#it’s beautiful it’s harmless yet debilitating.

[intergalactic-padawan]

inquisitor - Ezra Bridger

Requested: yes, by the beautiful @raganbridger! Sorry for the wait, it's finally here!

Warnings: angst, dark side!reader, confusion, mentions of bad injuries/blood, betrayal

A/N: You asked for le angst, so here it is! I've had this idea for a long while and this request was the motivation I needed to start. LOTS of alternative endings were written, this was mostly the reason it took so long.

Pronouns of reader: she/her

*ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE! I make mistakes just like everybody else 😉*

x

.

-"oh, good, you're awake"

You sit and inhale sharply, focusing back on the real world, startled at the strange voice.

Well, not so strange per se. You knew who was talking to you. What was strange was why he was talking to you.

Before you can adjust your vision to the unfamiliar environment, the memories from hours earlier instantly come flooding back.

Malachor. The place where jedi go to die.

An easy kill for you and your inquisitor colleagues.

That's what they had said on the ship, at least. You, on the other hand, knew better than to underestimate how slippery those jedi could be - especially if they fought side by side, like they always did.

You remember cornering the younger one during the fight. His skill was minimal compared to yours, which would give you an advantage against his master if he were to die first.

The boy and his friends go after the sith holocron. There had been a blinding light when it was placed at the altar.

And also, the jedi knight who was blinded by your former master, Maul.

Maul.

Not only had the cursed man left you for dead years before, he had come back from hiding to haunt you and join forces with your other enemies.

But you were an inquisitor. You wouldn't - you couldn't let him get the best of you, not this time.

You feel a light hand pressing your forehead and recoil in fear, reaching for your lightsaber, only to feel it was not there.

-"whoah, woah, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you" - it was the padawan you'd been fighting before - Ezra Bridger. He had placed you and his master inside a cave in a planet you were not familiar with when you'd escaped Malachor.

You'd escapd Malachor? But how?

You couldn't have, unless he'd carried you back to his ship.

-"hey, hey, it's alright."

-"what do you want, jedi?" - you wince in pain again.

-"a thank you would be nice, actually. I did just save your life"

-"a foolish mistake. One you will pay for with yours"

You reach out for your lightsaber, but can't feel it anywhere close. Scouring with the force for its presence, you quickly realize he must have hidden it outside the place.

-"Nope, absolutely not" - just as quickly, he slaps your outstreched hand - "I may be an idiot, but i'm not stupid. Your lightsaber's not here, it's caused enough damage already."

You rub the hand he pushed away, more shocked at his actions than anything. How DARE he?

-"Then what do you want from me, if not revenge? Why treat my wounds if not to finish the battle we started?"

-"Listen, I'm not sure if it's the adrnaline or something, but you're in no condition to fight anyone any time soon"

-"You underestimete me, Jedi. Even in these conditions you would be no match for me."

-"Like I wasn't a match for you at the sith temple?"

At the mention of the event, images of the fight start to come back.

Back at the sanctuary, you drew him away from the fight, knowing his strengh lied with his allies. Only, you hadn't imagined your former master to join his side - not until you'd seen the holocron in Ezra's hands, at least. You'd warned him: "he will use it and throw you away. Like he did to me". Needless to say, he didn't listen.

Your vision starts to lose focus at the intensity of your anger and you groan in pain, not able to sit anymore. Driven by instinct, the padawan holds your side so you won't fall completely, pressing your abdomen and making you hiss in pain.

-"ah, looks like I was right. You're conscious, but not healed" - you feel yourself be adjusted back on the ground, too weak to fight him.

-"where are we? Why did you save my life?"

He hesitates, eyes studying you, like you might attack him any second and he still knew it.

-"not so sure" - he finally answers - "maybe because now you owe me one?"

-"Did you hit your head or something?" You scoff - "Make no mistake, I WILL kill you when the opportunity rises!"

-"And that is why your lightsaber privileges have been revoked for now."

You lock eyes, studying him like he had you. It made no sense- you'd followed his group to the sith temple, tried to kill him several times, called for the man who had murdered his strongest ally, Ahsoak Tano. Why was he helping you?

With a shiver, you realize he's still holding your side, not as firmly as before but still providing support for your back. Inhaling sharply, you graze his hand and he lets go instantly, realizing how close the two of you had gotten.

Standing up just as quickly, he brushes a strand of unruly hair our of his forehead, while you you clean your throat, diverting your attention to the exit of the cave. The rain pours on the large trees outside, but you can't make out much except for the fact that you're in a forest planet (maybe a moon?) and his ship is in less than ideal conditions to get out of it.

-"here" - Ezra kneels down with two bacta patches and a piece of fabric from a medical kit -"i felt your back was pretty sore, but didn't want to take off your shirt while you were out. Your cuts need cleaning."

You hesitantly take the items, using the rocks behind you as support to lean your body on. He stands up, hands on hips, and chuckles when you sniff the gel, suspicious.

With the small bit of privacy he gives you by turning around to check on his master, you fumble with your shirt, deciding to take it off in order to see better.

-"Need some help over there?" - he asks, hearing you grunt in frustration at not being able to reach some spots

-"Not from you, thank you very much"

-"Oh, so she CAN say thank you! That's a welcome change"

You throw the rag at his direction, irritated out of your mind. Who does he think he is??

He must sense the harmless ball of soaked fabric coming his way, turning around to catch it mid-air. Now that he's turned, you see a glimpse of amusement in his eyes at your rage, giving you the answer you needed as to why he went through the trouble of saving you; it was merely to see you suffer and laugh at your expense, apparently.

His expression quickly changed when he saw your bruised torso, however.

- "who did this to you?" - he whispers, and you look down at you look down at your sore ~ well, everything~, covered only by a wrap in the bust area.

-"As you said, jedi. I may be better than you, but you still gave me a decent challenge"

"No. I didn't even hit you there." - his serious reaction to your injuries had caught you off guard, you had to admit. - "those are old and deep, you shouldn't even be able to walk!"

-"I'm not, remember?" - you motion at your debilitated situation, unable to even sit down or cross your legs properly -"But i will be, soon. And then it's over for you"

-"you know what? I think if you wanted to, you would have killed me by now." - he shoots back and you're impressed at his audacity once again.

But he had a point. Why hadn't you attacked him yet?

Sure, you had no lightsaber or phisical conditions to stand, but your force abilities were still as strong as ever. You were vulnerable, but so was he, and you weren't kidding when you said you could deal with him even at your worse.

-"you know what? " - you cross your arms. He was playing with fire now - "maybe I might"

-"and why haven't you?"

-"because I wouldn't enjoy it as much." - you snap back venomously - "I want to see you suffer before I bring you to Lord Vader"

His expression darkens at the mention of Ahsoka's murderer. His whole body stiffens as he balls his wrists and clearly struggles to control his anger at the recent loss. For a moment, you fear you've gone too far, but reprimand yourself for worrying about his feelings over yours. You're not supposed to be anything more than indifferent to the weak and ruthless to those who dare oppose you.

-"Yeah, no matter what you do, you're still imperial scum"

You're not prepared for those words to affect you so much. You're supposed to have a response, but nothing coherent seems to come out of your mouth, so you settle for an an uncomfortable silence.

It doesn't last for long, however, as his comlink goes off. It's his droid, asking - no, demanding - that he go help him with repairs on the ship. He hesitates, looking at you and contemplating how bad it would be to leave you unnatended in the company of his defenseless master.

-"Dont worry."- You reassure him. -"I won't make his situation worse. Maul is the worse you can get, and I refuse to step that low"

You can see he doesnt like it, but leaves for a few moments before returning with what must be the droid that talked to him before. It was a C1 series unit with an orange top and a bratty atitude, you could tell that much by just seeing him interact with the jedi.

-"Chopper will stay here, just in case"

-"I understand. It's fine."

-"I wasn't asking if you were fine with it. Behave" - you can't be sure if his command is directed at you or the droid, but you weren't about to ask.

The coldness he now had to his voice was understandable - you had worked to get him to that emotional state - ,but you felt hurt at the change. The droid didn't do much to help you think clearly about what just happened, and by the look of it, your frustration would only grow bigger in the many hours it would still take to repair the ship to a normal flying condition.

'He thinks i'm imperial scum, huh?' - you think as you scour a pile of your belongings with the force, not too far away inside the cave.

Bad news, your lightsaber really wasn't there.

Good news, your wrist comm was.

'i'll show him imperial scum'

With a plan forming in mind, all you had to do now was be patient and wait for the right time. There's no exchange of words between the two of you when he gets back, which makes time fly by before he's betrayed by exaution and finally gives in to sleep. You take care of the droid easily after that.

Activating the tracking beacon, you start to leave the cave, but not before noticing the boy's lightsaber beside him. It was a bold move, he could easily wake up if you took it, but you knew that if he woke up to see you gone you'd need it to compensate for your injuries.

You were still on opposing sides, after all.

You knew there had to be an imperial ship near the planet, and they would pick up your signal in an instant when you called. Wallking to a less dense area of the forest, away from the crash site, you're proven right when, in a matter of minutes, a shuttle tripulated by four troopers and a senior lieutenant meet you on the ground.

-"and what of the jedi?" - the higher ranking woman asks when you finish your brief description of the events that led you there.

Well, not all events. You'd left out the part where Bridger had helped you recover.

You could just tell them to take the two jedi for excecution. You were supposed to do it, in fact.

-"it's just me. And the younger one's lightsaber" - you finally answer, not exactly knowing why you'd deliberately just saved them.

She nods curtly and escorts you back to the ship without a second glance. It was a good story so far, but you would have to work on it if your superiors were to believe it.

-"Wait- " - you start, second-guessing your motives for not giving away their location. One of the troopers turns to you expectantly.

-"yes, sir?"

You hesitate for a moment, ready to do what you'd beeen taught to do your whle life. Kill the jedi.

Kill the jedi.

A tingling crept up your sides, where the padawan had touched earlier to give you support. You try to betray the gut feeling pressing you to do your duty as an inquisitor, but it's stronger than you. Something is forcing your better judgement to be leaving your natural enemies alive.

-"nothing." - the tingle goes away as soon as it had come, leaving an unusual feeling of relief. - "Thought i'd sensed something. Let's leave"

'Perhaps it's for the best'. - you think as the shuttle's door closes. After all, you did owe him one for saving your life - whatever his reason was for doing so.

That was what you told yourself as you boarded the ship, at least. Now, the next time you saw him, there would be nothing to stop you from finishing him and his friends for good.

.

x

Hope you like it? I gave him a 'hands on hips' moment in honour of your videos for a more personalized touch hahahaha

[maddysacademics]

An Anthropological Insight into the BBL effect TikTok Trend

A comedy trend in which people who have not undergone a BBL (Brazilian Butt Lift) mimic the prestige and grace of those who have undergone the procedure in every day settings has gone viral. Some captions include ‘POV: BBL at McDonalds’. This trend, as it’s particularly prominent and inspired by America, creates a joke out of an insanely dangerous procedure which can and has ended in death as a result of fat travelling through the vena carta and into the heart and lungs. So, why has it become so normalised to the point of becoming a trend?

TikTok trends emerge from relatability, especially any starting with ‘POV:......’, meaning ‘point of view’. The phrase is then followed by a relatable situation which is why the audience enjoys and consumes the content, and why the algorithm picks it up and turns it ‘viral’. Other examples of POVs include content such as schools and teachers, well-known supermarkets, impressions of celebrities and more niche content, like specific sports. Therefore we can deduce from the virality of the BBL trend that the BBL procedure is a common surgery to be recognised. While it’s more common in the USA, it’s also seen here in the UK too, along with the trend.

As previously mentioned, however, BBLs are the most dangerous plastic surgeries to have, and many have been seriously debilitated in the short-term and long-term, and even died as a result of them. In a BBL, a plastic surgeon uses lipo-suction to withdraw fat from all areas of the body, and then injects it into the hips and butt, to create a curvy and hourglass figure which fits with the current trend of women’s bodies. However, this type of fat is the incorrect kind to be injected to the butt, and furthermore, the way it connects with tissue, veins and arteries means the foreign fat can be sucked up via the vena carta and head straight for the heart/lungs, which is a death sentence. So why do so many people, to the point of it becoming a symbol of prestige and a TikTok trend following this status symbol, get the surgery?

Because they are insecure. But to leave it at that, to blame the women who are getting the surgery for their insecurity, it provides no answers. The answer is that men and the male gaze has made them insecure; starting with women in the public eye, who are open to critique and thus are exposed to the male gaze more harshly, who get the surgery and thus relay their ‘perfect’ body to their fans. It doesn’t help that some people, eg Kim K and cohorts, have claimed their body is natural. While this could be possible, this has a very slim chance of being true, especially when medical professionals have deduced a staggering difference between old and new photos of the family. 

It’s clear that women’s bodies go in and out of trends, and when those who are at the top of the social media game are portraying an unrealistic beauty standard (rooted in either genetics or surgery), it’s the every day woman who is effected, either seeking dangerous surgeries or resorting to dangerous food or/and exercise habits. These women cannot win. And neither can the original social media stars, who are still criticised for their bodies every day online and by the press for not conforming enough, or conforming too much: even this tumblr post could be seen as criticism of Kim K.

This trend (tiny waist, big hips, bums and boobs) dates back to 1810, in which an African slave in the UK was paraded around Piccadilly and then the rest of London to be economically exploited: people were paying to see the size of her bum, her name was Sarah Baartman. Therefore, not only is this trend of BBL-esque figures rooted in a lack of care for women, and thus misogyny, but it is also rooted in the objectification of black women, and thus misogynoir and racism. 

More worryingly, bringing this back to the viral videos, this trend is currently fronting as a harmless acting show, in which people swish imaginary long ponytails, cover their mouths in a condescendingly polite fashion, and pout their lips candidly. Yet, in this joke, we’re normalising the health threat which is BBL surgery. Not only that, but TikTok is an app aimed at children with an algorithm which sorts targetted videos by interests, so it’s likely that impressionable and insecure young women have seen this BBL trend and have either normalised it in their mind unknowingly, leaving them more susceptible to it’s often unseen dangers, or even worse: done their research and looked into getting it. 

To conclude, this is not hate against those partaking in the BBL trend, but a lesson in further research; I think the trend is distasteful due to the victims who’ve lost their lives due to money-hungry surgeons, misguided marketing, and the male gaze. I hope that along with this trend comes more education into BBLs, since it’s clear the procedure needs more research before it’s carried out anymore.

[ejm513]

ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMESTRIS: CHAPTER TWO: WHISPERINGS OF HOPE

Chapter One

AN: HELLO MY LOVELIES! SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. I’VE HAD A LOT HAPPEN IN THE PAST THREE MONTHS THAT I REALLY DON’T WANT TO GET INTO BUT IT’S TAKEN A LOT OUT OF ME. BUT I FINALLY REALLY READY TO PUSH ON SO HERE WE GO!

I ALSO NEVER DO THIS BUT JUST TO BE SAFE AND BECAUSE I HAVE A FEELING I’M GONNA HAVE TO DO THIS MORE THAN ONCE... 

TW: FOR TALK OF ABORTION. IF THIS TOPIC MAKES YOU SENSITIVE... DON’T READ I GUESS. 

DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING LADIES AND GENTS SO THANK YOU MUCH!!

CHAPTER TWO: WHISPERINGS OF HOPE

Well Ms. Hawkeye it looks like congratulations are in order. You’re pregnant.”

It was funny, Riza decided, how one sentence could throw the entire course of your life in ruin.

There had been many thoughts spiraling through Riza’s head and emotions charging through her heart after she heard those two simple words.

You’re pregnant ….

First there was utter shock.

Then there was debilitating confusion.

After that came a wave of bitter rage that threatened to overtake her very being.

A bitter shock of cold terror quelled that rage before it had a chance to become all consuming.

And the guilt weighed so heavily she feared it would send her crashing below the surface and steal her breath.

It was only when she was alone in the confines of the four walls she called home something resembling happiness began to bloom. It lingered quietly, hiding in some deep place as if it was an unwelcomed guess no matter how hard she tried to shove it away.

Above all else, there was one singular thought that reigned supreme.

Roy.

Once the news had begun to settle in her bones, the picture of his pale face, ebony hair and dark eyes refused to leave her. She was all too aware of the weight this news held… how dangerous it was. Riza had mulled and puzzled over how to break such monumental news-though it had seemed despite her best efforts, her behavior and simple note had spoken more eloquently than she ever could.

Four hours upon hours she had tried to ignore the fear eating at her. It only worsened the ever-present rumbling and stewing in her stomach. At first, she had walked and walked, praying the thin, clean air would clear her senses. Yet when that same comforting breeze started luring her to a place of cold darkness Riza retreated to her four walls. She dove into books and the quiet companionship of Black Hyate to distract herself from the one worry she couldn’t escape;

________________________________________________________________

How would he react?

“You’re…. you’re….”

“Pregnant?” Riza chimed in, her voice quiet and thin. “Yes. Yes I am.”

For a man who claimed to have known what she needed to say, Roy began to spiral.

Riza watched as his eyes grew dangerously wide. They appeared on the verge of flying out of his skull. His tall, broad frame was visibly shaking. She watched calmly as he ran his fingers through is hair. Somehow, and Riza wasn’t sure how, his midnight mane became even more tousled. It only added to the frazzled, frantic expression on his face. His face paled to bone, his jaw falling into a large circle. If she listened closely, she could have heard his lungs stop and his heart speeding into oblivion.

The man looked on the verge of collapsing. One sudden movement or a gentle gust of wind threatened to break him into pieces. Riza sat up straighter and squared her shoulders once more, prepared to put the pieces back together as she always did. Miraculously, whatever force was holding him together was far stronger than she knew. He stood planted to the ground, even though his quaking frame resulted in weak, wobbling knees. His large, stunned eyes staid fixated on Riza’s anxiously guarded features.

A soft, strangled noise spilled from Roy’s gaping mouth as he gawked at the sight before him.

There was no sign of the changes occurring in Riza. The thin, baby pink cotton covering her made it clear there was still a firm body beneath the baggy clothing. Everything about her appearance was completely and utterly normal. It was so normal that the whole notion seemed to be one horrible, twisted joke. His thoughts rebelled against the notion that any form of life-let alone a life he was partially responsible for-was forming in that flat stomach. He was about to open his mouth to question if she was playing some kind of evil prank to watch him squirm.

Before he had a chance to even speak, Riza did something. It was seemingly harmless and innocent, yet her actions were enough to silence Roy’s childish notion.

Riza retained her infamous stoic gaze and still demeanor. The longer Roy gawked her, the tighter her muscles became and the more strained her face grew. As if her body had a mind of its own, Riza’s hands gravitated to her middle once more. Roy’s eyes slowly trailed her movements, his heart racing faster and faster. She held her arms across her stomach. In that instant her stoic demeanor gave way to a quiet, burning protectiveness reserved for very few souls. She seemed oblivious to the change in the way she held herself. She seemed to act on a deep, strange instinct she was not yet fully aware of.

That simple motion and change in her aura was that final gust to finally break the venerated Major General. It was enough to shatter any illusion this was some foolish notion this was all a twisted joke.

Against all rhyme and logic Roy’s eyes grew even bigger as any color that remained on his strong features vanished. The shaking became so violent it forced his knees to buckle, sending him falling to the floor. His adapt hands gripped on to the top of the couch before he had a chance to completely loose his balance. His chest heaved as he took long, ragged breaths. No matter how deep or how long he inhaled his lungs never seemed to have their fill. They screamed for more air that his nerves rejected at any turn. Naturally, this made his already revolving head even lighter and his thoughts even faster.

One simple sentence in one single moment threw the entire course of life into complete and utter wreckage.

His plans for the country…

His plans to reach for the highest prize of them all…

It would never matter that the late Fuhrer Grumman would have plucked Roy and hoisted him to that throne had it not been for a pesky heart attack. It wouldn’t have mattered that his ambitions were laid bare for the world to see. It didn’t matter that the whispers and gossip had been louder than thunder before the man was covered with dirt. As Roy had made his way through the numb days following Grumman’s sudden passing all eyes had been own him, watching and waiting. Throughout the preceding year he had sat patiently and quietly, waiting for the moment that grew further and further away. After years and years of one single man at the helm, there was a thirst among certain groups in parliament to avoid putting another warm body in that cold throne. A charming if naive notion. He had watched as the parliament and its embarrassingly green prime minister stumbled and fumbled, desperately attempting to uphold the vast changes the late Fuhrer had enacted;

Freedom of the press,

Freedom of Speech,

Freedom of Religion

A policy of Peace and Rebuilding

More and more power trickling down from the military into the hands of the people.

There were always those who clung to the days of old, when one man held the destiny of his land and people in the palm of his hand. They continued to fight tooth and nail against change, and against all odds they never won.

There was only one law all seemed unwillingly to budge on; fraternization.

Roy has seen it many times before; an officer charms his young subordinate. It’s innocent at first, nothing more than little jokes and lightning glances. The looks turn into touching and then the touching turns into lips against lips and then….

The circumstances never mattered. That little look would lead the officer and subordinate to be swept away with all the remains of a shattered career, relationship and life at their feet.

Roy and Riza had been different. Their souls became intertwined in the safety of the shadows, hidden under the minutest of gestures and simplest of words. It was cloaked under code and under far away spots. It was concealed in dark apartments, drowned in laughter and wine.

There was a rush of thrill as they indulged in the electricity that had been humming between their souls for years. It was enthralling to hide under everyone noses as their bonds busted out of the hearts and into something physical and beautiful. They had-so Roy thought-proceeded with the upmost discretion and cautiousness

In spite of themselves and their broken souls, they had managed to create something akin to happiness.

He should have known the laws of the universe would never let a pair with so much blood on their hands and death in their eyes be truly happy.

It only seemed comically natural that their whole lives were about to implode.

“Roy?” Riza said, dropping any pretense of rank and titles of past or present. Her voice was strained and distant, becoming lost within his chaotic thoughts. It did little to break through the armor of shock covering every part of his frame. At first all she received was a bone chilling silence and wild eyes. Then, as if the man had become so tightly wound that standing still was a chore Roy pushed himself up right. The small, barren apartment became filled with boots trampling as he frantically paced back and forth.

“I don’t… I… how did this happen?” He sputtered.

Riza raised her eyebrows, her arms crossing over her chest.

“Roy you are a grown man surely you don’t need me to”

“No no of course I know HOW it happened! But HOW and WHEN?” His hands gripped his hair as his pacing refused to slow or cease. His face was completely manic while he dived deep into his memories and dashed off a few rough calculations.

“It couldn’t have been… no no no but what about?”

Riza could only sigh, her chest filling with tight fear as the man she loved continued to fall apart by the second.

“The doctor said I’m two, maybe three weeks along at the most and due at the beginning or middle of November.” She claimed. As Roy continued to effectively tread the entirety of Riza’s home he gained enough self-control to nod.

“I see. So it was Breda’s birthday party wasn’t it.” He concurred, taking to running his fingers through his hair once again instead of holding on to it for dear life.

“Most likely…. That or the night not long after when we were stuck inside during that freak snowstorm.” Riza conceded, sending out a silent prayer that receiving a piece of concrete information would give his logical, methodical mind something to latch on to. She hoped in turn that simple act would give his soul even an ounce of peace.

He nodded, bringing his fingers to his chin as he always did when deep in thought. His pacing refused to end; his feet as loud as drums. They pounded in her ears, only worsening her already throbbing head. She could see his broad back tensing into one giant knot. Those same shoulders refused to quit their shaking despite the heavy jacket.

The sight sent a sharp, frigid shiver creep up her veins.

There had been one other time, four years before she had seen him fall. In a maze of dimly lit tunnels Riza had watched as Roy had begun to lose himself to flaming anger and scorching revenge. It was only with the barrel of a gun and a vow to end her life once the day was done that wrenched him back from the brink.

Once again, the Major General was in danger of losing himself in her box of an apartment under the rays of a setting sun. Instead of being blinded by red all he could see was the horror of what lied a head, and a life that would never be the same.

Riza felt her heart begin to crack. She automatically shoved the blanket on the floor and rose to her feet, darting to Roy. Her hands reached for his shoulders, to finally force his restless energy to still. Yet just as her fingertips brushed the thick, black coat her stomach flipped. The sudden and quick motions had awoken the storm in her gut, causing it to rage once more. It caused her to freeze as her fingers gently touched the familiar material as her cheeks flushed a sickly green once more. She felt herself began to sway, her fingers gripping tighter to the thick coat as a last attempt to keep her steady.

That weak, stiff touch was enough to freeze Roy’s frantic pacing. He whipped his head over his shoulder. His features were rigid and bone white. His dark eyes were wide with frantic panic and hopeless despair. Riza could feel his shoulder quaking under her fingertips. She felt her heart twist at the sight, her blood beginning to run cold a shiver climb up her spine. Her oldest and most familiar companion, guilt reared its head once again. It bloomed deep in her stomach, growing into an ever larger and heavier force until…

“I’m sorry.” Riza muttered, bringing one of her hands to her mouth. Before her words seemed to reach Roy she was dashing towards the bathroom. She had accidently pulled Roy’s coat with her, letting it collapse to the floor in a heap.

For a moment the Major General could only gawk at the pile of black on the floor as he listened to the sound of his pounding heart. He couldn’t escape the sensation that he had fallen into a dream. The simple furniture he knew so well, the ebony coat he wore day in and day out, even the setting sun seemed otherworldly. His eyes slowly moved to his hands. Even they seemed foreign and bizarre.

Had they been shaking this whole time?

Roy’s eyes twisted shut as they balled into fist once again.

“This has to be a dream. Wake up Mustang. Wake up Mustang. Wake-“

A chorus of shrill barking broke through the white noise blaring in his head. Roy’s head shot up, his eyes facing out to the setting sun. A cold, wet nose against his fist shocked his fingers open once more. Desperate wines and a paw pressing against his leg sent him crashing back to reality. He glanced down and saw Riza’s black and white dog beside him. Black Hyate stared into Mustang’s eyes as he continued to whine. His cold, damp nose pushed against Roy’s hand once more. When that only resulted in a series of stunned blinking, Black Hyate clamped his mouth on to Roy’s ample pants and began to tug.

It was only then that Roy became aware of the horrible retching hanging in the air. His glanced towards the sound and the direction he was being pulled. He laid eyes on the closed bathroom door, all but oblivious to Black Hyate’s valiant efforts to help his master. When another wretch hit Roy’s ears it flipped a switch in his head.

What was he doing?

Why was he standing there falling into pieces when the person he loved needed him?

With that new resolve Roy rushed to the bathroom, leaving Black Hyate in the dust as the dog trotted beside him.

He pushed the door open just as Riza gallantly attempted to push herself to her feet. He could see her arms shaking with the effort as they braced against the cold porcelain seat. Her long blonde strands spilled in front of her face. Her breaths were short and labored, making her back tremble. He didn’t need to see her face to know it had been drained of it’s soft, ivory coloring.

The sight made Roy’s heart begin to splinter and his stomach twist. It was difficult beyond words to watch his strong, iron willed Riza be reduced to such a fragile state. Yet whatever terror and fear that had held him in their claws had been shaken off, if only momentarily. Roy only stood in the door frame for a fraction of a second before he was on his knees, right by her side.

“Don’t stand just yet Lieutenant.” Roy whispered, gently grabbing hold of her shoulders. He moved her slowly and carefully, inch by inch, as if he was moving a slumbering bomb. She felt like a ragdoll under his touch. It was all to easily to move her to his side. He slipped the royal blue coat covering his shoulders on to Riza’s shoulders  before slipping his arm around her and pulling her close.

“Colonel…” She breathed, her fingers wrapping around his white shirt. “I…” Roy slowly ran his hand up and down her arm.

“I know Lieutenant…” He sighed, hiding his lips in her soft hair. Silence fell over the pair as they sat on the cool bathroom floor, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Riza fluttered her eyes closed as her breath grew slower and ever more steady. A little trace of pink began to flush her cheeks. She seemed to melt into his side, as if the weight on her shoulders was lifted for one blissful moment. Her lips even twisted into a the faintest of smiles when Black Hyate rested his head on her lap. Life was returning to her features once more.

Yet, as Roy gazed from the top of Riza’s mane, all he could see was her arm resting protectively over her middle. He could not help but allow himself the smallest of smiles into her hair.

“You know something Lieutenant?” He chuckled. Riza hummed, burying herself deeper into his hold.

“You’ve been holding your stomach a lot.” Riza’s eyes lazily blinked open, her face twisting ever so slightly in confusion. Her eyes trailed to her stomach, widening when she noticed her arm resting over her stomach.

“I have?” She mumbled, her eyes glued to her middle. Roy pressed his head against her hair. He nodded and sighed, attempting to hide the growing fear in his features. His hand froze against her arm and gave it a hard squeeze.

“What are we going to do?” Roy’s voice was gentle, weak and tinged with quiet panic.

Nevertheless, the question hung like a heavy cloud over the pair. It had been whirling around Riza throughout the hours, tormenting her and poising to blacken her thoughts. It whispered to Roy in the midst of his initial, debilitating panic, sending shivers up his limbs. It was even more deafening than the silence as all they could do was stare dumbfoundedly. Above all else, as the seconds ticked onward and onward it made them feel smaller and more helpless than the smallest ant.

What are we going to do?

Roy felt Riza stiffen against his side. The weariness that had plagued her pale features became hard and stoic. It was a face he knew so well; it was the face she showed the world. As always Roy could see straight through what would otherwise be deemed an emotionless face. He could see the tightness of her lips and her fingernails gripping to her pajama’s. He could see heavy guilt crashing on her shoulders. Her chocolate orbs became clouded with cold darkness and despair.

It was a look he had thought she left long behind her in the blood-soaked sands of Ishval. It was the same look he saw time and time again during the calm after battle.

Riza pulled her knees towards her and brought her gently laced hands to her forehead.

“After you sent me home, I walked around the city for a while.” She began, her voice low and steady. “I was trying to clear my head or distract myself. At a certain point I remembered the doctor explaining to me there were… options.”

Roy’s lungs paused for a beat as Riza attempted to gather her words.

“I see…”

Riza nodded.

“She also said I’m not too far a long to consider this option. After seeing how… how I reacted to the news… she gave me an address to a place that would do the procedure safely and discretely.”

A beat of silence fell over them as Roy’s frame became tenser and tenser, his heart beginning to feel cold. Riza eyes fluttered shut, taking a moment to sort through the jumble of emotions racing in her.

“I walked to the clinic. I don’t know why… I hadn’t considered going until that moment.  When I found myself at the door it seemed like the only option. But…” her voice trailed off once more, disappearing into the thin air. She lapsed into muteness once more as memories of that moment flashed. Her face took on an of expression pure, unadulterated shame.

“You couldn’t do it.” Roy stated. Riza remained voiceless as her heavy shame slipped into her stomach, weighting her to the ground. The only reply she could give was a sharp nod. Her eyes remained close and her face colored with ashen remorse as her voice began to return to her.

“I…. I walked in and stood there for God knows how long. I… I don’t really know why I left. It would solve everything. I could have gotten it over and done with, take maybe a week to recover and no one would know. It would be easy enough to pretend I just had a really bad case of food poising or a stomach bug. This could have just been some mistake we would never have to think about again. But….” Riza paused, opening her eyes as she gave Roy a moment to say something. She was greeted with nothing but steady, patient silence and an unusually blank expression. When all she heard was silence, Riza gripped the thin, soft material of her pajamas as if it was the only thing holding her together. She only dared to keep her eyes a head at the open door as she continued to speak.

“Well firstly there’s the fact that what I was about to do is illegal and if I had gotten caught the results would have been the same. You would have been unceremoniously discharged at worst, and I could have ended up in jail. But there was more than that. All I could think was ‘How can I take another life when I’ve taken so many?’. My hands and conscious are forever stained with blood, and I couldn’t bring myself to stain them even more. However…” her voice suddenly became heavy and cracked, as if she was trying with all her might to suppress unforgiving tears.

“This is your child…. My child…  Our child… I… I don’t know why… I’m not happy… I can never allow myself to be happy about this… but this is our child and I… I… I don’t know why but… I… I love it. I… just… I couldn’t..” Riza’s voice took on a harsh, quivering edge. Stray tears began to spill down her cheeks as she held her knees even tighter against herself. She remained eerily still as Roy’s thumb gently stroked her cheek, wiping a tear or two from her face. He pressed his forehead against the side of her head, placing a kiss to her cheek bone. It was a blessing Riza only kept her gaze forward. It was all the easier for Roy to hide his own tears that threatened to fall. He wrapped his other arm around her and very slowly began to sway.

“Sush. It’s okay Lieutenant it’s okay.” He murmured.

Roy had no idea who he was trying to comfort, himself or Riza. In the end it didn’t matter who he was trying to sooth, his attempts were wasted. His own heart refused to stop racing and his stomach continued to twist and coil. Riza’s limbs were tense under his hold, her own fear and dread radiating back to him. For a while, they never knew how long, the pair sat in complete and utter silence. Their eyes stared at nothing but the plain apartment spilling out of the open door. Only the sound of Hayate’s steady breathing filled the tense air. The world itself seemed to melt around them. All that remained was the warmth of their bodies, cold tiles and soft fur at their feet.

“This is your child…. My child…. Our Child…”

Riza’s words had sent his heart flying to his throat and all his senses screaming. He found himself blinking rapidly to keep puckering tears at bay. The very idea seemed holy foreign… maybe even unnatural. As he sat on that cold floor with Riza leaning against him, Roy couldn’t escape the feeling he was floating out of his body. The world around him morphed into a strange blur where there was nothing but the snug weight of Riza against him and the sound of the white noise in his head. It roared and blared, causing his head to ache. His limbs were strangely numb and heavy, like dead weights bolting him to the ground. Somehow his hand continued to slowly and gently rub Riza’s arm as if his appendages had a life of their own. Every little action seemed to be controlled by an invisible master pulling a string.

Even his own eyes slipped out of his grasp.

For better or worse his eyes seemed to have a will of their own. Before he had a chance to react Roy’s eyes trailed from the open door to Riza’s stomach.

His mind wanted to recoil at the sight of her perfectly flat stomach. It seemed impossible that anything was amiss with his Lieutenant, let alone that there was a life blooming underneath that flat stomach. He truly wanted to give into the notion he had fallen into some strange and horrible dream. Any moment he would blink open into a world where he wasn’t sitting on a bathroom floor with terror swimming throughout him. He would wake up in a world where everything he had toiled so hard for wasn’t slipping through his fingers.

A dream was the only thing that made sense. After all, in his own brutal reality he would never have a prayer of ascending to Fuhrer if the wrong ears heard whispers of a love child with his subordinate. All of his dreams and honor would be stripped bare. He would find himself back in the shadows once more with nothing but a prayer of one day climbing out or escaping. And Riza… heaven knows what would happen to her. For whatever reason women always seemed to baren the burden and scrutiny of an illicit relationship.

Yet Roy knew it was no dream. The fear and uncertainty clawing at his gut was far too real. The sheer guilt and pain pouring from Riza’s soul was far too unbearable. The hard, frigid tile below him was enough to shatter any illusion of having fallen into a dream. Riza was truly carrying his child… their child. They were truly huddled in an impossibly small bathroom, clinging to each other for dear life. Their carefully crafted lives and tightly held secrets were on the verge of being engulfed and destroyed. She would be forced to do away with the offensive creature one way or another in the cover of tightly sewn lips. Once the evidence was discarded then her life would be finished. If Roy only had a prayer of rebuilding his life, then Riza barely had a hope of coming out the other side. No matter what she did or how hard he would try to help, she would be left to drown in the shadows.

And all because of something that shouldn’t even exist… something that was no bigger than a spec of sand.

It boggled the Major General’s mind how one night of pure pleasure could throw everything into chaos. The longer he stared at that flat stomach the wilder his gut twisted and the louder his mind raced. He wanted to hate the life threatening to disrupt their world. He wanted to do the rational thing and quietly erase their little mistake. He knew he should lift Riza off her feet and guide her too that clinic. He knew he should comfort her and care for her as she healed, and then return to life as if nothing had happened.

More to the point what right did Roy Mustang have to feel any sort of joy or any sort of love? He had destroyed so many lives, leaving countless parents without children and countless children without parents. His hands had taken away the chance for many innocent Ishvalans to experience the thrill of falling in love and the bliss of holding their child.

What right did he have to have a child of his own?

Yes. He wanted to loath their mistake. He truly did.

Yet… as the seconds kept ticking something began to shift. Riza’s words slowly began to take a far stranger and different meaning, morphing into something softer and brighter. The twisting in his stomach turned into flutters. The terror freezing his blood began to warm and melt away. That warmth flowed to his heart, filling every inch of it and slowing it to a soothing rhythm. The white noise screeching in his head began to dim until there was nothing but the sound of gentle breathing. Every part of him suddenly felt lighter and freer.

He suddenly couldn’t escape the notion that, just as Riza had said, that was his child slowly growing inside of her. Even if it was unintentional, it was a life that he had helped create. Moreover, it was created out of a moment of pure exultation and love.

Roy swallowed, his gentle stroking stopping. He let his free hand lumbered towards Riza’s. He watched as it moved to rest on the hand that was still on her stomach, only to freeze and hover above it.

Riza’s brown orbs looked down at that still hand and then back up at Roy. She was greeted with a face as equally strained as it was full of longing. She felt a flutter of hope in her heart at the sight. His tense silence had been deafening and sharp like a knife. Even in her own despair Riza had been waiting to hear him say something- anything. It was clear the news had not been met with delight-that much she had expected. She still had no way to know what was running through his thoughts or what was filling his heart.

Was there some ounce of joy whispering through the darkness?

Was there something resembling love somewhere in his spiraling soul?

Was he scared?

Was he angry?

More importantly was he going to beg her to march back to that brightly lit clinic and take care of their little mistake?

The very thought made her heart run cold.

Riza knew it would be, in theory, the easiest option. She had never imagined slipping into the role of mother, nor she did she feel particularly worthy. Like Roy she too had ruined countless lives from the safety of roofs and her trusty rifle. She had robbed innocent people of the chance to embrace their loved ones and create a life of their own.

How could hands so stained cradle such an innocent creature?

How could a soul so violated be able to love the way a mother should love?

How could a monster be trusted to raise a child not to be the same?

How could a monster be allowed to raise a child at all?

Yet despite all her self-loathing and fear, Riza could not bring herself to march into that clinic. She could not bring herself to rid of her little mistake. The very thought made her turn cold and her heart climb to her throat. Her arm wrapped tighter around her middle, as if to protect the life in there from what may come out of Roy’s mouth. She hoped with all her soul he wouldn’t ask her to do what had become impossible.

No matter how hard reason screamed otherwise, Riza could not rid herself of the child she already loved dearly.

The sight of Roy’s hand hovering over hers sparked a light of hope. Riza couldn’t help but to grab hold of that spark.

“It’s okay. “She whispered, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “There’s nothing there yet but you can feel if you want to.” Riza pulled his hand down and slipped it underneath her thin pajama top. The moment she rested it on top of her bare skin she felt a shock of thrill run through her. His hand was rough and warm against her smooth skin. At first Roy’s touch was stiff and still, resting on top of her like a small dead weight. His pale face matched his touch; rigid and unsure. Riza held her breath as she watched him, waiting to see any shift in the stunned and inflexible being.

It only took a mere moment for that shift to occur.

Riza felt his hand melt into her stomach. His touch became unspeakably tender and careful as his thumb ran across her soft skin. She watched his unbendingly shocked expression vanish into one of childlike wonderment and glowing adoration. It was an expression she rarely saw, only meant for her eyes only in the safety of the world they created. Riza felt her heart beginning to soar as the wonderment and love overtook his features.

Maybe it was an evil trick of the light or her eyes playing games, but Riza could have sworn she noticed tears puckering in the corners of his eyes.

“Our child…” Roy swallowed, his voice oddly dry and hoarse. Riza nodded, allowing her lips to turn into the smallest of smiles as she rested her hand on top of his.

“Yes. Our child.” Tears threatened to spill down the normally stoic soldier’s features as his lips quivered ever so slightly. It was odd seeing the normally controlled man in such a state-going from complete and utter terrified shock to what she could only assume were tears of joy. The man may have a thunderous spirit and she had seen him slip into despair and loose himself in his anger more than once, however, Riza had only seem him rocked to tears once. It was as he stood at the grave of a friend cut down in his prime. She could still see how they caught the sunlight as they trickled down his face. Sitting in that cramped bathroom Riza could see one tear escaping, catching the light above and sparkling. A moment later another tear slipped through and fell the other side of his face.

Riza couldn’t help but hold her small smile as she reached for his cheeks.

“I see it’s raining Colonel.” She said, brushing away the tears sliding down his face. “I hope it’s raining from happiness.” A low chuckle rumbled from Roy’s chest, his lips curling into a crooked grin. He circled his arms around her torso and pulled her as close to him as possible. He pressed his forehead against hers, letting their noses touch. Riza felt herself begin to melt as he brushed his nose against hers and felt his lips press gingerly on hers.

“I don’t know if I’m happy Riza.” Roy began, keeping his eyes closed as he spoke. “Hughes once told me that it’s a universal right for a man to raise a family with the woman he loves… but I don’t know if I can bring myself to believe that. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I deserve to be happy after everything I’ve done. I certainly don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve something…. something like this. To be even more honest I am terrified of what this is going to do to us.” His words momentarily vanished as his soul was laid bare. Riza nodded before placing her lips on his nose.

“I know…” Riza sighed. “I can’t allow myself to be happy either. I’m terrified of what’s going to happen to us as well. But…” Her voice trailed off, unable to scavenge for the words to give life to her intense emotions.

Roy however…

Roy always appeared to know what was buried deep within her without her needing to utter a word.  Moreover, he always knew how to ease her soul without even trying.

Roy’s grin widened ever so slightly as his arms wrapped tighter around her middle.

“All I know…” He began, stopping and softly kissing the bridge of her small nose. “All I know is that I love you and that I have loved you for a long time. This child may be a mistake but it’s our mistake that happened because we love each other and… God help me I want to hate it Riza I really do. I wish I could say let’s just go and take care of it but I can’t. I may be crazy but…. I… I… I think I already love it.”

Riza’s tiny smile busted wide open as a laugh tickled her lips. She continued to rub his high cheek bones as she felt his chest rumble with laughter.

“It’s not that crazy Roy.” Her smile dimmed as she carefully chose her next words. “I know we would be crazy not to fix this or at the very least give them to a family who can actually give them a normal, happy life. We would be putting everything we have worked so hard for at risk. I don’t know if I can ever be happy either or even deserve something as wonderful as this. But I know that despite everything I love this baby… and the idea of getting rid of it in any sort of way is unbearable, Roy.”

Roy immediately felt his heart gradually crack as she spoke. Once her words had ceased, he peppered every inch of her face and neck with kisses. Riza’s hands slid away from his face and down his back until her hands were pressed against its strong muscles. She held him tightly as Roy continued to kiss her face until he found his away back to her lips. They hovered over hers, taking in their softness and warmth. She could feel him smiling against her face and his eye lashes flutter against her.

“I don’t want you to get rid of it either.” Roy claimed softly.

“I could just retire.” Riza cautiously suggested. “You could still continue on with your goal and”

“No.” Roy shook his head. “That would still look suspicious and even if we lied through out teeth it would still be clear that you were pregnant before you retired. We would still be breaking the fraternization laws.” Riza frowned, her fingers digging into Roy’s stiff white shirt and burying her face in his chest.

“It’s not fair.” She muttered as tears began to fall.

Roy felt himself begin to boil.

She was right.

She was ALWAYS right.

It was brutally unfair.

Even if one of them stepped away from their positions it would not release them from the walls that had kept them apart. They would not be safe from the eyes of the law no matter what they did.

Roy kissed Riza’s temple before he pulled her to his lap. The hotly independent woman didn’t protest. Riza nuzzled her head against his chest, dissolving into his warm strength. Roy’s chest puffed with a animalistic determination and will to protect. His gentle hold abruptly grew fierce and defensive as he pressed his lips on her temple once more.

“I love you and I love our child Riza.” Roy stated, digging his fingers into her thick sun kissed mane. “I promise will do whatever I can to protect you both.” He vowed

Riza blinked open her eyes and stared up at his alabaster face. There was something eerily similar about the way they were situated on her bathroom floor. The way Roy cradled her, the way she nuzzled her head against his chest as she smiled weakly. Even his soft expression and tender eyes brought her back to a dark room, and the relief she had survived a cold blade slashing her neck wide open.

In that quiet moment as he smiled lovingly at her and held her close to his chest, Riza felt that same rush of relief.

No mattered what happened, they would find a way to come out on the other side just as they always had.

No matter what happened, they would have each other and hopefully their baby… and that was enough.

[oldanddilis]

Expletives, suppression of passion

I am convinced expletives have been given a bad name by people who dislike passionate displays of love, truth and emotion. Whoever linked them up with sexual innuendos must have been jealous, cowardly, frustrated, narcissists. In English a bar can mean many things, a rod, a drinking area, to prohibit something, a standard of measure. Expletive comes from the word explicit, words which make things explicit, they are a natural part of any language. The word @€ing for example can mean really/exceptionally etc it has nothing to do with a sexual act, when used as an adjective or adverb it emphasises the quality. "That was a great party" becomes an exceptionally good party when one says "€&@# that was a great party" or "that was a €&@#ing great party" there is no malice or vulgarity these are terms which express a level of passion. We all sense the passion, there's no malice so why have these natural powerful words which express passion been outlawed? My reckoning is that these innocent words initially began being demonised in courtrooms, when a Judge who was maybe a paedophile or a scob was faced with someone passionately innocent using such words the Judges were so frustrated that when they could find no crime committed but wanted to persecute that person they made it a crime to display passion by using expletives. Similarly in education when socially frustrated people in power were challenged by passionate displays of excitement and wonder it is likely that in their jealousy they sought to put that person down by saying they were vulgar using language as their reasoning. In fact it can be a very intelligent use of language to use expletives it often expresses in an instant what a thousand carefully crafted words can't, raw passion. They also can be and are used to great effect by people with limited access to education. For example while there exists a certain snobbery that whoever knows the most words (or understands mathematics) must be more intelligent than the average, this usually reflects the level of access to education rather than intelligence, a highly intelligent but perhaps less educated person might express qualities better with a much more limited range of words. For example someone well educated with a high volume of words in their vocabulary bank might say that pie was exquisitely, delicious and satisfying to the appetite another person not educated might say wow that pie was €&@#ing lovely, we instantly (well I do) sense the raw passion and I for one am going to try the €&@#ing lovely pie rather than the exquisitely delicious one that is satisfying to the appetite... why? The €&@#ing lovely pie obviously has something of a bit more kick in it. Expletives can be overused like many words, for example "right" "" you know" "like" "buddy" "ya hear" these can become a slight annoyance when someone uses them in almost every sentence but they don't get demonized and we usually don't notice them until they are pointed out (perhaps by someone trying to exert social control over (bully) the said person). My guess is they were originally despised by the colonial aristocracy of all nations who were probably so bound by rules of etiquette it drove them nuts seeing people with less material power so happy and able to express themselves, historically the ruling classes controlled the education and in order to gain access to education people had to conform to the rules and show less passion. It seems that this snobbery and discrimination still persists to an extent in academia. While everyone likes to think they are "cool and hip" there still is that unstated disdain. The word b@€&@# similarly does NOT mean a child born outside an institutional marriage. It means a despicable, selfish, evil person. We all know this so why is the meaning still associated with children who it cannot truly describe (because they are still limited by their circumstance much more than most adults) when it is in fact a term describing certain adults who are old enough to know better? My guess is this was used by certain people in power in religions to intimidate and bully people who fell in love and had children but didn't attend church or pay money to their coffers. What a despicable way to bully loving families by picking on their children. These religious people were/are the real b€&@#&s. As for the word cant, it is a fantastic word and nothing to do with a beautiful part of the female anatomy. My guess is it comes from the word can't, to describe those people who will say "no" to just about everything, no you can't do that or this, no that can't be done, I reckon they became known as a can't or cants but the accent changed over time to become a c@nt. We all know this yet some people, who probably are c@nts, say it is a bad word "you can't say that word it's a bad word!" "Yes I can, it's not a bad word, you just don't like it because you are a c@nt." No it is a fantastic funny word because it is so passionate and clear with such efficiency, the offence only happens in the c@nt's mind perhaps they are just a socially conditioned person a can't, now known as a c@nt. Things have come a long way but there is still more distance to go to get rid of the snobbery and discrimination, I reckon if we got rid of this politically correct oppression of genuine emotion and stopped the snobbery it would be another step towards equality across all divisions. I find women traditionally use less expletives reflective of the greater oppression of true emotion. We all know when someone is being nasty using these words offensively but there is no need to demonise the words. The words are not offensive they can't be they are just harmless sounds. It is in the mind of the critic where there is an offence committed or in the speaker if their intent is nasty. To express honest emotion is in reality something that should be encouraged rather than suppressed. Everyone knows it is in the mind of the critic where the offense is, if someone playfully says "€&@# you!" There is a certain innate intelligence that understands it is fun, similarly when it is used in a nasty way we similarly recognise the intent. That calls for a certain level of intelligence and awareness. Expletives whatever way you look at them are intelligent linguistic tools. One thing I don't like is them being used aggressively on children because it displays a level of intimidation which children don't deserve, aren't always eauipped to deal either and can be quite debilitating subconsciously. I know myself in order to survive violent teachers, predatory bullying religious clergy, unjust courtrooms etc I had to learn to silence my voice, curb my freedom, my happiness and obey the rules, restrict my passion or get even more beatings and persecution. The restriction of these words is actually against international law. The Universal declaration of human rights states everyone has the right to use their natural languages without discrimination yet we all know the reality, they are used as an excuse to discriminate, for example law enforcers very often persecute people for using them (while using them themselves.) To end on a historical fun note while studying religions I learned that the feet are symbols used as expressions of extreme distaste or offense in the middle east. In the Christian Gospels it is written that Jesus told his disciples to shake the dust off their feet when leaving a place where they are not made welcome to show how unwelcome these people will be in the kingdom of heaven, the modern equivalent is to give the middle finger as many people do when they are left out on the street, refused entry to a party or otherwise discriminated against.

This divide and conquer tactic has also been used to divide generations and disempower/discriminate against parents who freely use expletives and raise their children to express themselves similarly. I of course had to curb my passion in this post in case some can't complained to tumblr and used it as an excuse to hold back science. If anyone does a note to tumblr folks, because I solved the double slit experiment and unlocked the Theory of Everything my account here is likely to get you more new account sign ups in a week than you have maybe had in years and there's nothing in the post that we don't see in kids comics.

[enaasteria]

Lost and Found // Baekhyun

// Prompt Request—“Have you seen my hoodie?” // Requested by—@baekyung​  // Artist AU, Soulmate AU, attempt at fluff but probably more aligned to angst

A/N: It was supposed to be a drabble but it turned into this monster. I’m very sorry.

“You’re staring at him again,” my seat mate, Mari, teases. She pokes me with an unused paintbrush before packing up the rest of her supplies at the end of class. It breaks me out of my reverie and I massage the slight throbbing in my arm, playing off her scrutiny of where my eyes may have wandered.

“We’re supposed to look at him.”

“Yeah, while we’re painting his figure. I’m not sure if that includes when he dresses and undresses.”

“I—I—wa—I wasn’t staring at him undress—was I?” I ask, almost mortified at the thought of being so pathetically obvious in how besotted I am over this semester’s male model, Byun Baekhyun. 

“If laser eyes existed in this world, you would’ve burned two holes into his chest.”

“I wasn’t staring at his chest.”

“Oh? Was it his—

I lunge forward, almost dropping my art supply bin, to stop her from verbally embarrassing me more so than she already has as one by one the students exit the classroom. “I wasn’t.”

“Fine, fine. You weren’t, but who would blame you if you did,” she says with a wave of her hand while she waits for me to finish packing up. “He is, after all, rather aesthetically pleasing.”

“More than aesthetically pleasing.”

“Oh?”

I look at her, realizing I divulged more than what I usually do in terms of my infatuation for Baekhyun. It was harmless intrigue in the beginning. I saw him through the eyes of a painter because he was unbelievably beautiful. His soft cheeks, the strawberry toned hair ruffling over his eyes, the benevolent grin seemingly etched into his face. It was as if there was a light exuding from him—a type of warmth I tried to capture with my paintbrushes every day. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you and I both know exactly what you meant.”

The comment makes me grimace because there’s no denying I like him. Down to the very essence, I like him in a way I can’t explain within words, in drawings, or even fathom how I’ve never felt my heartstrings tug for another in a way it does for Baekhyun. 

As much as I wish for a little more from the very man I paint from on a daily basis, I realize how futile these inner desires truly are. Because it’s all I can do. I can only look at him. I can only draw him and the single thought continually spreads a debilitating ache throughout every part of my soul. 

Mari watches as my expression reaches the fine line of acceptance and hurt and places a supportive hand on my shoulder. “He could be, you know. He could be your—”

I stop her before she voices it—the dreaded ‘soulmate’ terminology of which we all live and abide by. In our world, there’s a person we’re meant to be with. They’re our match in every possible way and while I do harbor feelings for Baekhyun in the acutest kind, I realize the chance of him being that person made out to be my other half is zero to none. “He’s not.”

“He could be.”

“The universe has never and would never be so kind.”

“You never know.” She changes her pitch, turning it into a rather singsongy tune as we exit the drawing room.

We make our way down the hallway with our art portfolio cases hanging on our shoulders and from the corner of my eye, I see her bite her bottom lip. She’s toying with whether to voice out the obvious because whenever she tries to mention the word soulmate to me, immediately following will be a discussion about my birthday—my 20th birthday to be exact and one which will happen at the stroke of midnight.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“Is anyone ever ready to find out who their soulmate is on their 20th birthday?”

There’s a slight shock to her face as she hears me say the word I usually avoid. And it’s because I have a hard time admitting how the word scares me. I’m horrifically afraid what I’ll feel for my soulmate will never amount to the way I feel for Baekhyun. 

I let out a sigh and push away the apprehension, figuring I’ll deal with it when it comes. But as a good friend should, she empathizes with my worries and connects her free arm within mine. “I definitely wasn’t ready.”

“Yet, you won’t tell me how it happens so I can prepare myself.”

She scoffs as her eyes crinkle at the edges, perhaps remembering how she found out who her fated person was all those months ago. “It’s because I don’t know how to explain it. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. What about your parents? Did they say anything?”

“Yeah—but it only made me more confused.”

“What did they say?”

“They called it—lost and found.”

For a while, I tried interpreting their meaning. I wondered if it meant physically losing something with my soulmate finding and returning it or if it was just a metaphor beyond my comprehension. In the end, all I was left with was a whole new set of unanswered questions. Though, I don’t get a chance to hear Mari’s take on it as a familiar voice calls out my name. 

The sound instantly stills my heart as I’ve memorized his pitch and tone as much as I’ve memorized the details of his body from head to toe. I’m frozen in footing as my grip on Mari tightens. She doesn’t let go as we both see Baekhyun jog up to where we’re standing. 

“Hey—” he starts off and per his norm, his smile is already tugging at the far corners of his mouth. 

I’m not sure where the courage is coming from but my mouth responds on its own (albeit it’s just a single greeting and to my defense, it is one word more than what I’ve said to him all year). “Hi.”

Mari untangles herself from my grasp. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’s about to abandon me within the matter of seconds so I’ll suffer through this sudden interaction alone. “I have to catch the bus, but I’ll see you next class. Happy birthday and let me know how it goes tonight—okay?”

I mentally plead her to stay but all she gives back are sly winks and unexplainable eyebrow raises. What’s a little more alarming other than her leaving me to fend for myself is the fact she mentioned my birthday for Baekhyun to hear. 

My free hand reaches up to my forehead, scratching an imaginary itch and hope he doesn’t read too heavily into any of it. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s nothing serious but Professor Moon mentioned you might be able to help me.” He looks hopeful and I do my best not to get lost in his blinding presence. 

It’s hard enough being in the same room with him while painting his male form but it’s a whole other issue trying to concentrate on holding a proper conversation with him. With the former, at least I had a legitimate reason to only look at him. This is worlds different and is by far, a suffering I never thought I’d have to endure. “Yeah, of course. What is it?”

“Please don’t laugh,” he begins and my heart plummets as I see his eyes shine in the most innocent way. “I usually wear a certain hoodie to your painting class.”

“Right—the sapphire blue one with the white logo design running across the chest,” I say it all without thinking until the cold terror washes down my body. I only memorized that hoodie because it’s the outfit he wore the first time I met him and he’s worn it every day since. But voicing that little fact makes me out to be a strange person and the feeling of wanting to run into a ditch and live there for all of time comes in full force. “I—I me—I mean—artist’s eyes, you know. I notice a lot of details.”

He cranes his neck while his gaze roams about my face. It’s a small little action but one I make note of due to this being the closest I’ve ever stood next to him. I pray he doesn’t sense anything off and to my relief, he doesn’t question or dive deeper into my odd remark. 

Instead, his stare goes on for a second too long before something clicks within him and he speaks again. “Yeah, that’s the one. I must’ve left it behind or misplaced it. I asked Professor Moon if she’s seen it around the classroom but she didn’t. She suggested I ask you since you work in the Art Department office and there’s a lost and found box. I was wondering if you’ve seen my hoodie there by any chance?”

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t,” I say with a shake of my head. 

Baekhyun’s lips press together into a pout and it’s the saddest look I’ve ever witnessed on him. The melancholy expression doesn’t suit him and I go through every possible method to think and come up with a way to help him.

“But we can go check—the office, I mean. We can check the office. I only work three days out of the week so someone might’ve turned it in.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother you if you had plans—

“It’s ok. I don’t mind,” I say because if there was a choice between going home to an empty apartment or having a few more minutes with Baekhyun, I would choose him time and time again. “I didn’t make any plans so—” My voice fades into a whisper at the end as I urge him to follow me to the art office one building over. 

I try to make it a quick walk but it seems Baekhyun has other ideas as his pace is much slower than mine. He digs his lithe fingers into his jean pockets as he takes one foot after another down the outdoor steps. 

When he reaches the sidewalk, he brings up the very words I love to avoid. “So, your birthday is tonight.” He watches as I writhe about in imaginary pain. It causes a low chuckle to escape from his chest while he waits for my answer.

“Unfortunately, it is.”

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

“Not a fan of this birthday,” I correct.

“Ah—that one.”

I take quick glances at him and find it more of a surprise seeing him return my gaze. But since his attractive face is difficult for me to handle in large doses, I turn my main focus towards the pavement below. “Did you have yours already?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh. So you know then—” I swallow and find the sudden lump situated at the base of my throat making it hard for me to breathe. “You know who your soulmate is.”

“Mhmm. I know who she is.” 

“Does she know—that you’re her soulmate?” The bitter words feel like salt on my wounds but I’m not even sure why I’m asking. The only plausible result waiting for me at the finish line is more angst and agony. Maybe a part of me wants to know in hopes it’ll make tonight a little bit more bearable—solidifying into stone how I was right in thinking Baekhyun wasn’t my soulmate after all. 

Baekhyun shakes his head, his locks tousling over his almond eyes. “No, not yet. I’m trying my best to keep myself from getting too close to her until she does find out.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. I have this irrational fear she won’t like me so for now, I’m staying away and just hoping for the best.”

“Hope.” I breathe out the one word and find so much familiarity in it because it’s exactly how I feel when I look at Baekhyun. 

I hope even when I realize it’s hopeless to do so. 

Tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ear, I give him a sad smile before we reach the building. I change the topic since this might be the only time I’ll ever have a conversation with him in our lives and I’d rather it not be so dreary and bleak. 

“I’m sure she’ll like you—especially in that hoodie,” I placate and sincerely wish she loves him for the remarkable person he is inside and out. 

When we finally arrive to the art office, I set my art portfolio case down by the door and ask Baekhyun to wait. I feel the weight of his gaze watching my every movement and it becomes a little nerve-wracking to just walk in front of him. I dig around in the storage closest before finding the tattered cardboard box but when I bring it out, I’m unable to hide my disappointment. It doesn’t go unnoticed as his expression mirrors my own.

“It’s not in there, is it?” he asks.

“No, it isn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m thankful for you trying.” He shrugs his shoulders and the frown once on his face dissipates as quickly as it came. “You know, I actually considered it my good luck charm.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not to be super cheesy or anything but my life changed the day I was wearing it so it became something I was attached to. I even went to the lengths of writing my name and phone number inside on the label tag just in case I somehow lost it—which, clearly, I ended up doing anyway.”

“I know the feeling. It happened with my sketchbook.”

Baekhyun shifts his weight and bites down on the inner flesh of his mouth as if keeping himself from smiling too hard. I blink to try and understand it but no viable answer comes to mind. He clears his throat and brushes his index over his nose a few times before asking, “Sketchbook?”

“It wasn’t really a good luck charm as it was more of something bringing me joy. I would draw in it every time I felt down.”

“What did you draw in it?”

My hand naturally draws up to my chest, trying to alleviate some of the tension because what I drew in that notebook was endless portraits of him. Every page was lined to the details of only him. His face. His hands. Even the tiny little mole housed on his ear. “Pictures—of someone.” I avoid saying him in fear of coming off more peculiar than I already am and laugh it off. “But it’s gone missing just like your hoodie. I’m sure it’ll turn up though.”

“I do too.” He stands up straight, shuffling a bit in his stance and I fear the times come to part ways.

I realize I’ll still see Baekhyun in class. I’ll still get to draw him but I know once midnight comes around, what I feel inside might change and I’m unsure if it’ll be for better or worse.

“Thanks again for trying—I really mean it,” he says.

“Wish I could’ve helped more. If I see it, I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?” 

“Absolutely.”

He ends our conversation with his signature smile but before he's out of view, Baekhyun turns around and quickly walks back to me. He angles down slightly to my height. It’s close enough to the point where I can see every speck and glint designed into his umber eyes and count every lash perfectly placed on his lids. He displays the same kindness and light which drew me in from the very beginning while he speaks. “The tag.”

“The tag?”

He nods slowly and just as carefully as the words leaving his lips. “Just in case, when you do see it, the tag inside the hoodie will read—Byun Baekhyun.” He spells out every beautiful letter to his name and it feels as if he’s engraving them into my heart and mind. He does the same thing he did earlier when we were in front of the classroom. His eyes wash over me, from my brows to my nose, even to the sides of my face. He takes it all in. “And I hope,” he whispers, “I hope—you won’t be disappointed tonight.”

His sentiment stays with me. 

It remains etched in the lining of my skin after he leaves and even when I reach my home. It replays over and over in my head and like my parents, he’s given me more questions than answers. But I can’t dwell on it as the hours and minutes dwindle down to midnight. The dread of what’s to come makes its unsettling way into my stomach as the twist and turns provide no comfort.

I watch as the clock counts down into the seconds and my place of refuge has always been the image of Baekhyun. Leaning back against the headboard of my bed, I close my eyes and think of him. His joy, his light. His very existence. I picture it all and if I was asked how I wanted to spend my 20th birthday, this would be it. It would be picturing him and thinking of him. 

With no expectation or hope, I feel the next day unfold and sense the slightest change in the air. It’s minuscule. It’s so small that it’s barely discernible as the faintest breeze washes over me. I slowly open my eyes and feel my heart thrum against the bones of my chest. 

Because what’s placed before me at the foot of my bed is a familiar sapphire blue hoodie. The garment is folded and tucked securely inside a knotted red bow and for a while, I let it sit there. I’m scared to touch it, frightened to even know what it could mean. I never dreamed of this outcome. I tried my hardest never to hope for it or wholly wish for it since the chances of it being true was near impossible. 

I will my hands to unwrap the ribbon and search for the one affirmation to make me believe it’s real—as real as the words he spoke. I search for the tag as my fingers brush over the small piece of fabric. 

And written on it in his handwriting is word for word, letter for letter—

Byun Baekhyun.

[xpouii]

Docthor Day 4: AU Day

This is Day 4 of of Docthor Week by @lostcybertronian

               Dr Edward Iplier climbed out of the taxi and pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was cold this close to the coast, and Mythea Asylum backed right up to the seaside. He took a moment to look over the beautiful building, and the few residents milling about the grounds all dressed in white. He climbed the stairs and went inside, cradling his briefcase under one arm. A few nurses ignored him, some even giving him dirty looks, until finally one man stopped and reached for his hand, “Dr Iplier it’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

               “You must be Director Trimmer,” Edward said, smiling, if a little overwhelmed by the man’s enthusiasm.

               “Oh please, just Mr. Trimmer. I don’t have use for big titles. You’re early! That’s admirable for someone who’s traveled so far to our little slice of paradise.”

               Edward looked around the sprawling entrance hall, nodding, “It’s an old habit, Mr. Trimmer. So, tell me why I’m so popular here already.”

               “Oh ignore the nurses,” Trimmer said, beckoning him down a long hallway. “Your treatments and philosophies are new, and most of our nurses would prefer to just tie down patients or send them off for a lobotomy. I’ll personally be glad when the whole practice stops!”

               “Well I hear your facility performs a record low amount of them,” Edward said. “Only two last year. That’s almost unheard of. It’s part of the reason I agreed to work with you.”

               “Very good sir, very good,” Trimmer said. “I have given you an office on the lower level with an adjacent bedroom. It’s a little dreary, but it’s the furthest away from the hubbub so that you can conduct your work in relative peace. There are three patients in the same hallway, but they’re all relatively harmless. I’ll introduce you once you are feeling up to it.”

               “Oh, please, right away,” Edward said. “I’d love to meet my neighbors.”

               Trimmer smiled and clapped his hands together, opening a door that led onto a landing with stairs going down. It smelled cold, and wet, but not moldy or mildewed, and Edward liked the space already. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs he stopped to admire the old sodium lights with a smile. Trimmer was patient, letting him sightsee as they went at a crawl down the corridor. “Here is our first gentleman,” he said when they reached a door marked 178. Trimmer knocked smartly, “Wilford! It’s Bim. I have someone to introduce!”

               The door was opened and a large, burly man with an expressive face and a vibrant mustache emerged into the hallway, “Well hello! I’m Wilford Warfstache.”

               “This is Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist.”

               Edward extended his hand and Wilford shook it. He was strong, and his eyes betrayed his wily intelligence, “Great to meet you, Doc. I hope the nurses don’t run you off!”

               Edward chuckled, “Thank you, Wilford. It’s nice to meet you, and they’ve already given me an icy reception.”

               “Wilford here works as a custodian on the night rotation,” Trimmer said. “He has grounds privileges and if you’re ever unsure where to go, he’ll get you there.”

               Wilford gave a little salute, then returned to his room with a flourish, “He’s great,” Edward said.

               “He wasn’t always,” Trimmer said. “He was in a fairly ugly battle in the war, came home and murdered his best friends and one of the men’s wives. It’s truly tragic how those who defend us are often abandoned to their own broken minds once they return home.”

               Edward nodded, his eyes lingering on the door as he followed Trimmer on, “Such an impressive turnaround. Has he been-“

               “No,” Trimmer said. “No Lobotomy, but he’s had extensive hypnosis sessions and we monitor him closely. Any attempt to break him out of his delusions usually ends in a backslide, but he is completely harmless as long as you play along.”

               “Good to know,” Edward said. “I’d like to see him, as a patient if I could.”

               “You have access to any and all of our patients,” Trimmer said. “As long as you promise not to break him. I have a bit of a soft spot.”

               Edward chuckled, “Of course.”

               The next room, 179 was on the opposite side of the hallway from his own, and Trimmer had to knock twice before it was opened. A young woman emerged with a shadowy expression, “Yes, Mr. Trimmer?”

               “Yan,” Trimmer said with a gentle voice. “This is Dr. Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist. Remember I told you that you would be seeing someone new?”

               Yan folded her arms, leaning against the doorway, “What good it will do me. Thanks, Mr. Trimmer.” She looked Edward up and down, giving him a stiff nod of greeting, and then disappeared back into her room.”

               “You have a teenage girl down in the same hall with-“

               “Yan is a very special case,” Trimmer said. “She’s an androgyne.”

               “I believe they go by transsexuals now,” Edward said. “So she was born male?”

               Trimmer nodded, “I’ve yet to find a doctor who can work with her beyond wanting to cure the one thing that I think isn’t wrong with her. Other than that she has a rather violent attachment tendency. She isn’t allowed around any of the male orderlies or patients her own age as a result, thus why we keep her sequestered with the two gentlemen down here. I do desperately hope you can do her some good.”

               “I believe I can,” Edward said. “I’m most certainly willing to try. Alright, who’s next?”

               Trimmer walked down another door, knocking gently. After a long moment of silence, the door opened, just halfway, and the patient stepped out. “This is Eric,” Trimmer said. “Eric, this is the new psychiatrist, Dr. Edward Iplier.”

               The young man stared at the floor, twisting a yellow cloth in his hands, “Hello.”

               “Eric suffers with debilitating anxiety and asked to be sequestered from the general population. He doesn’t feel comfortable in large groups, or any groups.”

               Eric glanced halfway up from the floor, head turned toward Edward, “N-new psychiatrist?”

               “That’s right, Eric. He’s here for you,” Trimmer said. “And a few others, but I’ve told him about your case.”

               “I’m certain that I can help you,” Edward said.

               Eric nodded, a shaky, unsure movement, and backed up a step toward his room, “May I?”

               “Of course,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Eric.”

               The young man closed his door so softly it barely made an audible sound. Edward cleared his throat, “Fascinating. He seems to be suffering from more than just anxiety.”

               “He had a trouble childhood and early adulthood,” Trimmer said. He witnessed the death of almost his entire family, and his father is extremely abusive. He is the one who brought Eric here, dropped him off like a dog at a kennel. This poor man has never been trained to handle social situations, and he still harbors fear and resentment for the things that happened to him before he came. Group Therapy is impossible, and one-on-one sessions don’t work well with most doctors as they just don’t have the patience it takes to treat Eric.”

               “I’m confident I can make some leeway,” Edward said. “I’ve worked similar cases in young children, but the symptoms seem to be similar enough. I’m sure I can apply the same actions to get the same results.”

               “Wonderful,” Trimmer said. “Now, let’s see your office shall we?”

               The room was dusty, but not overwhelming. It had recently been cleaned, as the dust was all in the air instead of settled on surfaces. There was a large, impressive desk, and several empty bookcases. “I’ll have to send for my books,” Edward mused. “I didn’t expect so much room.”

               “You’re a bit of a celebrity here,” Trimmer said. “At least to those of us with a vision of the future. I want to take this hospital out of the dark ages. It’s been a staple of my life since I was a child. My mother was a nurse here and my father was a doctor as well. I just want to make them proud.”

               “I know they would be already,” Edward said. “This place is beautiful.”

               “Every beautiful place has its dark secrets,” Trimmer said. “Speaking of, I believe you’d like to see the isolation ward?”

               Edward nodded, “It would be nice to know my way to it. A good deal of my time will be spent there, I suspect.”

               “Let’s hope so,” Trimmer said. “That means you haven’t given up!”

               Trimmer laughed and Edward smiled, indulging him, eager to lay eyes on the isolation ward, a chance to prove his theories and hypotheses on real violent offenders. It was the reason he’d agreed to transfer from his plush job upstate.

                 “This is the isolation ward,” Trimmer said. “Patients here don’t ever interact with the general population, and you’ll have to use the consultation room here to interact with them. This is, of course, a large part of why I invited you here. These individuals need our help, more than anyone else. They’re prime candidates for lobotomy if you can’t help them.”

               Edward nodded, “I’m guessing I’ll be meeting them through a door?”

               “A quick introduction, with names, so you can decide whose files you’d like first. Here we have Dark. Very aggressive and manipulative, but rarely becomes physically violent unless provoked. He has a bad habit of causing the other patients to become violent, and it’s almost impossible to monitor him. He’s smart, smarter than any one of us, I’m guessing.”

               The man inside had his hair in his eyes, and a heavy beard, “When am I going to be permitted to shave again?”

               “When you don’t threaten to decapitate the kitchen staff,” Trimmer said. “Dark, this is the new psychiatrist.”

               “Edward Iplier,” Dark said, standing up. “I heard about you. You’re a modern man. You don’t have that downstairs urge to shove an ice pick in my eye. What a strange personality trait for a doctor.”

               “So I’m told,” Edward said. “I look forward to our first session.”

               Dark grinned, but it was stilted, more of a sneer, “Oh as do I, Doctor.”

               Trimmer slid the window shut over the grate and sighed, “He’s a handful. I’m not sure there’s much to be done for him, but still. He’s very concerned with his hygiene. It’s the only way I can get him to do anything.”

               “This next patient is nicknamed The Author. He is responsible for a record string of murders, all described in detail in books he would go on to publish. He’s our little celebrity. He is the most violent, most dangerous man here, and he will not hesitate to attack you. Do not let your guard down. He opened the window of the door, “Stand clear for spit.”

               Edward chuckled, all too familiar with these sort of patients. “Hello, I’m Dr. Edward Iplier, your new psychiatrist.”

               The man appeared at the window, wrapping his hands around the bars of the window, “Why don’t you come in and we’ll start our session, Edward.”

               “Soon, although I’m told there’s a special room for it.”

               The Author grit his teeth, “Of course, too afraid to come into my world, are you?”

               “I hear you’re a successful writer.”

               “I hear you’re a pushover who lets your emotions rule you, and that this asylum is going to chew you up, spit you out and send you back where you came from. I hope I get to kill you instead. You would look so pretty bleeding to death, wouldn’t you? Those eyes wide in panic, blood trickling out of the corner of your mouth while I bathe in your chest cavity.”

               “Enough pleasantries,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Author.”

               “Pleasure,” the Author growled, and Trimmer closed the window.

               “We try not to indulge his threats,” Trimmer said. “He is very sadistic, and he gets great enjoyment from the fear of others.”

               “Don’t worry,” Edward said. “I don’t scare easily. Anyone else of note?”

               “Oh plenty of patients, but those are the five I want you focusing on the most. Two of them to save their lives, and three of them to hopefully reintroduce them to society. I think you can handle much more, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

               “I’ll offer some open office hours then,” Edward said. “If any of the less particular patients should show any interest.”

               “I’ll let the nurses know,” Trimmer said. “Although don’t expect a stampede at first. You’re going to have do a lot of politicking to get patients outside of the five I’ve handpicked for you.”

               “Sure,” Edward said. “Thank you, Mr. Trimmer. I’m going to do everything I can to fulfill your wishes for these patients.”

               “I know you will,” Trimmer said, taking Edward’s hand in both of his. “I’m counting on you.” He left then, disappearing into his office, and Edward made his way back to his own room.

                 The Author stared across the table, pulling against the restraints, testing them. “Are you certain this is necessary?” Edward asked.

               The orderly chuckled, and left the room, “Good luck, Doctor.”

               “Barbarians,” the Author said. “You see how they treat me?”

               “I expect it’s a lot better than you treated those thirty-four people,” Edward said. “But this isn’t a competition of depravity. Id like to talk to you about your mental well-being.”

               “No shit,” the Author said, chuckling. “Do you smoke?”

               “I don’t.”

               “The one fucking doctor who doesn’t smoke,” he growled. “Well, if you want anything out of me. It’ll cost you a cigarette.”

               “And I am to hold it to your mouth for you to smoke it?” Edward said, raising an eyebrow.

               “Unless you want to unstrap me,” the Author said. “You’re welcome to.”

               Edward chuckled, “It says here your father died when you were seven? And that your mother raised you until she kicked you out of the house at fourteen? Was she a prostitute?”

               “As you know,” the Author said. “I didn’t only kill women. I don’t have a hatred of women. My mother was a laundry worker, and she did the best she could. She threw me out because I tried to castrate her boyfriend. Honestly, she did me a favor.”

               Edward scribbled as the Author spoke, and the patient’s eyes fixated on the pen, licking his lips. Edward glanced up, “Do you like pens?”

               The Author glanced up, “I am a writer after all.”

               “Of course,” Edward said. “Well, maybe if you decide to stop being violent, or if we are able to successfully control your symptoms with medication, you can write again.”

               The author laughed, “Not unless you’re going to give me people to kill. Come on, Edward. Let’s start with that orderly huh? He treated you like a fool. Don’t let him do that. I could use that pen and split his sternum open. I could pull out his intestines and make you a scarf. I’d do that for you, in exchange for the pen.”

               “That’s really more of a threat than a deal,” Edward said. “I’m not sure an intestine scarf would go with my eyes. So tell me more about your time on the streets.”

               The Author snarled, fighting his restraints with vigor, testing each buckle and strap to its limit, and Edward watched, unaffected as he did so. Finally, he stopped, and his expression turned to a smile, “Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

              “If you decide you want to take this seriously-“

              “Oh come on Edward. They’re going to shove an ice pick in my eye and scramble my brains. That’s all they can do. There’s no fixing me. You can’t fix an evil man.”

               “There is no such thing as an evil man,” Edward said. “You’re an ill man. You’re mentally unwell, and I believe you could benefit from some of the new medications that-“

               “Medications? You trying to dope me up? Make me a drooling ragdoll? I don’t think so. I’m not taking any of that shit.”

               Edward cleared his throat, “This is different. Thorazine has been very successful at helping individuals with unpleasant urges to gain control over themselves, and no, once the medication has levelled out you won’t be a ragdoll. There are side effects but that can be handled.”

               The Author scowled, “I don’t think you get what I’m saying. I’m not letting you put any pills in me. I want to go back to my room now.”

               “We aren’t finished.”

               “That’s not your decision!”

               Edward smiled, “Actually, due to you being mentally unsound, it is my decision. We can sit here all day and talk about your childhood and each one of your victims and why you did what you did, but you don’t like that do you? Why’s that?”

               “What’s to talk about?” the Author muttered. “It’s all in the book.”

               “Almost every other serial killer loves talking about what they’ve done. You’re an anomaly.”

               “Don’t try to flirt with me now after you already insulted me, Edward,” the Author said. “Listen, I’m a lost cause alright? Just let me go and wait for the pick already.”

               Edward sighed, “There isn’t going to be any ice pick. Mr. Trimmer has already made that promise, so you’re going to sit in that cell until you decide to cooperate, or-“

               “Or?”

               “Until I medicate you without your cooperation. It would be much easier with your input, but I don’t necessarily need it.”

               The Author shifted in his seat, looking around the room, “So you really want to give me this stupid pill?”

               “More than anything,” Edward said smugly. “If it doesn’t work, we stop right away.”

               The Author grit his teeth, staring at the floor, “Fine.”

[journalxxx]

No Rest for the Wicked (3)

"Hey. Higgsbury."

Wilson woke with a gasp, heart racing and chest heaving as something touched his shoulder. His overwhelmed brain took in his surroundings in a frenzy of disconnected bits: the setting sun, the rough table he was napping on, the spilled ink on his half-finished blueprint, the blood rumbling in his own head, the tiny pins and needles tickling his left arm, the gaunt harasser standing beside him.

"Say, pal. You don't look so good."

Wilson blinked at Maxwell, wondering why he was still alive. Oh, right. Not a dream, this one. Not a dream. He wondered if the other man could hear the gears furiously turning in Wilson's brain to sort through real memories and fleeting visions in an effort to make sense of his current situation. He probably could, it felt like they were very rusty and grind-y.

"Can you please. Never say those specific words to me again. Please."

"Have I caught you at a bad time? It didn't seem like there was much inventing going on at the moment."

Wilson drummed his fingers on the table nervously, still dizzy with adrenaline. He focussed very, very hard on eliminating all thoughts of sadism and murder and assorted violence from his brain, but the sight of Maxwell's nonchalant mug made it exceedingly difficult.

"You always catch me at a bad time. When you want to disturb me, just assume it's a bad time. And then don't do it. What do you want?"

Maxwell regarded him with something unpleasantly akin to amusement. He glanced at the ruined sketch on the table.

"Strange dreams, eh? What was this one about?"

"...You don't want to know."

"I beg to differ."

Wilson squinted at him, rubbing his arm to restore the circulation. Well, if he insisted.

"...I wanted to observe the effects of prolonged consumption of raw monster meat on humans. You were the test subject, but you refused to eat it, so I made an incision in your epigastrium-" He poked at the exact spot on Maxwell's abdomen as he explained, "and created a fistula large enough to introduce the minced meat directly in your stomach from the outside. It made you turn into that half-beast thing you used to scare me with when I was travelling to the throne-" He illustrated that passage too, hunching his back and mimicking claws and fangs with his hands and mouth, "and, since you behaved like a rabid dog, I had to put you down. Via decapitation. Then I dismembered you and put your organs in jars with formalin for later study. I think I was doing something with your liver when you woke me, but I can't remember what."

It was rare for Wilson to manage to reduce Maxwell to silence, but those precious few times were always so deeply worth it.

"...I'll say." He eventually commented, scratching his chin pensively. "I never thought there could be any decent material in that hairy nogging of yours, but it looks like you may have turned out not too disappointing a King, after all."

Wilson groaned, rubbing his hands on his face.

"What do you want, Maxwell?"

"Why do you keep asking me? You said you needed my help with some project of yours, remember?"

"Uh... yes, yes, I do. Give me just a moment." Wilson quickly gathered his tools and cleaned up the mess on the table. "You always have such impeccable timing. I've been sitting here all afternoon, but of course you show up the moment I put my head down for five minutes."

"You said I could come when I was free. Well, I'm free now." Maxwell crossed his arms condescendingly. "If your beauty sleep has the priority, I can come back next week or so."

"You've got a busy schedule, haven't you? I suppose that standing around doing nothing and glancing judgementally at people who are actually working does eat up time." Maxwell was about to reply, but Wilson opted for a strategic retreat. "I'll be right back."

"So, what do you need me for?" Maxwell asked when Wilson came back with an armful of equipment. He watched with silent disapproval as Wilson dropped the items messily on the table, save for one vial filled with transparent liquid, which he carefully placed in a roughly-crafted canister. Wilson didn't miss the brief glimpse of concern that crossed Maxwell's eyes when he opened the case containing the syringe. "...I'm just realizing I should have asked this much sooner."

"You know that weird feeling you get after being revived - the feeling that you are indeed very much alive and well, but not quite as healthy as you were before? And no matter how much you eat or rest or heal, you never seem to regain your top shape?"

"Yes."

"Good. I was sure you would, given how vocally you complained about it when you burst out of my meat statue two months ago." Wilson paused to observe the content of the vial against the light: no suspicious discolorations or sediments. "As it turns out, it's a shared affliction. It happened to me too before... before, and others in the camp have confirmed experiencing the same problem. So I decided to see if anything could be done about it."

"I take that you are concocting some sort of serum. Do you need some specific ingredient or magic boost you think I can provide?"

"A fair assumption, but no. I believe I've already hit on a promising formula, and now I only need a suitable subject to test it."

"Ah. You see, that was my second guess, only because I gave you enough credit to reach on your own the obvious conclusion that I would never agree to that."

"Come on, don't be difficult. I promise you it's perfectly safe."

"Says the man who thought that powdercakes were safe for consumption." Maxwell squinted at the vial, hands clasped behind his back. "What's in there?"

"Oh just, you know... some minerals and... organic material. You needn't concern yourself with the technical details-"

"If you had said snake oil, it would have sounded less fishy. Which minerals? What organic material?"

"Well..." Wilson scratched his chin, pointedly avoiding Maxwell's inquisitive gaze. "Some nitre and ground bee stings. And- you know those funny-looking hyphae that were growing on the eggplants we forgot we had? Well, I thought-"

"You must be joking." Maxwell's face contorted into the most comically over-the-top expression of affronted disgust Wilson had ever seen. "Dirt and mold. You mixed dirt and mold into a bottle and you called that a cure? How did you even come up with such a ridiculous idea?"

"Exactly like I come up with every ridiculous idea I've ever had in this wretched place: by using our ridiculous machines, that's how. Or are you going to claim that there's more scientific merit to grinding flower petals to make dream gasoline, or whatever that foul thing is supposed to be?"

"Well, at least that foul thing isn't supposed to go straight into my veins! Your 'cure' is going to give me lockjaw or bubonic plague, if not both at the same time."

Wilson decided to dedicate a single moment of his life to envisioning how risus sardonicus might look on Maxwell's already grotesque set of facial features. He found that his imagination wasn't yet capable of producing such horrors, and he was ultimately grateful for it.

"I told you it's safe. I've already administered samples to some rabbits and pigmen, and they're all perfectly healthy. I've even had a dose of it myself, and as you can see-"

"You took it yourself?" Maxwell gaped at the scientist in utter shock. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Well, rabbits and pigmen aren't humans. Results obtained on them are only partially reliable to predict the effect the serum might have on actual people. And I didn't think it wise to use a potentially flawed drug on an already debilitated patient. I haven't died yet since we met, so I figured I would be the perfect subject to take note of any relevant side effects or issues. There haven't been any, by the way."

"You're a lunatic." Maxwell's bewilderment almost made Wilson laugh. It seemed like such a simple and straightforward process to him. "A complete, raving madman. That thing could have killed you more painfully than I ever did."

"That's extremely debatable, but let's not get sidetracked." Wilson joined the tips of his fingers, flashing his best ingratiating smile at Maxwell. "Care to assist?"

"No, not really. Besides, I've just finished recovering from that accident with the spider queen, so I may still be a tad too 'debilitated' for-"

"You've been 'just finishing recovering' from those two glorified scratches for at least a week. I don't doubt that that is due to the aforementioned post-resurrection weakness, and it is not even remotely just an excuse for you to be even less productive than usual. However, as the resident physician, I am positive you're at least well enough to withstand a harmless drug trial. Does this quell your fears?"

Maxwell pursed his lips, surprisingly giving some serious thought to the matter. "...Wolfgang has died too, once. And he's certainly fitter than me at any given moment. Why didn't you choose him?"

"To be fair, I did ask him first. But..." Wilson considered his fingertips. The memory of that colossal man mewling in horror and backing away from the raised syringe like a cornered animal would haunt him for the rest of his days. "I think he has a phobia of needles. Among the other things."

"Hm. Hard to blame him on that one. The needle of that syringe is barely smaller than an organ pipe."

"It's the best I could put together with the materials I found. Just be thankful I was able to craft one or I would have to resort to scarification."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"You wouldn't like the feel of that either."

Maxwell scrutinized him and his whole apparatus with blatant hostility. He didn't speak, and eventually Wilson sighed in defeat.

"...I can't force you, of course. But I do mean it when I say it's safe. It has given me no side effects whatsoever, I just need to establish if it's actually effective or not." Wilson tapped his fingers on the table, pensively. "I guess I could try again with Wolfgang. Wickerbottom could help me talk him into it, she’s good at that. After keeping him on a light diet for while. If he threw a fit in his best shape, he'd probably break my neck with an accidental flicker of his-"

"Oh, fine! Stop whining!" Maxwell burst out, throwing his hands to the sky. "And don't you dare say that I never do anything helpful. I'm literally throwing my own health to the wolves for your divertissement here."

"Splendid!" Wilson grinned, immediately filling the syringe with the precious liquid. "Uncover your shoulder. You don't have any allergies, do you?"

"If I said yes, would you reconsider my involvement?"

"I guess that's a no. Sit." Wilson stood up, politely leaving the chair free for his unhappy subject. Who didn't sit. Nor uncovered his shoulder. Wilson rolled his eyes. "What is it now? I swear, all this fussing for a single prick. Next time I'll just knock you out beforehands and save myself half an hour of pointless arguments."

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that I can simply refuse to sit to foil your brilliant plan altogether. There's little you can do to my shoulder from down there."

"...Wow, a height joke. Haven't heard one of those in a while. You're just desperate to buy time at this point. Sit before I stab this in your rear."

Wilson patiently waited as Maxwell begrudgingly complied and took as long as humanly possible to remove the several layers of clothing hiding his shoulder. Wilson also merrily ignored the constant muttering as he applied some antiseptic on the area.

"Mankind owes me a lot for confining you here and saving any possible future patient of yours from your misguided attempts at- Ow!"

"Yes, I'm sure such a charitable deed completely outweighs the God-knows-how-many unexplained kidnappings you've perpetrated in your whole life."

"Not as many as- Ow! This thing burns!"

"Hardly. I'd like to say you deserve a statue for your past and present heroism, but I think there are already far too many around here."

One last completely unwarranted 'ow' marked the end of the unbearable torture as Wilson pulled out the needle and pressed a patch of silk gauze on Maxwell's shoulder.

"Done. It's going to be just a little sore for-"

"You literally just said no side effects whatsoever!"

"That's not a side effect, it's a completely normal local reaction. It won't last more than a few days anyway."

Wilson put away his tools while Maxwell nursed his achy joint with a scowl. "Fine print and shady semantics are more tools of my trade rather than yours, you know?"

"Maybe, but at least I make a point of rewarding blind faith instead of squashing it. Your contribution towards scientific advancement is highly appreciated." Wilson smiled, producing a life-giving amulet from his pocket and handing it to Maxwell with a flourish and a small bow. "Please accept this for your trouble."

Maxwell froze in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, gaping at the item with sheer horror.

"...Oh God, I am going to die."

"No, no no no, this is just for... extra precaution. Just in case. Just in the remote eventuality that the serum might have some utterly unexpected and yet unobserved contraindication. Which it won't, I'm sure. Do feel free to bring to my attention any malaise that may bother you though."

"I hate you."

"Oh come on, I'm joking. Mostly." Wilson chuckled as Maxwell motioned to take the amulet. He instinctively gripped it harder though, suddenly struck by an unpleasant thought. He met Maxwell's puzzled glance with firm eyes. "By the way, I would dearly appreciate it if you used it as intended, this time."

"...I believe I should be granted the freedom to decide how to employ my payment, shouldn't I?" Maxwell's expression changed as well, subtly but unmistakably. Wilson already regretted breaching the subject, but he had no intention of backing down from his request.

"I'm serious. If this ends up like the last one, I'm not going to trust you with another again. They're far too precious to be wasted."

"Wasted, uh?" Maxwell scoffed, letting go of the amulet and standing fully straight to look down on Wilson. Wilson hated how easy it was for the man to look effectively imposing. "Maybe you should give this to someone else then. God forbid I should ever use it to look after myself in the way I see fit."

"You did nothing of the sort. You broke it. You took a resurrection tool, a literal life-saver, and disassembled it.” Wilson clenched his fists without even noticing, the argument from a few months before still fresh in his mind. Sometimes Maxwell’s behavior was truly unjustifiable. “And for what? To make another goddamn nightmare amulet!”

“That is what I’d call ‘looking after myself’’, yes. All this time you’ve spent around me, and you still don’t get how my powers work. You’re dreadfully unobservant for a scientist.”

“Look, I know what you’re driving at, but how can you possibly not understand that there’s nothing more important than resurrection items here?! They’re our only lifeline! They literally avoid death! We should scavenge for parts to craft them, not the other way around!”

“You’re astoundingly wrong. The smartest thing we can do is to avoid dying in the first place. We don’t build meat effigies during a famine, do we?”

“That’s not the same thing-”

“Maybe not for you, but it is for me!” Maxwell burst out suddenly. “I need nightmare fuel, don’t you get it? Suppose I get slaughtered against some unholy monster with no fuel and a resurrection amulet. I get brought back to life, and then what? If the monster wakes too early, it may very well slaughter me again before I can make a run for it! And even if I manage to get away, do you really think I can gather all the materials I need to survive quickly enough on my own? If I have fuel though, my duelists can lure the enemy away or maybe even kill it, and my gatherers can collect resources for me even if I’m injured. So yes, Higgsbury, having a functional nightmare amulet and therefore decent fuel reserves does qualify as safeguarding my life, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I- wait, wait a minute.” Wilson shook his head, momentarily stunned. For whatever reason, Maxwell hadn’t bothered to explain his reasons in such detail before, and the scientist had to admit there was a logic in them. Still, the remaining flaw was glaring. “You’re talking as if you had to survive completely on your own. There’s no need for you to be so obsessed about the fuel when you have plenty of other people to rely on. Anyone can help you find food or gather materials or get out of a tricky situation, you don’t need to have puppets ready all the time. No one can bring you back if you get killed though.”

“A brilliant reasoning. One, however, that is based on the certainty that you won’t be left behind, if things took a turn for the worse. In case you haven’t noticed, my puppets take care of almost all the heaviest and most time-consuming tasks around here, which is surely a great encouragement for my former captives not to lynch me. But if I run out of fuel, who’s to say they won’t suddenly remember their grudges?”

“Oh come on, that’s ridiculous. We’ve been camping together for months, you can’t possibly still believe the others to be so untrustworthy. We’ve had each other’s backs dozens of times by now, you must see that they’ve let bygones be bygones. No one would hold it against you if couldn’t provide materials for a while. We could easily split the work among ourselves.”

“Do you really trust them that much?”

“Of course I do! They’re all perfectly respectable-”

“Then why haven’t you told anyone about the throne?” Maxwell’s smirk was sharp, contrasting strongly with his eerily soft tone. Wilson was caught off guard.

“...I… It’s not the same-”

“Again, it’s exactly the same thing. You haven’t because you’re not sure how they’d react. And you’re not even the King who brought them here. Consider my position for one moment and you’ll see that I have excellent reasons to be unsure how they’d react to anything I may do or not do. Hence my interest in having my own backup always ready at hand.”

“...You’re looking at this all wrong.” Wilson shook his head again. “You have more backup than ever, or at least you would if you bothered to acknowledge it as such, and yet you still stick to your paranoid schtick. Hell, you’d rather stroll on your own among spider nests instead of honestly asking for help. Anyone would have come with you if you had asked. I would have come with you if you had asked.”

“I did ask you!” Maxwell retorted venomously. “Last month! Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

“What- You didn’t ask me for help! You asked- no, you demanded a red gem! Without even explaining why. A red gem I couldn’t give you because I needed it for an amulet!”

“Oh, right! The amulet you then gave to the robot. The goddamn robot, of all people! It doesn’t even live here! It shows up only when there are giants around, drops gratuitous threats against all things organic, and then vanishes again. Why would you even bother to craft an amulet for it? I’m sure it just wants to see us all dead-”

“You mean like you did?!” Wilson’s voice raised without him really noticing, too caught up in the discussion. “Do you even hear yourself? If there is one person here who shouldn’t ever dare question other people’s honesty, that’s you! At least WX has never actually done anything to hurt us, which automatically makes them more trustworthy than you!”

Maxwell didn’t reply immediately. He waited, hands clasped behind his back and a strange, unreadable scowl on his face, until Wilson properly registered the meaning of his own words.

“...That. That is exactly it. That’s what everyone thinks, that a perfect stranger would be easily more trustworthy than me, no matter the circumstances. That’s what would make anyone hesitate to help, even just for a second. And a second of hesitation can mean a lot when I’m about to be mauled by a hound. That is why I need my own backup.”

There were times, many times, when Wilson genuinely thought that Maxwell was hopeless. That he would ultimately seal his own fate through the sheer stubbornness of his own self-absorbed idiocy, no matter how much effort Wilson put into trying to avoid that. And yet.

“...I have never hesitated.” Maxwell didn’t meet Wilson’s eyes as the scientist spoke, apparently too busy with fixing his tie and waistcoat. “Not once.”

“...You needed backup too. And I was the only one around to provide it. You have a wide choice now, though.”

“Do you really think that?” Wilson asked bitterly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Do you really think that’s all there was to it?”

Even though Maxwell’s attire had long since been freed from any wrinkles or unsightly folds, he was still messing with it. Nevertheless, Wilson patiently waited for his answer, as one waited for a bully to decide whether he felt like dedicating ten seconds of his life to stomp on the elaborate sand castle one took two hours to build.

“...No.” Maxwell didn’t elaborate any further. It was a fortunate decision, for Wilson was already nearing his limit of tolerance for the day, and the umpteenth gratuitous jab or tirade against his stupidity, his morality, his naivety may have just convinced him to never spare another glance at Maxwell’s mug again. Or so he liked to think.

“...Good.” Wilson nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you can consider me your backup then.”

That finally tore Maxwell’s attention off his goddamn suit. Wilson shrugged in response to his befuddled glance.

“Honestly it’s ridiculous that I even have to say it aloud after I’ve effectively been your backup for God knows how long, but I guess you might benefit from hearing it. I’m not going to leave you behind, or ignore a request for materials or assistance, if only you can find it in yourself to spare two minutes to motivate it. You have my word on it. And if you were to leave the group for any reason that doesn’t involve egregious misbehavings on your part, like trying to murder people in their sleep or something of the kind, I’ll leave as well. How does that sound?”

Wilson may as well have turned into a turnip halfway through his speech, judging by the sheer bewilderment of Maxwell’s expression.

“What the devil is this about, now?”

“This is about making you stop wasting resources on problems that aren’t there. You can go without fuel for a few days or even weeks, if you need to, even if you can’t take care of the foraging. Just ask me, if you don’t feel like asking the others. And for heaven’s sake, take this and wear it!” Wilson outright slipped the amulet around Maxwell’s neck, pressing it firmly against his chest to drive the point more clearly. “Don’t break it. Don’t repurpose it. Just wear it.”

For the second time that day, Maxwell was shocked into silence, his eyes darting between Wilson’s face and his hand. The amulet pulsed under Wilson's palm, instantly warming up as the protective magic activated, and started to beat faintly, like a second heart perfectly in synch with the wearer's. It was a refreshing change to feel its natural, regular beat, without the rush and unsteadiness that blood loss and such distressing circumstances caused. The rhythm was pleasantly familiar, and distracting enough for Wilson to suddenly realize that he had been idly standing before Maxwell for a little too long, a little too close. He let go of the amulet and took a few steps back, until he bumped against the edge of the desk, his mind oddly blank.

“Why are you so obsessed with these things, anyway?” Maxwell asked, his tone somewhat subdued as he took the pendant in his hand and rubbed some invisible dust off the red gem. “We have meat statues and even a couple of touch stones. I could die three times within the next hour and I’d still be able to come back without an amulet.”

“Statues can be destroyed and the closest stone is almost a day away from the camp. Amulets are always the safest option.” In truth, Wilson couldn’t quite explain it. Maxwell was perfectly right, living in a large group had allowed them to secure plenty of materials for more resurrection items than Wilson himself had ever hoped for. But, as irrational as it may be, Wilson only felt truly safe when he and everyone around him were wearing a life-giving amulet around their neck. “I just don’t like taking any chances.”

“Mh. If I didn’t know you to be so scientifically inclined, I’d be tempted to call you superstitious. I guess it’s only anxiety then.”

“You can call it however you like, but it’s the reason I’ve managed to survive this long. Always having a backup plan is what allowed me to best the oh-so-dreadful King of the Shadows.”

“Ah! That’s precious.” Maxwell laughed, without any real bite. Unexpectedly, he leaned against the table too, beside Wilson. He regarded him with a conspiratorial smile, all traces of the previous argument gone from his demeanor. “No need to embellish the truth, pal, I was watching too. Remember the first time you jumped into a wormhole without amulets and the like and without having any idea what would happen? Where was your backup plan then?”

“Ah, but you forget that at the time I was being cornered by a tallbird at the edge of a cliff, without proper armor and at dusk. Jumping in the wormhole was the backup plan, you see.”

“...God, you really are the one who bested me. Why. How.” Maxwell lamented as he covered his face. “Did They really wish to humiliate me so? Why couldn’t it be Wickerbottom? Surrendering the throne to her would have been immensely more dignified. Honourable, even.”

“Maybe you just weren’t as good at your job as you thought. Or I am a genius survivalist. Take your pick.”

“Neither.” Maxwell rubbed his shoulder absently. “Are you planning to study the effects of whatever filth you poisoned me with watching me as I slowly shuffle off this mortal coil, or may I retreat to meet my end privately?”

“You’re free to go. Many thanks for your unwavering trust and enthusiasm.” Wilson simply watched as Maxwell shrugged on his coat. He tried his very best to sound as casual as possible with his next question. “Oh, by the way. Have you been experimenting with your puppets again?”

“Hm? No, not lately. Why?”

“Oh, never mind. I was just wondering.”

“...You were just wondering.” A single glance from Maxwell was enough for Wilson to know that he was simply hopeless at sounding casual. “And why were you wondering, may I ask?”

“I was just wondering! You do that sometimes! They used to work differently when I met you, and now they’re more specialized or something-”

“I only ever revised them that one time, because they were giving me troubles. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t think there was something wrong with them. Why?”

“I, uh… well… to be honest, they did a strange thing yesterday. And I was wondering if it may be because you were, I don’t know, trying out a new spell or-”

“Did they try to attack you? Because that would be your fault. I told you you’d eventually get on their nerves if you kept getting in their way while they’re working.”

“No, no no. In fact, it’s… it’s the exact opposite.” Wilson stopped for a moment. “You know how they always pretend I don’t exist, right? They don’t communicate, they don’t listen, they walk through me, they don’t even look at me, and all that-”

“Yes. I am aware of how my own puppets work. Get to the point.”

“Yes, right- by the way, why do they do that? I remember you said they behave exactly like you, but you don’t-”

“They behave like I would behave if I were an entity of pure shadow with no need or obligation to interact with other people in order to survive. Thus, they ignore you. The point, Higgsbury.”

“Right, right. So, the other day I was following a koalefant track up north, between the forest and the swamp. Your puppets were there too, chopping and mining and the like. They didn’t acknowledge me, as usual, and I ignored them too.” Maxwell crossed his arms and threw his head backwards with deliberate slowness, staring stolidly at the sky with a groan. “I guess, uh… I guess I must have been a bit distracted. The next track was very close to the edge of the swamp, but I thought I was far enough from- are you listening?”

“Regrettably.”

“...Right. Anyway, I must have gotten too close to the swamp and I didn’t notice the tentacle springing from the ground until too late. I was- it was about to hit me, but… one of your puppets pushed me out of the way.” Maxwell didn’t move, nor he replied. Wilson continued. “The tentacle actually struck it. It vanished. The other two had stopped working too, they were watching the whole thing, but then they resumed their job as if nothing happened as soon as I got far enough from the tentacle.”

“...Mh.” Maxwell eloquently commented.

“...I thought it was odd. Even in battle your duelists tend to let me get slaughtered if I don’t stick close enough to you. And your harvesters are even more passive. So I was wondering if you had changed them.”

“I haven’t.”

“...Doesn’t your neck hurt?”

“No.” Maxwell finally directed his scowl at Wilson instead of at the murky sky of the Constant. “Is this the conundrum? The puppet probably just tripped. You can add this to the long list of strokes of luck that have spared you yet another painful death. Rejoice.”

“It didn’t look like it just tripped. I don’t think it was even near me when I knelt down to examine the track. And the other two were staring too-”

“Look, I’d understand your perplexity if they had tried to skewer you, but they actually helped you for once. All the better, yes? Why does this concern you so much?”

“Why doesn’t it concern you?” Wilson insisted. “Your puppets are behaving abnormally without your direct input. What if something or someone else was influencing them?”

“Where the hell did you get that idea?” Maxwell scoffed. “There are no other shadow magic users around here. And They certainly wouldn’t hijack my puppets to save your neck.”

“Well, maybe there’s another possibility.” Wilson hesitated. Discussing the matter with Maxwell had seemed like a good move the previous night, while disturbing thoughts were keeping him awake long past the sunset. In that moment, not quite as much. “What if there was someone else with the same powers you have?”

“Bollocks. I’m sure there are only two human beings who ever became acquainted with shadow magic, and the other one is the current Queen. Not to mention I would have already noticed. I keep a keen eye on the invisible forces at work in the area, you know?”

“Maybe it’s someone you haven’t noticed because… they haven’t used their powers yet. Maybe because they don’t know they have them…”

“...I’m not sure I’m quite following you, although you seem to be heading in a very specific direction.” Maxwell frowned. Wilson felt like he was melting under that stern scrutiny. All right, there was no point in beating around the bush.

“...Listen. I sat on the throne, right? I’ve been King. Maybe while I was there, I did absorb a bit of shadow magic. Maybe the puppet responded to that, and therefore defended me. Or maybe- maybe I made it defend me without noticing-”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Maxwell raised a hand to stop him as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this what it’s all about? Are you still being paranoid about the throne? I told you you’re fine, stop overanalyzing every trifling thing that happens to you.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Wilson insisted. “What if I did take control of your puppet for a moment, without noticing? I was about to be killed, I asked for help! Maybe not vocally, but surely subconsciously. And help I did get, from shadow slaves that barely even bothered to acknowledge my presence before! Don’t you find it weird?”

“...Oh my God, you’re-” Maxwell muttered through his teeth, and then stopped abruptly. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of literally biting Wilson’s head off, flushed and irate as he looked. However, he reined himself in with uncharacteristic grace. He rubbed a hand on his face, then he sighed and drew the Codex from the inner pocket of his coat. He held it before Wilson’s eyes. “Listen, and listen well. Shadow magic isn’t something you just ‘absorb’ because you sat somewhere for a while. Even if They allowed you to tap into its power freely, without proper study and willing sacrifice, you couldn’t use it for anything more than cheap parlor tricks. I’ve been honing my own skills for decades, at great personal costs, and I’ve barely scraped the surface of what this book has to offer. Now, ingrain this simple concept into your brain: the mere thought that someone like you, without an ounce of talent or knowledge or training about magic, could overturn my own spells, even for a second, even by accident, is utterly ludicrous.”

Wilson wrung his hands nervously. “...Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Maxwell did sound as sure as one could possible get, but his stern demeanour deflated into a discouraged sigh before Wilson’s unresponsiveness. “But you won’t be convinced that easily, I guess.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust your expertise on the matter, mind you.” Wilson offered. “It’s just that… I keep thinking about it, and I can’t help but feel that I can’t just have left the throne room unscathed. And all these weird things that have been happening-”

“Are definitely not weird at all. I thought we’d been over this. Why have you been fixating on this so much?” Wilson shrugged, not knowing how to reply. Maxwell considered him for a moment, scratching his chin. “Have you tried doing it again?”

“Doing what?”

“Controlling a puppet.”

“No, of course not! I-”

“Well, shame on you then. What good can your harebrained hypotheses be without repeatable evidence?” Maxwell suddenly grabbed Wilson by his arm and dragged him in a seemingly random direction. “Come. Maybe some good old scientific method will convince you.”

“Wha- wait, where are you going?” Wilson stammered, stumbling along.

“To test your theory. Or rather, to make you fail at it as many times as you need to be convinced that it’s impossible.”

“Why are you suddenly so invested in this? I thought you were busy.”

“I’m always invested in watching you make a fool of yourself. Ah, there’s one.”

Maxwell pointed at the farm just outside the camp, where one of his puppets was filling his third- no, fourth basket of berries, freshly picked from the neat rows of bushes. They stopped to the side of the field, and Wilson watched the puppet accomplish its task with methodic precision for a few moments.

“Well, have at it.” Maxwell plopped heavily on the ground and popped a few berries into his mouth from the closest basket as he opened his book and idly started flipping through it. Wilson gaped at him.

“I have no idea how to do it!”

“Do whatever you think you did before. See what happens.”

“You aren’t being very helpful, you know?”

“Because there’s nothing to help you with. It’s impossible. We’re only here to establish that.”

Wilson muttered unrepeatable words under his breath. He tried his best to forget about Maxwell and focussed on the puppet. He stared at it, took in its featureless silhouette, a seemingly two-dimensional Maxwell-shaped smudge of inky blackness. He tried to take in its very essence, its unthinking, unfeeling existence, created for the sole purpose of going through a limited and established set of motions. If there was really any power in him, it couldn’t be too difficult to steer such an empty vessel towards his own desires. He decided he wanted to make it drop the basket. Easy enough. He focussed on that thought. He visualized it. He imagined the exact gesture, he imagined the puppet’s grasp on the basket loosening, his hand opening, the item dropping on the ground, spilling its contents all over. He ordered it. He willed it into reality. He put every ounce of his mental faculties into that specific wish. He wanted it.

Nothing happened.

“Your face is redder than your waistcoat. Try not to get yourself a stroke, I’d certainly be blamed for that.”

Wilson found himself slightly short on breath. Had he been holding it without noticing? “How am I supposed to command these things? How do you command them?”

“I don’t. They don’t need orders, they’re autonomous and smart enough to know what they have to do.”

“Do you really think there’s no chance I did that?”

“Let’s put it this way. The day you’ll manage to take control of any of my puppets for half a second will be the day I’ll entrust the Codex to you as the legitimate owner and superior user of its dark arts, and I’ll also humbly prostrate myself at your feet begging for your teachings. How likely does that sound to you?”

“Not much, but it’s certainly an excellent motivation to keep trying.” Wilson grumbled. He tried again. He stared at the puppet hard enough to bore a hole in it, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists with the sheer effort. He absolutely, positively, unmistakingly bid it to drop the basket. He even outstretched his hand towards it, as if to transmit his order through his very own body, and- and then Maxwell snorted loudly and he got completely distracted.

“What? What?” Wilson burst out, his cheeks burning. “You gesticulate all the time when you’re channeling your magic!”

“Yes, because I have magic to channel. What are you channeling?” Maxwell cackled. Unhelpful bastard. Wilson groaned in defeat.

“I can’t do it. Not like this, at least. Maybe it happens only in very specific circumstances, like if I’m very stressed or in mortal danger.”

“A brilliant hypothesis. Let’s test that too.” Maxwell sprang to his feet, radiating the most unsettling merriment. “Give me a minute to fetch my sword.”

“Quit it.” Wilson grabbed his jacket to stop him. “All right, you win. I must have been wrong. That still doesn’t explain your puppet’s behaviour though.”

“Maybe he just wanted to end it.” Maxwell shrugged, putting away his book.

“End what?”

“Its life.”

Wilson blinked. “Is that a thing that they do? Do they get… depressed?”

“You’d get depressed too if you were a somewhat sentient, disposable tool forced to chop trees for the entirety of your fleeting existence.”

Wilson considered the silent worker for a long moment, before Maxwell stretched his back with a showy yawn.

“Well, as entertaining as watching you achieve absolutely nothing for the last fifteen minutes has been, I think I’ll head off. Feel free to keep trying if you think that you may have better luck without me interfering with your blooming powers.”

“...Right. I think I’ll head off as well.” Wilson murmured. He turned on his heels and took a step towards the camp, and found itself right before- no, within the puppet, as it was passing by to put down another full basket. The puppet seamlessly phased through him, as they oft did, but the basket could not. It bumped against Wilson’s chest and fell on the ground, berries rolling everywhere. The puppet stopped. It looked down at the basket, somewhat dejectedly. Then, its eyeless face turned towards Wilson. Straight towards him.

Maxwell clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Wilson’s blood froze in his veins.

“...Uh, sorry.” He found himself saying as he knelt down and started gathering the scattered fruits. “Here, I’ll just…”

The puppet observed him for almost a full minute. Then, when Wilson was almost done cleaning up the mess, it grabbed two full baskets and walked off towards the camp.

“...When you say that one of these days getting in their way will get me killed, you’re clearly joking, right?”

“Not really. A duelist could definitely do it, with enough motivation. But foragers don’t have much violence in them.” Maxwell stopped for a moment. “Although, if I were them, and I am, I wouldn’t be above ganging up on you, tying you to a tree and chopping off a few of those luxuriant locks of yours.”

Wilson instinctively run a hand through his hair. “That’s not funny.”

“That wasn’t a joke either.” Maxwell smiled one of those creepy smiles of his. “Good afternoon, pal.”

Wilson silently tried his hand at an improvised hex centered around broken ankles, bees and Glommer’s goop. Just in case. He shook his head as he finished gathering the spilled berries. He put the basket near the remaining one, wondering if carrying them to the camp himself would be enough of an apology for-

He blinked, his thoughts finally connecting. It had dropped the basket. The puppet had dropped the basket.

“Maxwell, wait!” Wilson called out, but Maxwell had already disappeared. Should he find him, tell him? It may have been an accident. Maxwell- he would almost certainly deem it an accident, wouldn’t he? And yet, the puppets were always so very precise with their movements, and so very aware of their surroundings… Could Wilson have…?

He stared at the baskets, more confused than ever.

[sacredarts-blog1]

~ Return Announcement ~

*dramatic upset YouTuber sigh* I'm so not ready for this, but it's time.

So, I'm back.

Why was I  gone? Where did I go? Why did I come back? Will I stay? I don't know if anyone is asking these questions, but I hope there are some people who still care.

I'll cut right to it - I left out of fear.

I also left out of a severe identity crisis - which has, in truth been building up since at least 2015. I haven't been diagnosed with anything yet, but I will be soon. It has been a very lonely experience though.

Now, the fear. I have a particular kind of phobia - a paranoia - but now I have a plan on how to deal with it. Because this debilitating fear is also the thing that is leading me to my ultimate destination in this life. This fear is what always stops me from pursuing spiritual & psychic matters, after a certain point. I guess it happens whenever I get too strong, or get certain dreams, or have this increasing sense that I am not alone (whether in a good or bad way, it still disturbs me). I just lose my grip on reality, and on myself, because all these things that happen go way beyond what's normal. And then I freak out, afraid to lose myself.

When I was younger, having just gotten into this stuff, my biggest fear was self-delusion. Convincing myself, or someone else, of something that wasn't true - but appeared to be true because I really want it to be, or really fear it to be. That came to pass, of course. I went through all of that, and so I am not afraid of self-doubt anymore, because now I know how to trust myself, and I know how to recognize denialism and myside bias. I am also completely intuitive now. I know when something doesn't feel right. But there is this thing in my family where the dominant fear becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. My grandfather was afraid of ghosts. After he died, he showed up as a spirit multiple times to my uncle. My uncle, on the other hand, was always afraid of getting brainwashed. He wouldn't even watch TV or listen to pop music or anything, knew nothing about mainstream culture. Well, he ended up joining a cult. My mother's biggest, deepest fear is to be forever alone, to be single and never be in love or have a normal family, a normal home. This has been exactly true for the past 23 years. And me? I have many fears and phobias, but when it comes to the dominant one which has haunted me since childhood, it is very simple. The fear and hatred of evil. True evil. Demons, torturers, dictators, rapists, pedophiles, organized crime, any kind of coercive authority, whatever represented coercive force, oppression, violence, corruption, whatever we look at and say "that's inhuman" or "soulless" or "monstrous" - not to be confused with the fear of the unknown. But I constantly think about it. Everything I do, read, listen to, whatever, always somehow comes back to it. And how come evil is part of human nature - is it human nature? I've been entirely evil at times too. No empathy. Scary stuff.

I don't know where this fear comes from. I do not come from a religious background and I have no experience with this. I can only say it could come from my past life, due to some very bizarre behaviors I had as a child, my photographic memory recall, my borderline DID, the dreams I've had at night, and my deep fascination and fear of mind control, medical and historical torture, cults and identity disorders. Why is this relevant? Because whenever I'd get into spiritual & psychic stuff, I would eventually come to a point where my reality would start to shift. I won't go into detail, but I get this sense that I am opening gates to another world. I don't understand that world, no matter how "wise" and "experienced" I may come across. I fear to attract certain energies. I blame certain things in the past on my dabbling with witchcraft, Tarot, crystals, divination, paganism... I end up either turning hardcore Christian or militant atheist, to protect myself, and distance myself from all of this. But now I know that's not going to work. That this is just going to keep repeating, until I will drift back to this again, because something is calling me, and so much good can come from it. My intention is always pure. But I feel so vulnerable and alone. I can never explain it to anyone. Other people I meet are either focused entirely on the good, light aspects of the spiritual world. Or they romanticise the dark as "misunderstood" or something, and see occult as just another tool. Yet evil exists. Morals exist. But nobody could explain to me, in this fucked up world, what's what. So I'm going to find out for myself. I have to defeat my fear or it will catch up with me, just as it did the rest of my family.

I'm doing the same thing outside of my spiritual life. I'm studying music and business and doing a lot of research into psychology and history. My main intention is to find out what's going in our entertainment industry in the West. What's up with these musicians saying they sold their soul to the devil? Or the actual occult symbolism in music? The greed, corruption and lack of authenticity disturbs me. There's other things I want to do in music that are completely unrelated to these, but it's the main driving force. I want to know why Beyonce would need to completely disassociate from herself on stage by becoming Sasha Fierce, to say "that's not me up there, I wouldn't do that", why Britney would shave her hair in an attempt to "get them out" of her head, and many other artists take on alter-personas too. It could be totally harmless. It could be just a conspiracy theory, though the psychological pressure and insane social demands put on these artists is clear for anyone to see. But that's exactly what I want to find out, not theorize about, because I've seen artists that I care about start off authentic and real and end up like soulless dolls who are nothing like what they used to be. Like what the hell is up with that??? I wish people wouldn't have to do that, that they could be themselves and create from the heart, instead of having to force themselves to do what they would never normally do. As Wilde's tragic hero Dorian Grey said: "The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned or made perfect. There is a soul in each of us, I know it."

So now I want to balance both worlds, and dive into my fears. If I sense something dark, I'll try to understand it, and to get help from someone I trust. I'll read about science as much as spirituality, I'll try to always maintain a balance in everything I do, even if what I'm going to do is extreme. Evil is, after all, something that also deeply fascinates and excites me, not just scares me. But equally, I want to know what is it that's good, and pure. Purity, innocence, liberty, authenticity, passion - are things dearest to my heart.

Where did I go?

I have been completely alone and isolated for almost two months now, as my mother has gone away to another country, started fasting, and I have deleted my social media, stopped going to classes and stopped going to work. I have went completely into myself. I have been caught in an endless cycle of death and rebirth for years now and I endeavoured to figure out how to finally "break the wheel" as it were. I did everything I could. Now I'm emerging, but I don't know anything about myself anymore. I feel like a wisp of smoke. I've realized my true nature is beyond ego, beyond identity. It's always changing, going with the flow. I've been suffering because I've been trying to hold onto a coherent self-identity, some kind of ego that I don't actually have, because everyone else seems to know who they are and what they're like. I always envied that, because I change so damn often, day by day. My moods entirely affect my speech, behavior, preferences, styles, interests, aesthetics - everything. I thought there was something wrong with me, makes me fickle and shallow. But I've made peace with that now. Perhaps that's my unique strength - to be able to experience and understand all sides, all ways of being, everything as it is. Like as a great stained-glass cathedral.

Why did I come back? Will I stay?

I came back because I need help, and because I know that whatever happens, the worst I can do is do it alone. I came back because I realize that I can help and guide others, whatever way I can, and that you can do the same in return for me. To generate goodness, healing, understanding. Even if I feel nobody can ever understand me because wow I'm so deep and complex and unique!!! In the end, I want to create a strong support system. To be part of a community without over-identifying myself with it as I used to, which again, brought me suffering and identity crisis. We're all different and have different gifts, and there is something to learn from everyone. Everyone knows something you don't. I want to know what it means to belong, to connect, because I feel I have been deprived of it, no matter how hard I tried. I've been arrogant and extremely resistant to joining any groups or movements or saying anything that's been said already. I always wanted something that would last forever, soulmate sort of stuff. But I forgot that the most fundamental aspect of this world is transience. That's what makes it so heartachingly beautiful, so valuable. Forever is in a moment, though things return in another form after a while... I may not stay, in the long-term, but what I want to do is grow and expand. So that if I leave, you can come with me to do something more than this. But it won't be like dropping and running or getting bored, the way I used to do it. It's more like a stream joining a river. That's the kind of mindset I have now. I have an actual vision for myself and all of us, but you'll just have to trust me on this one, as I try to trust in myself.

What's next?

Next, I will be doing readings for all of you. Starting with small, general stuff - scrying, Oracle, Tarot. So, you ask a question, and I answer. I haven't decided on specialized categories like love readings, past life, career etc. so just whatever's on your mind, really, even if it's just "anything I need to know?" I'll almost always write about what your energy feels like, though. Your current vibration.

I will also have a new payment policy - which is Pay What You Think It Is Worth. Even if it's just 20c, every single penny matters deeply to me. Like I can't even describe it. It's not the quantity that matters, but what it means to you. You don't have to pay, but if you don't, I'll assume the reading was worthless.

I will also accept private readings now, which people can request if they want more detailed readings.

I have a lot of unread messages left over from months back, and those will be cleared. If I didn't get to yours, you can write me again!

I will be replying to readings almost everyday, except Sundays. I don't have a set number of how many readings I will do a day, but I'll do as many as I can. This may be anywhere from 5 to 20 or more different readings. First come first served, whether on IM or Inbox. There may be exceptions.

I'll also be removing/editing my "services" page and the layout of my blog, but the mobile theme will remain exactly the same :)

If you read all of this, or even some of it, I personally consider you my friend. Hello, and thank you.

~Ciel

[tanikawrites]

Welcome to the Dark Side – We have Kiddies

‘The Promised Neverland’ PILOT Review 

 With so much to indulge in from the seamless animation, atmospheric score and debilitating action, it is hard to know where to start addressing how perfectly this horror story has been put together. Indeed, one would be hard pressed to argue that ’The Promised Neverland’ doesn’t deliver one of the most ambitious Pilots to date, many other critics and viewers agreeing that this tale of orphans attempting to escape from their malevolent ‘carers’ gives international anime moguls the likes of Attack on Titan a well-earned run for its money. We are immediately captivated by the mesmerising aesthetics as well as the engaging characters in our protagonists of Emma, Norman and Ray, but what is especially engaging is how sublime this production is - how beauty only enhances our experience of terror, and how refreshing it is that a narrative need not be rife with gore and violence in order to make us want to peel off our skin. MANY SPOILERS AHEAD

The plot essentially revolves around the thirty-seven orphans who live in supposedly blissful harmony at Grace Field House - a Victorian-esque establishment enshrined in woodlands where the children are free to do as they please; the three at the head of the ring being the sprightly Emma, ingenious Norman and pragmatic Ray. The only rule that is that the children are never allowed to approach the ‘gate’ or cross over the fence which snakes through the trees; for so long as everyone behaves under the ever-vigilant eyes of ‘Mom,’ there should be little to worry about. The existence of the gate in itself then is the immediate red flag that undercuts this bucolic reverie, the Pilot being quick to establish the essential parameters of the story (quite literally) so that we are made aware of the stakes from the inception. The gate is the very first shot we see as the three friends speculate about what lies beyond, this becoming more intriguing if one were able to compare this to Chihiro’s passing under the gate in Spirited Away. In that case, it was about the protagonist’s adventure to escape from the land of the spirits in order to return to where she belonged, so we are set up with a similar narrative yet with a distinctly darker undertone.

We still can’t exactly fathom why, however - is it the Professor Layton-esque background composition? The animation’s resonance with the sharpness of Tim Burton? Both these qualities in comparison to the colour and majesty of Miyazaki’s Oscar-winner sets the insidious charm of this anime into further relief, and if we are aware that Chihiro’s fate was to run into unruly spirits, we are led to dread what exactly lies beyond for our heroes here. After all, it isn’t difficult to become instantly attached to our heroes with Emma being established as a typical shonen-heroine. Athletic, full of beans and mollycoddling the other children, her charisma establishes her as the foremost protagonist that the action will mainly revolve around. Her companion Norman too comes across as kindly and affectionate, he being noted more for his status as a genius amongst the children, whilst the more reserved Ray is an object of mystery; spending most of the episode observing from the side.

The unfolding action soon divulges that the maximum age that the children are known to stay at the orphanage is twelve years (the three main protagonists already being eleven) and apparently as soon as the children leave to supposedly join their adoptive families, they never make contact again. The way we obtain this information then is incredibly effective in establishing that initial sense of unease and dread then as we learn this via the kids themselves. They lament over how their old friends never bother to visit or write, this being very telling of how it is not so much that they don’t - but can’t. It then becomes even more heart-rending when children start detailing their dreams about the lives they want to have once they leave the house, this causing you to squirm as the narrative is emphatic about the humanity of these kids and how easily the viewer can become invested in them. This then makes the truth of their situation more mortifying and our suspicions established at the beginning perhaps worse than justified. The house, their home, is a farm; their beloved Mom works to perfect meat for Demons, and the delicacy she specialises in are the kids, her ‘precious children,’ themselves.  This revelation coming about when Emma and Norman sneak out to the gate to give Conny, one of their youngest and latest to leave the house, back her toy bunny, firmly establishes that the stakes are set and that the rest of this story will be a race of survival. The persistent motif of the clock suddenly makes sense; it is illustrated as looming in the background behind Norman and ticks ominously around the moment of truth. There are additional symbols that are established to evoke our curiosity like the red flowers growing out of Conny’s corpse, and the meaning behind the ID numbers tattooed to the children’s throats becomes increasingly formidable. But what is especially evocative is the role of the villain that is established in Mom. After all, throughout the episode, she has a smile plastered to her face and we frequently hear just how much the children - Conny and Emma in particular - love Mom very much. Now her expression is cold and mask-like, allowing us to make sense of how her former warmth seemed two-dimensional and her hugs mechanical, as she is nurturing not living beings but expensive merchandise. The use of expression and the music is the critical component of this terror - something which anime will perhaps always have the upper hand in over live-action as every detail is able to cut into us far more seamlessly than any real human expression can. As is common in anime, the most particularly captivating aspect is the eyes, and in the gothic fashion, they really are the windows to the soul - the perfect insight into how Emma and Norman’s realities have been ripped apart to become void and null.

This is only doubly effective of course due to the execution of each scene in the anime, as one moment of normality will be suddenly undercut by terrified eyes and make us seize in turn. This is even more pronounced with the use of music as it is usually a relaxed or jazzy accompaniment of the action but will be cut and jarred suddenly by screeches or silence. This is taken the fullest advantage of then in that final shot of the Pilot as we initially see Norman trying to comfort a bereft Emma with the promise of escape. The music which accompanies this is a heavenly soothing chorus, a typical melody to embellish that sense of hope, only to be horrifically punctured with a shot of Mom’s that will knock the wind out of you every single time. She’s holding Conny’s bunny and we’re thinking the same thing: she knows. 

So the horse has bolted - the game more than any harmless round of tag but a trial of life and death. What makes that final shot even more significant is how we might be used to being presented with seemingly unconquerable odds in all forms of media, but this anime wants to firmly establish how this is going to be more difficult and disturbing a journey than most. This Pilot has completely distorted the meaning of ‘Neverland’ forever, as Peter Pan’s concept of children never growing up has been awfully literalised. The place we once wanted to run away to now has become that which we are desperate to sprint away from, the irony being that you could not be more excited to see how Emma, Norman and Ray are inevitably going to be forced to make their first move.

Tanika Lane

Image (Gifs) Credit: dragonsofarcadia, kizunah, mangastream

[sumayyahwrites]

Melancholy and the Tortured Artist

Baudelaire couldn't conceive of beauty without melancholy, and Flaubert believed that artists should have a "religion of despair." The literary and artistic glorification of melancholy has been going on for millennia. Why are we so drawn to misery? It may have all started with the Aristotelian question, "why is it that all those who have become eminent in philosophy or politics or poetry or the arts are clearly melancholics?" linking genius and despair in our collective consciousness forever. But is there a real link between suffering and creativity? And if so, what came first, misery or the art? 

Melancholy comes from the Greek melan- 'black' & kholē' bile,' an excess of which was thought to cause depression. The Anatomy of Melancholy, a huge meandering tome by 17th-century scholar Robert Burton, gives an account of every idea about melancholy by every historical or contemporary thinker ever, including Burton himself. To provide a sense of its scope, the book's full title is 'The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all the Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Several Cures of it. In Three Maine Partitions with their several Sections, Members, and Subsections. Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically, Opened and Cut Up.' At 1400 pages, the book is as long as the title might hint, but far funnier than the gloomy subject matter suggests. 

Burton noted the ambivalence of melancholy when he referred to it not merely as sadness, but as a 'pleasurable sadness'. Marsilio Ficino, a 15th-century Italian humanist, believed that melancholy was a sign of more profound thought and feeling. This had a significant influence on other Renaissance thinkers, resulting in the 17th-century cult of melancholy, the 19th-century and Dark Romantics' fixation with unrequited love. And Morrisey. 

Melancholy became depression, and excess bile, a chemical imbalance. But the glorification persisted. I experienced this through Generation X angst in the nineties, when melancholy became Mellon Collie,* and the 27 club was so exclusive it was worth dying to get into. My adolescent heroes met somewhere at the intersection of misery and self-destruction. I can still recite from memory 'Alone', the poem by Edgar Allen Poe about someone so unique in their sorrow and alienation they almost certainly died alone (this obviously resonated with me as a middle schooler.) 

Teen angst aside, is there any truth in the association of art with suffering and madness? My teen hero Poe seems to be suggesting there is: "Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." Or have Poe and I both just bought into a myth, some kind of relic from antiquity? 

There has been much scientific research that indicates that this isn't the case and that there really is a correlational between genius and creativity, and psychopathology. The link is especially pronounced with mood disorders such as depression and bipolar. A 2010 study tested the IQ of 700,000 Swedish teenagers then came back a decade later to test their levels of mental illness. The results showed that the most intelligent teens were four times as likely to develop bipolar disorder in adulthood. So the genius link stands up to scrutiny. There is also evidence that the link is even more pronounced with artistic brilliance, as opposed to regular garden variety genius. 

Professor of psychology at the University of California, DK Simonton, claims that "creativity shares certain cognitive and dispositional traits with specific symptoms [of psychopathology] and that the degree of that commonality is contingent on the level and type of creativity that an individual displays". Creativity requires certain characteristics, like openness to chance, exploring the unconventional, atypical thinking and non-conformity. Simonton refers to this as the 'creativity cluster.' Some indicators of mental illness correlate with the attributes in this cluster, so creative people will often show symptoms associated with mental illness, and the more creative you are, the more pronounced the symptoms. Some types of creativity depend more strongly on the cluster, for example, scientific creativity tends to be more formal and constrained than artistic creativity, so the creativity cluster will be more pronounced in artists than in scientists, making the mad artist a little madder than the mad scientist. 

This link seems to extend past pathological mood to disorders, to ordinary transient moods. In 'The dark side of creativity: biological vulnerability and negative emotions lead to greater artistic creativity' a study in which participants' baseline levels of dehydroepiandrosterone-sulfate (DHEAS), a hormone associated with managing stress and depression, were tested. They were instructed to make a short speech about their dream job. Their speeches were greeted by negative, positive or neutral nonverbal feedback. The participants were then required to each make a collage, which was subsequently judged by a panel of artists. The ones made by participants who had experienced rejection were deemed more creative, and these results were intensified in those were a lower baseline of DHEAS, suggesting that they are most sensitive to emotional triggers. 

According to Joe Forgas, a social psychologist at the University of New South Wales, sadness promotes "information-processing strategies best suited to dealing with more-demanding situations." Forgas influences his subjects into feeling sad, then tests their cognition. He demonstrates that subjects who are melancholy exhibit improved cognition and more attention to detail. This heightened focus and presence may be why people experience melancholy as a more aesthetic emotion. They're simply more present. Susan Sontag makes a distinction between melancholy and clinical depression, describing melancholy as depression "minus its charms," (perhaps because she knew firsthand that nothing is charming about the debilitating illness) marking melancholy as an aesthetic experience, separate from depression. 

There seem to be many of legitimate reasons the glorification of the tortured artist has endured. A romantic, harmless face of depression, aspirational misery. The tortured genius, suffering = art. It's more intellectual than physical, existential than medical. There is no black bile, and if death comes, it comes pretty and quick. Suffering is not only romantic but sublime, and a fair price to pay for art. There’s something disturbing about romanticising the Cobains, the Plaths and Von Goghs. As compelling as it is, it seems strangely cavalier. I wonder if they would have not given up all that brilliance for peace of mind. Doesn't glorifying their suffering somehow reduce them to collateral damage in the quest for the sublime? 

The link between melancholy/depression/negative emotion and creativity/art/genius has been documented by history and demonstrated by science. But I reject Baudelaire's idea that melancholy is essential to beauty. That suffering is on a higher plane. The notion that suffering is intrinsically sublime. 

It makes me sad that art ought to be sad, so I'm rebelling against melancholy—no more suffering for art. Bliss isn't ignorance. Playfulness isn't trivial. Let's elevate joyful creativity, stop believing art only comes in heartbreak, see happiness as transcendent, and create from a place of genuine rapture.

Now, I'm off to make sad art about how sad I am that art has to be sad.

*Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was an album by The Smashing Pumpkins, 1995

[ojaswini]

Fear It’s dark outside,you’re at your home alone, watching TV show you like on a quiet day and suddenly you hear a voice ,your main door is slammed against the door ,you think who could it be when you’re the only one home so you look around, get alert in some cases collect yourself, call for the roommate if he’s back ,go to the gate and find out it was mere wind. The feeling you had right when you  kept a pan or baseball bat with you is said to be FEAR. What is Fear? Fear is a chain reaction in the brain that starts with a stressful stimulus and ends with the release of chemicals that cause a racing heart, fast breathing and energized muscles, among other things, also known as the fight-or-flight response. The stimulus could be a spider, a knife at your throat, an auditorium full of people waiting for you to speak or the sudden thud of your front door against the door frame. The brain is a profoundly complex organ. More than 100 billion nerve cells comprise an intricate network of communications that is the starting point of everything we sense, think and do. Some of these communications lead to conscious thought and action, while others produce autonomic responses. The fear response is almost entirely autonomic: We don't consciously trigger it or even know what's going on until it has run its course. Because cells in the brain are constantly transferring information and triggering responses, there are dozens of areas of the brain at least peripherally involved in fear. But research has discovered that certain parts of the brain play central roles in the process: Thalamus - decides where to send incoming sensory data (from eyes, ears, mouth, skin) Sensory cortex - interprets sensory data Hippocampus - stores and retrieves conscious memories; processes sets of stimuli to establish context Amygdala - decodes emotions; determines possible threat; stores fear memories Hypothalamus - activates "fight or flight" response Top 100 Phobia List These are the top 100 phobias in the world, with the most common ones listed from the top,names suggesting what they’re about. Arachnophobia – The fear of spiders affects women four times more (48% women and 12% men). Ophidiophobia – The fear of snakes. Phobics avoid certain cities because they have more snakes. Acrophobia – The fear of heights. Five percent of the general population suffer from this phobia. Agoraphobia – The fear of open or crowded spaces. People with this fear often won’t leave home. Cynophobia – The fear of dogs. This includes everything from small Poodles to large Great Danes. Astraphobia – The fear of thunder/lightning AKA Brontophobia, Tonitrophobia, Ceraunophobia. Claustrophobia – The fear of small spaces like elevators, small rooms and other enclosed spaces. Mysophobia – The fear of germs. It is also rightly termed as Germophobia or Bacterophobia. Aerophobia – The fear of flying. 25 million Americans share a fear of flying. Trypophobia – The fear of holes is an unusual but pretty common phobia. Carcinophobia – The fear of cancer. People with this develop extreme diets. Thanatophobia – The fear of death. Even talking about death can be hard. Glossophobia – The fear of public speaking. Not being able to do speeches. Monophobia – The fear of being alone. Even while eating and/or sleeping. Atychiphobia – The fear of failure. It is the single greatest barrier to success. Ornithophobia – The fear of birds. Individuals suffering from this may only fear certain species. Alektorophobia – The fear of chickens. You may have this phobia if chickens make you panic. Enochlophobia – The fear of crowds is closely related to Ochlophobia and Demophobia. Aphenphosmphobia – The fear of intimacy. Fear of being touched and love. Trypanophobia – The fear of needles. I used to fear needles (that and death). Anthropophobia – The fear of people. Being afraid of people in all situations. Aquaphobia – The fear of water. Being afraid of water or being near water. Autophobia – The fear of abandonment and being abandoned by someone. Hemophobia – The fear of blood. Even the sight of blood can cause fainting. Gamophobia – The fear of commitment or sticking with someone to the end. Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia – The fear of long words. Believe it or not, it’s real. Xenophobia – The fear of the unknown. Fearing anything or anyone that is strange or foreign. Vehophobia – The fear of driving. This phobia affects personal and work life. Basiphobia – The fear of falling. Some may even refuse to walk or stand up. Achievemephobia – The fear of success. The opposite to the fear of failure. Theophobia – The fear of God causes an irrational fear of God or religion. Ailurophobia – The fear of cats. This phobia is also known as Gatophobia. Metathesiophobia – The fear of change. Sometimes change is a good thing. Globophobia – The fear of balloons. They should be fun, but not for phobics. Nyctophobia – The fear of darkness. Being afraid of the dark or the night is common for kids. Androphobia – The fear of men. Usually seen in younger females, but it can also affect adults. Phobophobia – The fear of fear. The thought of being afraid of objects/situations. Philophobia – The fear of love. Being scared of falling in love or emotions. Triskaidekaphobia – The fear of the number 13 or the bad luck that follows. Emetophobia – The fear of vomiting and the fear of loss of your self control. Gephyrophobia – The fear of bridges and crossing even the smallest bridge. Entomophobia – The fear of bugs and insects, also related to Acarophobia. Lepidopterophobia – The fear of butterflies and often most winged insects. Panophobia – The fear of everything or fear that terrible things will happen. Podophobia – The fear of feet. Some people fear touching or looking at feet, even their own. Paraskevidekatriaphobia – The fear of Friday the 13th. About 8% of Americans have this phobia. Somniphobia – The fear of sleep. Being terrified of what might happen right after you fall asleep. Gynophobia – The fear of women. May occur if you have unresolved mother issues. Apiphobia – The fear of bees. Many people fear being stung by angry bees. Koumpounophobia – The fear of buttons. Clothes with buttons are avoided. Anatidaephobia – The fear of ducks. Somewhere, a duck is watching you. Pyrophobia – The fear of fire. A natural/primal fear that can be debilitating. Ranidaphobia – The fear of frogs. Often caused by episodes from childhood. Galeophobia – The fear of sharks in the ocean or even in swimming pools. Athazagoraphobia – The fear of being forgotten or not remembering things. Katsaridaphobia – The fear of cockroaches. This can easily lead to an excessive cleaning disorder. Iatrophobia – The fear of doctors. Do you delay doctor visits? You may have this. Pediophobia – The fear of dolls. This phobia could well be Chucky-induced. Ichthyophobia – The fear of fish. Includes small, large, dead and living fish. Achondroplasiaphobia – The fear of midgets. Because they look differently. Mottephobia – The fear of moths. These insects are only beautiful to some. Zoophobia – The fear of animals. Applies to both vile and harmless animals. Bananaphobia – The fear of bananas. If you have this phobia, they are scary. Sidonglobophobia – The fear of cotton balls or plastic foams. Oh that sound. Scelerophobia – The fear of crime involves being afraid of burglars, attackers or crime in general. Cibophobia – The fear of food. The phobia may come from a bad episode while eating, like choking. Phasmophobia – The fear of ghosts. AKA Spectrophobia. Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters! Equinophobia – The fear of horses. Animal phobias are pretty common, especially for women. Musophobia – The fear of mice. Some people find mice cute, but phobics don’t. Catoptrophobia – The fear of mirrors. Being afraid of what you might see. Agliophobia – The fear of pain. Being afraid something painful will happen. Tokophobia – The fear of pregnancy involves giving birth or having children. Telephonophobia – The fear of talking on the phone. Phobics prefer texting. Pogonophobia – The fear of beards or being scared of/around bearded men. Omphalophobia – The fear of belly buttons. Touching and looking at navels. Pseudodysphagia – The fear of choking often after a bad eating experience. Bathophobia – The fear of depths can be anything associated with depth (lakes, tunnels, caves). Cacomorphobia – The fear of fat people. Induced by the media. Affects some anorexics/bulimics. Gerascophobia – The fear of getting old. Aging is the most natural thing, yet many of us fear it. Chaetophobia – The fear of hair. Phobics tend to be afraid of other peoples hair. Nosocomephobia – The fear of hospitals. Let’s face it, no one likes hospitals. Ligyrophobia – The fear of loud noises. More than the instinctive noise fear. Didaskaleinophobia – The fear of school. This phobia affects kids mostly. Technophobia – The fear of technology is often induced by culture/religion. Chronophobia – The fear of the future. A persistent fear of what is to come. Spheksophobia – The fear of wasps. You panic and fear getting stung by it. Ergophobia – The fear of work. Often due to social or performance anxiety. Coulrophobia – The fear of clowns. Some people find clowns funny, coulrophobics certainly don’t. Allodoxaphobia – The fear of opinions. Being afraid of hearing what others are thinking of you. Samhainophobia – The fear of Halloween affects children/superstitious people. Photophobia – The fear of light caused by something medical or traumatic. Disposophobia – The fear of getting rid of stuff triggers extreme hoarding. Numerophobia – The fear of numbers and the mere thought of calculations. Ombrophobia – The fear of rain. Many fear the rain due to stormy weather. Coasterphobia – The fear of roller coasters. Ever seen Final Destination 3? Thalassophobia – The fear of the ocean. Water, waves and unknown spaces. Scoleciphobia – The fear of worms. Often because of unhygienic conditions. Kinemortophobia – The fear of zombies. Being afraid that zombies attack and turn you into them. Myrmecophobia – The fear of ants. Not as common as Arachnophobia, but may feel just as intense. Taphophobia – The fear of being buried alive by mistake and waking up in a coffin underground.

read more at ojazzwini.wordpress.com

[lovelouisemoriarty]

Love letter to the world

Dear World , Therapeutic,  Artists Journal,   Hope it helps! 

I am an empath and I am quite sane. Extreme emotions are totally available to all of us. They are tools. Even the most quiet introverted character has a whirlpool of clashing seasons in their landscape. Sometimes it is their very fear of these emotions that keeps them completely quiet for they fear unleashing their dragon. In many ancient culture dragons are symbols of power and protection they stand watch over what is important.

I  have a very strong sense of what is important and what is not in life. I have not lived the path of suburbia that led my family to all still live in the same location doing similar jobs to what they set out to do. Raising families and acquiring homes and all the accessories necessary. (Let me just say I am grateful they did. For when we gather as a family we are blessed to be cared for and have all we need to celebrate how lucky we are to have people who care and unconditionally love us in our lives.)

I have tumbled and adventured from job to job and relationship to relationship. I have lived within many subcultures and explored many groups looking to establish community.  I have succeeded. It doesn't look like the community of old with its certainty and consistency in one place. I love that our family had extended family. Auntys and Uncles that we could trust and share with, know we could count on them for an adventure and that they would be there at the important occasions in our lives marked as rights of passage. But I wanted more. I always want more. I want others to feel that. 

I want no one to be left out of the extended kinship. As an empath I have a huge capacity for feeling. I watch the news and I feel. I cannot do anything to be of service in many of the situations that I see, but I still feel deeply the cacophony of emotions of all the people or animals involved in the drama. I feel the depth of energy and vibration that the earth puts off when it is mined or when a tree is cut or when an animal is harmed. As I grew up I have been trained to know that I must shut down some of these access’s. It is okay to know a person is sad and try and cheer them up but not let them have space to cry. It is okay to feel someone is agitated and angry, it is okay to placate and distract them but it is not okay to let them get to the heart of what they think they are angry about so they can go deeper and feel what their real need is.

There is a lot of lies and confusion. Some of it seems harmless and entertaining but mostly it is debilitating to our sense of our power as humans on this small green blue planet for a short time. 

Most of it is devastating for the next generations ability to have access to and enjoy what we have been lucky enough to enjoy. 

I am an empath and I am sane. 

I wanted to start with that because…..

For too long emotions have been deemed the domain of the clearly insane. 

That voices in your head need to be silenced on one hand, unless they report what the bible reports and then because they are inline with the controlling religious propaganda of the time they are prophecy. 

Okay I didn't really think I was going to get straight into this ground in my second letter but heh,

My mum was a devoted Christian, she went to church every Sunday had blind faith that it was all true. It served her well. She was a woman of service, someone who you could rely on to put whatever she was doing aside to do you a favour or listen. She never tried to convert anyone or convince anyone that she was right. With a calm quiet certainty she went about her day being a good samaratin, being the fabric of community and holding a family together.  For me she personified Love. Yet part of her wished for understanding, wished to guide others, wanted to share her wisdom of what worked for her.  I believe part of her died unhappy, unsatisfied and with her needs in this life largely unmet. The church didn't really meet her needs for care and understanding, just company. At the end it was just the simple kindness of individuals who valued understanding and empathy that allowed her to know she was heard and seen and through the good deeds of her family have someone with her every minute till the moment of death. She had pain and fear and great loss around not having some of the things that were most important to her not heard. 

Was that because we didn't listen. Was that because we didn't try to be with her. I think it was because she was bound and controlled by a culture that still sees womens role as service and providing something attractive to look at and a pleasurable experience. If you have emotions you are still made out to be the crazy fool with no wisdom or strength. You are dismissed overlooked, or worse locked up or shut down with drugs or rejected and dismissed from service in relationship. 

Relationship is so important to woman. We have for so long know our worth in relationship. Been able only to function in this culture in relationship.

The few stories of woman who walk the heroes journey in history are often then walking through the terrible shame of being labelled a nutter and then into the arms of a man who can soften the blow of this cruel world by softening the edges of her feelings of alienation by making her happy and thereby stopping the crazy !?!?!?!? behaviour, Never again need she be upset or angry because her knight has appeared. 

Sorry guys looking for a dedicated, unconditionally loving woman. It doesn't change anything that much. Emotion is how many of us empaths process our needs and desires, our wants and passions. Our driving motivational spiritual force. These letters are all just ramblings, unravelling things that I have been thinking over time. Wanting to distill the essence of my wisdom that I have learnt through years of throwing myself into extreme situations and relationships that explore what is possible in the way of intimacy, passion, musing and devotion. Devotion is not necessarily what we think. It is not entrapment. It is not holding the person hostage to what you like and want the world to look like. 

It is being able to be with and have the emotions or lack of emotions of the other without loosing the passion for intimacy with that person. It is an unquenchable curiosity for how that person is going. Why that person acts the way they act. 

When I go to put hashtags on these letters it will never be one subject neatly orchestrated to sell a particular product at the end. It is near impossible to put me in a box or find the niche market that I represent. My boundaries are too fluid and I play in too many areas to be able to find a way to stream line a funnel for my own benefit. Although of course like everyone else I am working on financial freedom, More than that of course I am trying to find the freedom to pursue my utopia. In that utopia Rivers have Rights and environments remaining in their balance for future generations of animals, children, microorganisms snd birds, reptiles and insects is the highest order of spiritual veneration. Each soul has enough resources to be able to fulfil their basic needs, some kind of basic universal income if that is still necessary. But even this preparing it knowing we want to phase it out. Creating homes like Buckminster Fuller that are sustainable and practical creating less work rather than more. Planting seeds and trees and vines that mean fruit is our environment and create our shelter. Where gardening is a joy and we work with nature to fulfil the delivery of the needs of all people. Letting fresh clean water flow in the streets. Using our waste to feed worms or make gas to cook on. All the ways that people have lived in harmony on this planet are available to us and our new greatest power of having our communication interconnected and our ability to use the creative commons to build on our wisdom and ability to provide what is needed to satisfy and slowly bring down this unsustainable population.

So long I have been thinking about a utopia that suits all people. That would let my dad live in peace alongside me. That would mean people who only feel safe in their ivory towers guarded off from the world can know their children have a future where they are loved and respected by one and all just because they are. Where those who scramble and feel they have to defend and fight for resources every day start to see that the world cares and that they are worthy of human rights whether they are part of the consumer juggernaut or not. 

The church of this pagan religion that is flexible enough to include anyone talking about the constant deep seated belief of their religion in any flavour they chose is the heart of your current emotions. The communion between souls of the expression of their own innate creativity in communion wiht nature. No need for fancy gadgets or props, talismans or fetishes. Just you and your God personified in its creation, other people, plants and environments, animals and oceans, moons and stars. Using all that is right before us in the mystery of seeds sprouting, tides pulling and children being birthed or mysteriously dying right before our shocked and astounded eyes. Experiencing the depth of our longing for love and wonder. Experiencing the profound fulfilling gratitude for love and inspiration. Dropping deep deep into our rage and sadness at loss and grief. Then leaping into action to be of service to life and community and beauty. 

Yesterday I did just post unedited today I will re read once this after noon before I post. 

It is unedited in that I dont refine the flow. Just the general grammar and sentence structure so it is readable out side my head. 

I love my wild mind and I want to keep sharing where I jump and what I end up committing to and creating with you. 

I said I wouldn't sell anything at the end but ………. 

I leap from project to project but always there are threads that I come back to and over time they have become more into solid form. I want to keep that trajectory moving. 

So there are two ways you can enjoy being an intimate part of this journey if you want to know the path I am travelling and be mused by my musings. 

Keep track of me on Patreon. I am about to revamp it and keep in more constant communication through it. I believe it is essential for artists to have freedom to work on what moves their spirit. They are the muses of our culture and if they are constrained by grants and sales we are missing drawing from the wealth of creativity that this beautiful array of diverse beings are pulling down from beyond this material galaxy.   So if you are of the means please place regularly some resources in the Headless Buddhas cup as she jumps from one thing to the next in search of enlightenment and utopian visions to guide humanity in line with the Earths heart beat. 

I also am a romantic at heart and the most powerful relationships for me are ones that are connected to the earth and country and are also searching for ways to strengthen community and evoke love.   In my last relationship we created music together and luckily we recorded it. I have not been putting it out there because I have not wanted to rock the boat of both of our recovery from our different addictions within our love dependency. But today I want to honour and celebrate what we managed to create with our shared vision for coming together in joy and harmony with the place.    So I offer you J & G and Moriarty’s album Songwriters. You can get it on Bandcamp by donation or listen, enjoy then please share. If you have the capacity to broadcast it get it out there. 

Thanks to my current muse for being the catalyst for this communication and thanks to John and all the other loves who have given me ramblings and deep conversations into all the areas I touch on. May everything we offer up to you as empaths and changelings nourish your own creative musings for a better world for the next generation. 

Someone told me today some Maori communities have business? plans for the next 500 years. Now that is vision! For seven generations in a real concrete form. How bout you? Are you planning for your kins future?  

On a quick re read, Maybe all this utopia I am looking for is already here, Maybe I just can’t see it maybe I have to put on different glasses or something.   Oh well off into the world for a day of putting on different glasses. Thanks for being my morning pages muse

[spooky-skel]

List of Phobias

Arachnophobia – The fear of spiders affects women four times more (48% women and 12% men).

Ophidiophobia – The fear of snakes. Phobics avoid certain cities because they have more snakes.

Acrophobia – The fear of heights. Five percent of the general population suffer from this phobia.

Agoraphobia – The fear of open or crowded spaces. People with this fear often wont leave home.

Cynophobia – The fear of dogs. This includes everything from small Poodles to large Great Danes.

Astraphobia – The fear of thunder/lightning AKA Brontophobia, Tonitrophobia, Ceraunophobia.

Claustrophobia – The fear of small spaces like elevators, small rooms and other enclosed spaces.

Mysophobia – The fear of germs. It is also rightly termed as Germophobia or Bacterophobia.Trypophobia

Aerophobia – The fear of flying. 25 million Americans share a fear of flying.

Trypophobia – The fear of holes is an unusual but pretty common phobia.

Carcinophobia – The fear of cancer. People with this develop extreme diets.

Thanatophobia – The fear of death. Even talking about death can be hard.

Glossophobia – The fear of public speaking. Not being able to do speeches.

Monophobia – The fear of being alone. Even while eating and/or sleeping.

Atychiphobia – The fear of failure. It is the single greatest barrier to success.

Ornithophobia – The fear of birds. Individuals suffering from this may only fear certain species.

Alektorophobia – The fear of chickens. You may have this phobia if chickens make you panic.

Enochlophobia – The fear of crowds is closely related to Ochlophobia and Demophobia.Trypanophobia

Aphenphosmphobia – The fear of intimacy. Fear of being touched and love.

Trypanophobia – The fear of needles. I used to fear needles (that and death).

Anthropophobia – The fear of people. Being afraid of people in all situations.

Aquaphobia – The fear of water. Being afraid of water or being near water.

Autophobia – The fear of abandonment and being abandoned by someone.

Hemophobia – The fear of blood. Even the sight of blood can cause fainting.

Gamophobia – The fear of commitment or sticking with someone to the end.

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia – The fear of long words. Believe it or not, it’s real.

Xenophobia – The fear of the unknown. Fearing anything or anyone that is strange or foreign.Achievemephobia

Vehophobia – The fear of driving. This phobia affects personal and work life.

Basiphobia – The fear of falling. Some may even refuse to walk or stand up.

Achievemephobia – The fear of success. The opposite to the fear of failure.

Theophobia – The fear of God causes an irrational fear of God or religion.

Ailurophobia – The fear of cats. This phobia is also known as Gatophobia.

Metathesiophobia – The fear of change. Sometimes change is a good thing.

Globophobia – The fear of balloons. They should be fun, but not for phobics.

Nyctophobia – The fear of darkness. Being afraid of the dark or the night is common for kids.

Androphobia – The fear of men. Usually seen in younger females, but it can also affect adults.

Phobophobia – The fear of fear. The thought of being afraid of objects/situations.

Philophobia – The fear of love. Being scared of falling in love or emotions.

Triskaidekaphobia – The fear of the number 13 or the bad luck that follows.

Emetophobia – The fear of vomiting and the fear of loss of your self control.

Gephyrophobia – The fear of bridges and crossing even the smallest bridge.

Entomophobia – The fear of bugs and insects, also related to Acarophobia.

Lepidopterophobia – The fear of butterflies and often most winged insects.

Panophobia – The fear of everything or fear that terrible things will happen.

Podophobia – The fear of feet. Some people fear touching or looking at feet, even their own.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia – The fear of Friday the 13th. About 8% of Americans have this phobia.

Somniphobia – The fear of sleep. Being terrified of what might happen right after you fall asleep.

Gynophobia – The fear of women. May occur if you have unresolved mother issues.Koumpounophobia

Apiphobia – The fear of bees. Many people fear being stung by angry bees.

Koumpounophobia – The fear of buttons. Clothes with buttons are avoided.

Anatidaephobia – The fear of ducks. Somewhere, a duck is watching you.

Pyrophobia – The fear of fire. A natural/primal fear that can be debilitating.

Ranidaphobia – The fear of frogs. Often caused by episodes from childhood.

Galeophobia – The fear of sharks in the ocean or even in swimming pools.

Athazagoraphobia – The fear of being forgotten or not remembering things.

Katsaridaphobia – The fear of cockroaches. This can easily lead to an excessive cleaning disorder.

Iatrophobia – The fear of doctors. Do you delay doctor visits? You may have this.

Pediophobia – The fear of dolls. This phobia could well be Chucky-induced.

Ichthyophobia – The fear of fish. Includes small, large, dead and living fish.

Achondroplasiaphobia – The fear of midgets. Because they look differently.

Mottephobia – The fear of moths. These insects are only beautiful to some.

Zoophobia – The fear of animals. Applies to both vile and harmless animals.

Bananaphobia – The fear of bananas. If you have this phobia, they are scary.

Sidonglobophobia – The fear of cotton balls or plastic foams. Oh that sound.

Scelerophobia – The fear of crime involves being afraid of burglars, attackers or crime in general.

Cibophobia – The fear of food. The phobia may come from a bad episode while eating, like choking.

Phasmophobia – The fear of ghosts. AKA Spectrophobia. Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!

Equinophobia – The fear of horses. Animal phobias are pretty common, especially for women.

Musophobia – The fear of mice. Some people find mice cute, but phobics don’t.Catoptrophobia

Catoptrophobia – The fear of mirrors. Being afraid of what you might see.

Agliophobia – The fear of pain. Being afraid something painful will happen.

Tokophobia – The fear of pregnancy involves giving birth or having children.

Telephonophobia – The fear of talking on the phone. Phobics prefer texting.

Pogonophobia – The fear of beards or being scared of/around bearded men.

Omphalophobia – The fear of belly buttons. Touching and looking at navels.

Pseudodysphagia – The fear of choking often after a bad eating experience.

Bathophobia – The fear of depths can be anything associated with depth (lakes, tunnels, caves).

Cacomorphobia – The fear of fat people. Induced by the media. Affects some anorexics/bulimics.

Gerascophobia – The fear of getting old. Aging is the most natural thing, yet many of us fear it.

Chaetophobia – The fear of hair. Phobics tend to be afraid of other peoples hair.

Nosocomephobia – The fear of hospitals. Let’s face it, no one likes hospitals.

Ligyrophobia – The fear of loud noises. More than the instinctive noise fear.

Didaskaleinophobia – The fear of school. This phobia affects kids mostly.

Technophobia – The fear of technology is often induced by culture/religion.

Chronophobia – The fear of the future. A persistent fear of what is to come.

Spheksophobia – The fear of wasps. You panic and fear getting stung by it.

Ergophobia – The fear of work. Often due to social or performance anxiety.

Coulrophobia – The fear of clowns. Some people find clowns funny, coulrophobics certainly don’t.

Allodoxaphobia – The fear of opinions. Being afraid of hearing what others are thinking of you.

Samhainophobia – The fear of Halloween affects children/superstitious people.Samhainophobia

Photophobia – The fear of light caused by something medical or traumatic.

Disposophobia – The fear of getting rid of stuff triggers extreme hoarding.

Numerophobia – The fear of numbers and the mere thought of calculations.

Ombrophobia – The fear of rain. Many fear the rain due to stormy weather.

Coasterphobia – The fear of roller coasters. Ever seen Final Destination 3?

Thalassophobia – The fear of the ocean. Water, waves and unknown spaces.

Scoleciphobia – The fear of worms. Often because of unhygienic conditions.

Kinemortophobia – The fear of zombies. Being afraid that zombies attack and turn you into them.