were asking him this again. This whole thing has had him burdened with guilt from the very beginning. He didn't know what had gotten over him— Okay, he did know what had gotten over him, but he was normally able to control himself. Alcohol hadn't exactly helped, either. Trying to forget the moment had been impossible, because something always reminded him of it—especially every time he saw the fading mark on your neck. He felt a tightness in his pants only thinking about it... But he had taken advantage of you when you weren't even thinking straight—and he hated himself for it. It could've happened if he continued. Easily. But he was glad he managed to snap himself out of it.

It would've been nice, though.

"I remember something."

Your statement caught him off-guard. He swore his heart plummeted to the planet's core. As nonchalantly as he could, he asked, "What do you remember?"

"Um... Just us—" You fumbled over your words for a fee seconds. To distract himself, Din watched the Child as he toddled a few steps ahead, and tried to neglect the fact that his heart was about to burst out of his ribcage. "I just remember punching you... I don't know why."

Din released a breath he didn't realize he was holding in. He replied with a small chuckle, although he hoped you didn't perceive it as a nervous chuckle... because that's what it definitely was. "I... I don't remember."

"Okay, and... I also remember something else."

"Like what?" Din forced out. Great. He was screwed.

This time, you stopped in your tracks... and he halted with you as well. This time, he truly feared you had either remembered what happened or noticed the mark on the side of your neck... or both. "Din, if you remember anything... please tell me."

"I already told you I don't," he replied—but he couldn't even look at your face. Once again, he chose to observe the Child, who had plopped down on the ground to rest. "Why do you keep asking..?"

"Because..." You paused, again. And when Din returned his gaze to you, he had seen you visibly gulp. You do remember. "Okay, this is gonna sound... I don't know, but we were drunk and alone in the cockpit, the kid was asleep, and— we just..."

Din could feel the heat creeping up his neck. In this moment, he was thankful for his outfit that covered ever bit of his skin. "You remember that?"

"Yes, I remember it... clearly. Um... But— Wait, you remember that?"

Din didn't know what to say...

Yes? He couldn't even bring himself to say that.

"Oh. You were lying." You frowned. "You... you probably remember everything, don't you?"

He groaned internally. "...yes."

"This whole time—"

"I'm sorry."

"What? No, are you kidding me? Din, I'm sorry. I was so weird and—"

"I... kissed you. Without consent."

"No,  I let you kiss me. But... I appreciate it. You stopping."

You let him kiss you.

"I shouldn't have done any of that, still. You were drunk. I'm sorry."

"You were drunk, too. It wasn't your fault."

"You were going to regret it."

"No," you replied, quick. Din thought the flush that was beginning to spread across your cheeks was cute... especially considering you seemed surprise yourself that you had answered so rapidly, without hesitation. Your eyes could no longer meet with his visor—and he couldn't blame you, because he could hardly look you straight in the eye either (not even through his helmet). "I mean... is there a reason why I would have regretted it?"

Yes. Why would you want to sleep with him? Why would you let him do that to you? He couldn't understand.

"No. At least, I don't see a reason why," you responded when he couldn't answer himself. "Would you..?"

"Would I what?"

"Have regretted it..."

If he thought his heart was beating rapidly before, now it was pounding painfully against his ribcage. He couldn't describe his feelings—not even to himself—but he had never been so nervous in his entire life. The answer to your question was clear. He knew it. But it was so difficult to push the words out of his own mouth, because what if you reacted differently? What if you didn't like the answer? Yes, you had admitted that you wouldn't have regretted it yourself... so why was he overthinking it so damn much if his answer was the exact same as yours?

"I wouldn't have regretted it, Cyar'ika... Of course not."

↯

"State your business."

The rest of the journey into town had swiftly flown by afterwards. The Child had been settled into the satchel you carried over your shoulder. Concealing him had proven difficult—especially with those long ears poking out—but you managed. As you and Din approached the town gate, you attempted to hide the kid with your arm in front of him. When you stopped a distance away from the entrance, you surveyed the guards who protected the city limits, on the top of the walls. 

"Been tracking for a few days," Din lied, acknowledging the guard's question. He leaned his weight to one leg as his visor lifted to meet with the guards. "Looking for a layover."

"Nice armor," one of them remarked. "You hunters, then?"

"That's right."

"Guild?"

You could feel the Child wriggling around too much in the satchel. Vaguely, you lightly patted the bag, signaling him to stop. He obviously didn't enjoy the satchel but keeping him out in the open would expose him too much for your comfort. Better to keep him safe, right besides you.

"Last I checked."

The sentries considered allowing you guys access, speaking amongst each other in a foreign language. Within a few seconds, the gates allow you access into the town. You halt by the entrance for a moment and spare a brief glance inside to ensure it was safe. It wasn't exactly deemed safe to you, but it's not like you had a choice. So alongside Din, you saunter inside.

The town happened to be equally as dismal as the rest of Corvus. People didn't seem to enjoy leaving their homes or socialize with anybody, and you wouldn't blame them considering there were literal guards all over the rooftops. As if they were constantly observing the citizens. One wrong move, and they would be punished. You weren't sure why their rules seemed so strict, but it didn't seem fair. Though perhaps you were looking into it too much. 

"Pardon me, vendor, have you heard of anyone—" Din couldn't even finish his sentence when the vendor simply walked away.

Can't talk to outsiders either?

You furrowed your brows. "That's strange."

Still, Din didn't give up. His attention landed on a pair of kids in a dark alleyway, who were accompanied by an older man. He didn't seem like their father, though you assumed he were helping the children in some way. Din approached them next, although you felt it probably wasn't in their best interest to seek them out and converse with them. What if they truly weren't allowed to speak to anyone foreign to Corvus?

"You there," Din voiced. Their gazes snapped to him. There was a certain fear to their eyes that were perceivable, even in the darkness. "I need some information. We're looking for someone."

Briefly, the elder whispered something unintelligible to the kids. They obeyed him and disappeared. Then, the man's frightened eyes returned to you both—although as he answered, he spoke as humble as he possibly could. "Please, do not speak to them... or to any of us."

"We just want to know if you've seen—"

"The magistrate wants to see you."

You flinched when your sentence was cut short, causing you to whirl around. Your gaze met with a couple of guards. Droid guards. While Din was working on his hatred towards droids, these certainly didn't help. They stood far too close to you for his comfort, and he had immediately set some space between you and the machinery. Though wordlessly, you both had no other option than to follow them to said magistrate. 

Without drawing much attention to yourself, you checked the satchel. The Child was completely alright, although his ears easily stuck out. There wasn't much you could do here about that without earning suspicion of the fact that you were hiding something. So, you continued. They led you all the way back to another set of gates. This time, though, there were torture posts before them. Unpleasant noises came from the people that suffered tied to these posts—crying, screaming, pleads. Help us, they said. She'll kill us all. You didn't know if these people had been involved with crimes, or if they were innocent and had simply been placed there upon the magistrate's command, but you wished you could act against this. At the moment, you could not. Risking the guards turning against you for helping these people was against the plan. For now, you'd stick to the plan. But you could clearly see why these people lived in a constant state of terror, and hardly ever left their houses. They definitely deserved better than this.

The gates shut behind you and Din after you stepped through, drowning out the sounds of the tortured. Immediately, there was serenity. A quiet lake surrounded the bridge and the piece of land up ahead. Trees were full of life here, unlike the plants that lived outside the city borders. The structure up front was where you assumed the magistrate lived. If this was her home, you already despised her for living freely in a mansion while everyone else struggled to sustain themselves. Said magistrate was waiting idly by the front door, gaze intense as she observed the newcomers. Her stance displayed strict authority, and the droids standing behind her were presumably her own personal protectors. 

"Come forward," she commanded. Her cloak hardly shifted with the light breeze. Din approached her first, and you followed behind him, hoping to keep her attention away from the kid. Halfway through, you both stopped. "You are a Mandalorian?"

"Yes."

"And your friend?"

Din casted a glance towards you. "She's my partner. She is also a bounty hunter with the Guild."

You nodded, once. "We're looking for a Jedi. Do you know her?"

"Hm..." she hummed, pausing to think. "Well, I have a proposition that may interest you."

"Our price is high," Din replied.

The magistrate neared, self-assurance clear in her expression. "This target is priceless... A Jedi plagues me. I want you to kill her."

"That's not a simple task," you answered. Agreeing to kill Ahsoka was definitely not part of the plan... but perhaps this were the only way to actually locate her.

"But one that you are well-suited for." She spoke with evident persuasion in her tone. It was obvious Tano had been causing problems here—and you could see exactly why. She had seen what these citizens have been enduring under this woman's tyranny. "The Jedi are the ancient enemy of Mandalore."

"As I said—" Din repeated. "—our price is high."

The magistrate gestured for one of her droids. They comply, and return to her with a weapon in their metal grasps. "What do you make of this?" She grabbed it from the guard, before bringing it into the open and displaying it for you guys. 

A lengthy silver spear gleamed, capturing your eye. It was only a spear, you thought. Was this really worth killing a Jedi for? Din approached her, and she allowed him to take the spear from her. He examined it intently. His  fingers slid up and down the spear, inspecting the way the pointed tip was crafted and how easily he could maneuver it. Only when he struck it against his vambrace did you realize why it was special. An ear-splitting ding reverberated through your skull. You even felt the Child flinch as he heard the deafening sound echo through his especially large ears. 

Din seemed astounded. "Beskar."

"Pure beskar," the magistrate emphasized, attempting to make her proposition sound more appealing to him. "Like your armor. Kill the Jedi... and it's yours."

"Where do I find this Jedi?"

You had picked up on his plan rather quickly, since it was the identical to the one you kept in mind—pretend to hunt Ahsoka Tano down, and kill her.

A  human guard led you out. Briefly, he had announced the coordinates before leaving you guys by the town gates and remarking something insignificant about the Child and how you're gonna need luck where you're headed. You couldn't care any less. Elation was all you could feel, because you were a mere distance away from Ahsoka now. You could finally reunite with her soon enough.

The remainder of the journey was spent indulged in small talk between you and Din. Strangely enough, it wasn't as awkward you imagined it would be after that particular conversation. All you had done was discuss what happened, admitted you both remembered, and that was it. Nothing more...

Nothing else needed to be talked about.

That was that.

The Child had been set down to stretch his legs as well. Having replenished his energy from the previous trek already, he was prepared to carry himself until you reached the coordinates. You had easily noticed when you arrived without asking Din whether you were near the set coordinates. Ahsoka Tano's force presence was still as prominent as it always had been—perhaps even stronger now. It had been a while since you felt another signature, other then the Child's—which you had gotten accustomed to by now.

She was here. A small grin lifted your lips. Din stopped. "Well, these are the coordinates."

"I know," you answered. "She's definitely here."

Quickly, you surveyed your surroundings. There wasn't much to see here. Honestly, this patch of land seemed indistinguishable to the rest of the planet—no civilization in sight, and absolutely no sign of someone passing through here. Same lifeless trees, green fog, and dark lighting. Perhaps she was hiding from you. There was a possibility she didn't recognize you—especially not with a Mandalorian besides you. She would've noticed your Force signature as well, no doubt. But maybe yours had altered after all these cycles, or it was vaguer than it was compared to when you regularly practiced mastering your powers.

There was a rustle, though. Faint. The gentle snap of a twig. You hadn't missed it.

Din heard it, too. "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah," you replied. The Child had been lifted off the ground by you, setting him down on a rock not too distantly. If Ahsoka didn't recognize you and elected a hostile response, you'd prefer the kid not to be caught in the midst of a battle. But you also needed to keep an eye on him, so you didn't stray too far from where he was situated. "Stay there for a second, okay?"

Din peered through his pocket-sized telescope, turning as he checked every bit of the environment. He sighed when he didn't find anything. "I don't think there's anybody here."

"She's here. She has to be—"

Din blocked the ambush first.

A cloaked figure slinked from behind. Twin lightsabers crackling, they aimed to attack. You flinched. Not the best response. Din hindered the weapons with his vambrace. Sharp white collided with silver—and behind it all, you caught a flash of her striped lekku. Din shoved her back. You lunged forward and kicked her hand, sending one saber flying. Outstretching an arm, you catch it before she could. The curved hilt was warm underneath your palm as it ignited, humming with each movement. She blocked your strike with her own saber. Easily, she was capable of shoving you back despite you pushing forward. She was strong. She always had been better than you. But you weren't going to allow her victory with this one. 

Din stepped in with his flamethrower. She flipped backwards to avoid burns. Her cloak slipped off as she did, and her face became more visible to you. Then, Din's fibercord wrapped around her figure. Restricted from moving her arms, she effortlessly jumped over an overhead branch. When she landed back down on the ground, Din was pulled up by the wire still attached to her. As he still hovered a few feet from the earth, Ahsoka ignited her single lightsaber from behind her back and sliced the cord. 

Her focus shifted back to you when you aimed for another attack. Once, twice, thrice—you swiped, and she blocked. Shifting your saber to the side using hers, she was able to see your face—and you, hers. Her hostile sapphire eyes altered the moment she could finally identify you. They warmed. There was a tinge of respite in them when she recognized you. Yet she didn't stop the fight. Not yet. Because a good sparring match wouldn't hurt.

Ahsoka thrusted your weapon aside with a jerk of her lightsaber. Your fingers slipped, and the object disappeared from your hands. Then, she launched forward and grabbed your torso to propel you backwards. You landed on your back with an audible wince, but you were upright in a matter of seconds. You clutched onto one of her ankles and pulled, harshly. As she lost her footing, you flipped your legs over yourself. Once she hit the ground, you pushed the heel of your boot against her chin—and when she tried to move, the weight of your body wouldn't let her. Ahsoka lost this round. For once, you win against her. In fact, she had been the one who helped you practice this move, though she always performed it better than you and you never quite understood it. Not after all the practice you had yourself, when you could no longer utilize your lightsaber in the open, were you capable of somewhat perfecting it. Even now you felt it had been a pretty sloppy move, though considering you and Ahsoka had only just reunited, you assumed she had simply let it pass for now.

You both go slack, and quiet chuckles ensue.

"You've grown," she commented, equally as breathless as you. "And improved. I'm surprised."

"Well—" As you lifted yourself off of her, she followed. "—I've had plenty of practice."

"Not enough practice with the lightsaber, though."

"That's the one thing I haven't had tons of practice with, unfortunately. I still won, though."

She smiled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Sure you did... Nice cloak. I barely recognized you with it."

"Nice lightsaber," you replied. Now you were able to clearly see her face. She seemed older. Taller. Wiser. Wise would've been a strange way to describe her back then. Otherwise, she was the same as the last time you saw her. Orange skin, white facial markings, striped lekku. She had grown about as much as you had. This was Ahsoka Tano. She was alive but you couldn't believe she was right in front of you. Yet it felt like you hadn't skipped a single day without each other. You grinned back at her. "How come you got a second one and I didn't?"

"Maybe if you had stuck around a little longer..." The ghost of a smirk appeared on her lips, and you already rolled your eyes. Even after all these years, she never stopped teasing you. She turned to collect her fallen lightsabers from the ground.

"What's it been, Ahsoka?" You altered the conversation. "20 cycles?"

Ahsoka nodded at that, and when she returned to you, her blue eyes landed on the Mandalorian who approached behind you. You weren't sure at what point he realized that you weren't actually trying to kill each other, but you imagined he must've vaguely panicked internally when Ahsoka and yourself plummeted to the ground. Din started, "You've been apart for 20 cycles... and this is how you greet each other."

With soft laughter, you shrugged. When the laughs calmed down, you turned back to the togruta. "On a more serious note, we need to talk."

She hummed, and you imagined she had already guessed that. Her eyes were focused on something behind you—although it was definitely not Din. "It's about him, isn't it?"

The Child cooed, tilting his head to the side.

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[generalpuppeh]

You waited.

You waited for a long time.

Waited for her to calm, to return, to talk, and, hopefully, to give you a warm hug like before.

Winter had never been kind to your fragile physique, being a half-werewolf you are, but you never admitted this to her in fear of being a burden more than you already are to the village.

But, in the end, she never returned. And you soon realized that she'd readily forgotten you as you saw her walking and hunting amongst the better, full-blooded wolves.

You, a mere halfling, with weak jaws, dull teeth and claws, thin fur, and slow self-healing ability, barely qualified a pack member, let alone a friend.

It dawned to you, then, that there was no reason to ask for something you didn't deserve in the first place. So, once again, you lived alone. Living off scraps of food leftover from the pack's feasts and meager clothes. Enduring the isolation orchestrated by the village for years until the flames of war whisked you away to countless battlefields.

Violence spread, rivers of blood of allies and foes ran through your calloused fingers. Wounds were torn and healed and torn in a vicious cycle, never giving respite from the constant pain you've grown accustomed to. Friends were made, but lost all the same.

You changed, or that was what you've always wanted to say.

In the end, you still always came back to your childhood house, its coldness no less severe than the numbing emptiness permeating the air, far cry from the festivities of the village to celebrate their victories.

Victories which you had brought, but never spoke a word about.

Being a halfling have already brought unpleasant attention, and you didn't want more of that. You were almost always bedridden after every major mission, anyway. The last thing you wanted to do was to ruin other people's happiness with your inconvenience.

It didn't help that tonight was particularly colder than before.

Tugging the fur blanket closer, you trudged up a steep slope towards the house looming on top of a cliff.

A familiar dull pain laces through your ribs at every step. When you look down and behind, you spotted splotches of red trailing after your snow-sunken boots.

A helpless sigh escaped your purple lips.

Okay, I can deal with that later

Not that anyone would come to you visit you...

[bluegoblinfox]

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself"

This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin 1971

I am gen x, raised by boomer parents who hit their thirties in the 1980s. In Thatcher's Britain, when women were told they could have it all and the social mobility of the yuppies and suburban snobs were considered the ideal. It was about wanting more than your parents had, giving your kids better than you had and glass ceilings be damned.

The capitalist dream was being wanked over by people up and down the country. Apart from the miners, steel workers and little kids missing their school milk. They were not so pleased about Thatcher's conservative ideals.

I however was far away from steel mills and coal mines. I was in a London overspill town. Where my parents who came from poverty and working class roots were now living in a detached three, soon to be four bed house in a middle class area, taking holidays abroad and making fists full of money with every house move they made.

Around the dining table homophobic, misogynistic, racist talk was casually bounded about when talking about family, politics, sex and religion. My Dad's views were that Thatcher was right to break the backs of unions and to close the mines. A view I'm definitely opposed to now that I live in what was once a pit village.

Back then though I soaked up the "wisdom" that my parents dispensed like a sponge. I internalised the bigotry well and truly.

I was a latch key kid from year 5 occasionally and everyday from year 7. I spent hours alone daily and as the youngest by 7 years much of my weekends were spent either in the company of my parents at their caravan, visiting friends or on my own. This progressed to me being home alone every other weekend, for four or five days at a time by year 10 and then two weeks in the summer also by year 11 and post 16.

I lived a middle classed life of privilege and had everything I physically needed and many luxuries provided. However I was alone often.

My parents were loving but not validating. I was bullied and when I talked to my parents they pointed out I dressed weird and if I dressed like that people were bound to take the piss.

Compared to many others of my generation I had it easy. I was not hit often and was beaten once. The lack of parental interest in my emotional well-being and not being present took its toll on me. This isn't a woe is me. Its just facts. That's how it was.

My parents were not evil, bad or horrible people. They were raised by people who were raised think children were to be seen and not heard, spare the rod and spoil the child etc. My grandparents were taught to put baby outside and too many cuddles would spoil the child and make a rod for your back.

My parents had and have their own trauma to deal with and boomers as a generation are not good at dealing with feelings. Their own especially.

I don't need to vilify my parents to acknowledge that my needs not being acknowledged or met had and continues to have an impact on me. Acknowledging the impact my parents childhood trauma had and has on them doesn't diminish my own suffering.

I forgive my parents because it helps me and benefits me to do so. I can enjoy my relationship with my parents now better that way.

My parents are flawed. As am I. I'm not a perfect parent either. Larkin's poem is fatalistic but it's not a given that man hands all of his misery to man.

Each generation should break some of the cycles of trauma of the past and not add more cycles of violence into the mix.

My parents broke many of the cycles of generational trauma and violence that exist in my family. They enabled me to continue that trend. My children, if they have kids, will do the same.

We can pass on generational hope by talking to the next generation and owning up to our flaws. Encouraging the next generations to do better. Give them the power to pass on hope not just trauma.

Ling and River Ty

[thegemchem]

Blog Post #5

For this week’s blog post assignment, I wanted to go back and review Professor Due’s short story “Like Daughter”. One thing that I really enjoyed was the fact that this story takes place from a third party perspective, through the lens of the best friend of the character that everything is happening to. If follows a woman named Niecey who ends up cloning herself to have a mini version of herself that she can raise as her own daughter.Because of all the terrible things that happened to her as a child such as an abusive father figure who was a heavy drinker, sexual assault by one of her close relatives, and the inability to share any of this with her mother due to neglect and a need to cover up for blood relatives. There is a reoccuring theme about trauma and the way we choose to deal with it, along with the cycle of trauma in the lives of those who aren’t healed. 

We see a lot of this trauma associated with Niecy as a victim of a vicious childhood who first internalizes her pains and ends up using it on herself. She reflects back this trauma through infliction in an attempt to normalize this in her psyche. She often absorbs the sexual violence that she experienced as a child through multiple sexual interactions with men afterwards. It is what she sees herself as valuable or her purpose is performing sexual acts with men. The writing in this sequence does an excellent job in understanding the traumatic cycle that some victims of sexual assault face, their oversexualization of themselves in order to bury the hurt from that experience through viewing themselves as a source of pleasure for others. There isn’t a real sense of self autonomy as there is a sense that someone else is still controlling your life or the way that you perceive yourself. Another way that the trauma is internalized in Niecey is the overwhelming sense that you need to control your life. This comes in opposition to the lack of control and prioritization that was lacking in one’s childhood. For Niecey, it’s cloning a version of herself that she could raise without any traumatic experience with that there is a constant control of her husband, the dynamics of the family, and the overwhelming need to present a perfect life that she didn’t get as a child. She wants a do-over and this time she wants to do everything in her power to prevent any struggle in her/her daughter’s life. But with that, she ends up facing the very thing that she is running from in the form of a divorce with her husband, causing a tumultuous childhood for her/her daughter.

[retaliationrp]

Why do the young poets all write about Persephone? Maybe it’s because they can relate to being half sunshine and half grave.

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: Aysel Dilan Karademir 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 & 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒: cis woman & she/her 𝐀𝐆𝐄: 35 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:  owner of Soif 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:  Civilian 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊:  N/A 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌:   Deniz Baysal

+  adaptable, hard-working, resourceful -   stubborn, proud, private  

TW: ABUSE, VIOLENCE, DEATH, MURDER

Aysel is the only child that came out of Halim and Leyla’s torrid relationship. Although both sides of her family had immigrated from Turkiye, the brunette was born in Lancaster, AZ. Growing up, there wasn’t much to be said about her family, except for she hated being part of it. First, all that her father had ever known was violence and in so many ways, it passed along to his family. Being part of the Wild Coyotes, the Great Divide brought many changes in the man, most of them not worthy of being praised. Halim was too explosive to handle his relationships with love and care. The way he acted around other women was like he didn’t have anyone to go home to, and Leyla was so trapped in this vicious cycle of infidelity, domestic violence, and hate that on the first chance she got, she left Lancaster to never again be seen, thus leaving the three-year-old Aysel to be raised by the heavy hands of her father.

She spent most of her childhood and teenage years running around the clubhouse. Passed along from hand to hand of the women who wanted to be in touch with the Wild Coyotes, this was how life was for Aysel. Despite the Wild Coyotes treating her with care and being more like fathers and mothers to her than her parents had ever done, the only time Aysel actually felt like she had a father was when, in his eyes, she’d done something wrong. Her teenage years were even worse, especially after she started her sexual life. Her father grew more violent, and before she ended up becoming another number in these statistics she would see on tv, just like her mother, Aysel also packed her bags and left town in the back of a motorcycle, with the promise she would never set foot in Lancaster ever again.

Life away from Lancaster didn’t mean it was an easy one. She struggled to get by without a high school diploma. Aysel moved from town to town, working small jobs and earning less than she was paying to survive. Eventually, she managed to get her GED and with that, slightly better jobs, but still not enough to call it a decent life she knew she deserved. Aysel wanted to go to college, to be anything and everything her parents never were, including one simple thing: happy. She wanted to love, to live, and to scream to the world that she was not a walking tragedy, in spite of what life had made her out to be. She was bigger than her past, better than her wounds, louder than the silence in her chest.

The change came in the form of someone her roommate at the time had introduced her to when Aysel was around twenty-one years old. An older man, divorced, with no apparent kids, who had more money than Aysel had ever seen in her life and, who had taken an interest in her after seeing her one night at the fancy bar she worked at. At first, things were good between them. Despite their almost thirty-year age difference, Aysel saw this as an easy way out of her life of misery. She would take his gifts, pretend to enjoy the time they spent together, and even, she made him believe that she was deeply in love with him. In return, he paid for her college. She ended up graduating in Marketing and was hopeful that the year following her graduation would also bring her a better life. She just wasn’t expecting it to be in the form of a marriage proposal during a surprise birthday party her so-called lover had thrown for her, in which they were surrounded by his friends, clients and so on.

Although Aysel accepted right away because she didn’t want to publicly humiliate him, it took her a few days to decide whether this was the kind of loveless-but-comfortable life she wanted to live, or not. Eventually, her comfort and self-preservation ended up winning and two months later, the two tied the knot in a simple ceremony, surrounded by everything money could buy. However, getting married seemed to have flipped a switch in her husband, who became more possessive and rougher throughout the following months. Aysel was no longer allowed to do things she normally did or talk to people she regularly talked.

It was like living in her parents' marriage twenty-ish years later without having much recollection of it.

The fits of anger, however, were hard to forget. The make-up covering up wounds to go out of the house as a teenager, the readjustment of her hair so no one would notice in school… Once again, Aysel needed to get out. But being married to someone with as much money as her husband had, also meant she didn’t have many people to help her. She knew for a fact that couldn’t simply disappear, or he would go after her and things would end up much worse.

To this day, she still doesn’t know whether this was fate or pure luck that presented itself in the form of a heart attack, but as her husband was rushed to the hospital with her in the back of the ambulance with him, the gears in Aysel’s head started working in her favor. Being raised in the world of crime had taught her how to do her research diligently and to know how to leave no tracks behind. She remembered being taught how to fire a weapon by the guys at the clubhouse if she needed to. She remembered her adolescence being filled with ways to fend for herself, and yet, the simplest one seemed to come not from the brutality of the gang, but from one of the women who hung around her father: aconite. She remembered being told about the plant and what it could do to someone, in case she needed to handle her father properly.

A decision had been made. She bought a beautiful vase of aconite to welcome her husband home after being discharged from the hospital, and when he was cleared to go back to work, Aysel mixed a generous dosage of the flower into his morning coffee and hoped for the best. A few hours later, she received a call from the police saying her husband had been involved in a fatal accident. She mixed the rest of the aconite with water and poured it down the drain, then left home to play the grieving widow.

After her husband’s death had been ruled an accident due to his heart condition, Aysel’s life seemed to be fine again. The relief that exhaled from her lips when she hung up the phone was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. She split the inheritance money with the man’s ex-wife and remained in the city for a few more months before moving away again.

Aysel moved on. She started working again, started dating again, she worked out, she ate healthily… life was good. It became even better when, four years ago, she received a visit from someone she had never seen before. Someone who claimed to have known her father, and who gave her the news that would force her to break her promise and return to Lancaster: her father had died. Halim died of natural causes, during the night, and he had been found by one of his lovers the following morning.

To set his things in order, Aysel traveled to Lancaster. She sold his old business property to a new owner, his old house, and everything that could tie her to this place. Her arrival wasn’t as quiet as she hoped it would be. Her father being who he was, it made people talk. Old faces admired her growth, new faces tried to get whichever information they could out of her, and Lancaster just… little by little, in the month that followed her arrival, made her feel like she could try and dip her feet back into these waters.

And so, she stayed.

She bought a property and renovated it into what is SOIF, with its pretty walls and fancy bottle shelves. She bought herself a nice house and installed a decent security system, fell in and out of love with a few decent people, adopted a cat, and managed to create a name for herself in town, despite the shadow that her father’s last name still cast on it. It was best to be known as a dead man’s daughter, who could both mean safety and harm, but that had meaning in a town like this than to carry around a dead weight of a name.

[denishamichelle]

Mercury Retrograde Reflections

I want to be the fun mom again.

This is the shit Mercury Retrograde has me reflecting on. Some where in between having 3 children life got real freaking serious, as expected. But I don't think I could ever anticipate just how real things could or would get.

I had a vision for my life. I had a vision for my life with my kids fathers. Yea, all three of em' got different daddies. Judge me, please lol. Point is, things changed, therefore the vision changed. And when the vision changed, the plan changed. And when the plan changed, the steps to achieve the plan changed.

All of sudden everything that I had given to one child for 9 years became me figuring out how to give it to two and three children, plus the children of my lovers, very quickly. I think it goes without saying I have been stretched. Not just me though, me and every mother or father who has multiple children and/or blended families. Especially, those close in age.

I look back and I'm thankful that it was just my oldest and I for 9 years, before she had to share me. Angel was a very happy and secure child during early childhood (conception/birth to age 8.) I believe her having somewhat (I say somewhat because I've always worked a lot) of my undivided attention had a major impact on her childhood. Angel also had a lot more support from my friends and family and was always showered with love.

She is now 13, but is what I consider a young adult. Our circumstance has caused me to rely on her for help with her siblings. As I watched my two youngest play yesterday, I was convicted in my spirit from taking that away from her. Her life got real serious, real quick too.

Angel is a certified babysitter through the American RedCross. I pay her as a contractor under my business to babysit her siblings. I am adamant about preparing my kids for life in a very practical way. I'm also building generational wealth and plan to teach my children and employ. Angel will have a nice resume by the time she wants to go out and pursue her passions. I am my children's first teacher, and I stand on that. But I don't want Angel to resent me for me needing her.

The effects of having more children has had a major impact on Angel as well. Her father, who she is now building a relationship with, was more absent that present for the first 13 years of her life. This has also had a major impact on her. Angel has experienced family violence as well. Research says she is more likely to experience family violence, because I did, and this is how the cycle continues if we let it.

I say all that to say that for the past five years my life has been a revolving door of survival. Surviving labor and delivery as a black woman feels like an accomplishment by itself, let alone motherhood. Surviving poverty. Surviving domestic and sexual violence. Surviving substance abuse. Surviving death of loved ones. Surviving being a woman. Surviving the system. Surviving failed relationships. Surviving abandonment. Surviving and more fucking surviving.

Yea... looking back, I got a little cold. I got a little harsh. I got a little traumatized lmao. I know it not funny, but I really have to laugh because its the truth and I survived it. It sounds like an episode of Law and Order: SVU. But why is it so many of our lives?

The truth is, "the system" is not set up for people like me to survive AND thrive. It is set up for us to perpetuate a cycle of being abused and being the abuser. It is set up for oppression. Oppression of the mind, body and spirit. Only when one seeks knowledge on their own accord do they really break free from this "system".

That's why I laugh. Because people like me, do the unexpected. We survive all the shit society throws at us, expecting us not to overcome. Yea, we come out with some scars, but we also become masters of transmutation. Transmutation, simply put, is taking one energy and transforming it to another by way of a medium.

The abused is now being used... by the Most High, God, Source, Allah, Universal life force, or whatever you subscribe to. We are speaking, writing, performing, educating, inventing and creating in a number of areas. We are passionate, because we have lived it.

We are busy and we are focused.

Not a bad place to be, but I want to be the fun mom again. And so, doing all of this transmuting and what not requires a lot of energy. It is especially hard for single-parent households.

I am at a place where, the more I pursue higher education, the more I learn about what the research says about OUR people. Exactly what I described is the face of MANY black and brown families, except many of them are not fortunate enough to pursue higher education. There is a deficit in our learning because of the traumatic experiences we have endured as a people. These experiences have shaped our view of the world. We have survived so long, its hard for some of us to imagine what life looks like when your thriving.

For me, thriving means I can have fun with my children again. It means laughing more than crying. It means asking for help from their fathers. It means being forgiving, but not being naive to wrong doings. I have been in protection mode, because one thing I'm not about to play with anybody about, is my kids. They didn't ask to be here. I willingly brought all three of them into the world and wouldn't change a thing. Outside of God, they are my life line. All I felt I had worth living for at many times. So yea, shit got serious. But as we all grow into different versions of ourselves, This version of me is releasing the part of me that says I have to have my kids with me 24/8 in order to be a good mom or for them to have the best outcomes. In fact, research says otherwise. Children who come from two parent households or single-father households have better outcomes.

This is why we need fathers to take back their rightful place as fathers, as protectors, as educators, as caretakers, etc. Black and brown fathers are needed. Not by the women, by the children! Women continue to break barriers and prove that we can survive these experiences, but our children experience the greatest effects of the stress single-motherhood brings.

With love, I am challenging mothers who are survivors to release control, trust the creator and allow the father of your children and/or who ever wants to support you to do so. If the father is active, stable and can provide a safe environment for your child (heavy on the safety), then don't be afraid to ask for shared responsibility despite what society has taught us. Men are just as capable or child-rearing as women. And if its the opposite, apply it as it fits.

Children benefit from being raised by people with varying views of the world. It is a village concept. Fathers, I challenge you to be more active and consistent in your children's lives, if you are not already. Notice, I didn't say financially stable. Although necessary, finances can be built over time. However, you can not get time back with your children. They will only be small once. And you are needed.

I believe now more than ever, black and brown families need to understand that our children are the future. They are also our first assignment. Take time to slow down and be present in raising your kids. Consider their needs, and what is in the best interest of all parties involved.

with love,

Denisha