#like maybe he had a grandfather at one point (who i’m sure he respected greatly) who gave him a bunch of records

[kira-game]

i said i don’t think light listens to music at all but i just read a fic where he collected records and now light liking 30s-50s music is canonized in my mind. it makes sense. i’m obsessed

[avatarvyakara]

Trying something else—but I could really, really do with a read-through to make sure I’m doing it right. To any and all who might give me some advice on Chinese family histories as told by said families, I would greatly appreciate your assistance.

That said, here’s a start.

***

Ruzhui, it’s called. “Superfluous entrance”.

His name was Zì Jīn, not that long ago. Jīn as a name, even a personal name, is not uncommon. Zì, as any kind of name, most certainly was.

Great-Aunt Shí used to sit with him and tell him stories about a past he isn’t sure anyone could really remember, not as far back as she goes. Zi is a rare name, she told him, a name that belonged to the second family ever to rule as emperors—the first, to be honest; nobody knows whether the Xia were truly real, not really. The story of the Shāng Dynasty, and the Zi family who provided their rulers, is a story older than the Flowerlike Beauty, older than the Celestial Empire, as old as the Middle Kingdom itself. Oh, others would take over later, true, and some would scatter and hide under other names—Jì and Yīn and Kōng (yes, like the Teacher—the one his classmates kept mispronouncing as Confucius). But they kept their name. It grounded them. Fewer and fewer sons were born—fewer and fewer carried on the name as three and a half thousand years of history passed them by.

But born they still were.

To be a Zi means being calm, peaceful, stoic, but not uncaring. The eternal grandfather, too old to command but old enough to command respect, content to play with the grandchildren as they have their games of war and politics like they’ve done since the only writing done was on the burnt bones of animals in the hope that the past could command the future.

“Lee”, by contrast, is one of the most popular names around. There are a hundred million Lees. At least.

When Jin asked Great-Aunt Shí about the name, while they cooked together, she snorted and tried to brush it off. It wasn’t important that she tell him, he didn’t need to hear it from her. It wasn’t too big a deal. It was a tactic that had served her well with five prior generations of Zì, including that of her brother, Jīn’s grandfather.

Jin found a way, when he was younger, of getting around that particular blockade. It was through being very patient, very calm, keeping up with the work, and annoying the heck out of his favourite relative with the unrepeated question while doing so. She didn’t need to hear it again and again, she just knew he wanted to ask but wouldn’t because it wouldn’t be polite. And yet.

She finally huffed and told him that yes, there was a history to the Lee family as well. Or, rather, a mythology. Certainly there may well have been Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors prior to any history. Certainly, Emperor Yao may well have had a minister called Gao Yao who was the potential progenitor of that promise-less pedigree. Certainly Laozi (whose philosophies Great-Aunt Shí had a famously complicated attitude towards) may well have been called Li Er when people couldn’t be bothered with proper titles. Certainly there was a House of Li by the Táng Dynasty, a certain number of millennia later—although historically speaking that was hardly a selling point. (Jīn, who had done his best to learn what history he could, had one or two positive opinions on that particular dynasty that apparently weren’t too popular at home.) But the story that his aunt insisted was the most prominent one was that of Li Zheng, executed by one of their ancestors, whose wife and son lived on nothing but plums for years and who changed how their name was written to honour the fruit that kept them alive.

A fun story. (One that shunted their family centre-stage again, but a fun one.) But who remembers that, said his Great-Aunt Shí, among a hundred million people? Being a Li was as common as being a Smith over in the English-speaking world, to her mind. Maybe there was a history, but who among the descendants actually bothered to remember it?

Actually, that might have been part of what drew him to Míng in the first place.

The Zì family might predate every other family back home, but coming to Toronto in the 1970s? They were just one more face in the crowd. But the Lee family—Ming Lee’s family—had been there for generations. Against all odds, they had prospered. In a city where a different empire’s architecture dominated the biggest buildings, they had built a temple to an ancestral figure and kept it safe for generations. Literal generations. (…three, in point of fact, but who was counting?) And perhaps out of deference to that ancestor, the Lee family didn’t much care who your own ancestors were, just what you chose to do with your life now. If you weren’t a Lee of their line, anyway.

And Míng…

“My family is the absolute—” followed by a word he doesn’t know but which sounds a lot like “four enemies”— “worst.”

And a toss of hair that he’s absolutely certain wasn’t red last week.

Míng has a history of her very own.

TO BE CONTINUED

[flutteringphalanges]

                                        Caught in a Riptide 

Summary: After the infamous Count Dracula is discovered and taken into custody by the Jonathan Harker Foundation, former nun and now guardian to her young niece, Zoe, Agatha Van Helsing is tasked with keeping tabs on the vampire after a mishap leads to his release into modern day society. Can Agatha remain levelheaded, or will fate turn her onto a new path?

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rated: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  Hello Dracula fandom again! It's me, ya gal, who has way too many story ideas in her head. Anyway, I hope you guys will enjoy this one! This first chapter is very heavy on backstory so I promise future chapters won't be like that. I just wanted to set the scene. Alright, here we go! Feedback’s greatly loved and appreciated!-Jen

                                                Chapter One

Theology. Quite an expansive, intriguing study that, like a tree, holds many branches. Biblical, Systemic, Practical, all subjects that have been delved into for centuries. Perhaps one of the more fascinating topics centers around Renaissance theology-more importantly, the possibility of a love bond between man and demon. Outwardly, the aspect of falling in love with something deemed evil is seemingly preposterous. But can a singular trait be forced upon another? At what point can romance, love, conquer these barriers? Is it possible to find humanity in such dark things? These questions must be kept in mind as two unlikely paths cross, testing these uncertain waters. A riptide.

Agatha set down a plate of eggs and bacon onto the table. It was early in the morning-a school day, and getting her niece ready and out the door in time to drop her off before heading into work was a task in itself.

For nearly three years, Zoe had remained under her care. It had been a tragic car accident that took the lives of her brother and sister-in-law, and seeing as they had no other family, Agatha left St. Mary's Convent to take in the seven year old. There were no regrets to be held. The woman dearly loved the child. But returning to society and seeking out a new job had been difficult. That was, until she found the Jonathan Harker Foundation. Or rather, they found her.

"Zoe," she called out, pouring a glass of orange juice. "Come on, we can't afford being late again today."

"I'm hurrying, Aunt Aggie," chirped a voice down the hall. "I was getting dressed!"

A small girl skidded into the kitchen, her mismatched socks causing her to nearly glide into the counter. Agatha grabbed her just in time, the drink in her hand dangerously close to sloshing onto the floor. Zoe peered up at her aunt with bright, blue eyes and a toothy grin. Her hair, the same shade of chestnut brown as her aunt's, still tousled from sleep.

"Were you planning to go into school today with your hair like that?" Zoe merely shrugged, sitting down happily to her breakfast. Agatha snorted softly, her mouth curving into a small smile. "Well, start eating and I'll grab a brush. "We don't want people to think you live in a zoo, yes?"

"I wanna live in a zoo," the child replied, biting into a piece of bacon. "I like animals!"

"Then perhaps we can get a dog one day," the woman chuckled, booping the girl on the nose. "Now finish your food so we can get on the road."

The Van Helsing surname held quite a history to it, the most notable member Abraham Van Helsing. The man was a well accomplished doctor, respected by all who knew him. However, Abraham's interests extended far past the average medical background. In particular, his study and expertise on vampirism. On the infamous Count Dracula of Transylvania.

The legend had been passed down from generation to generation. Tales recounted of the dangerous beast. Yet, as time wore on, the words had become a mere myth. Silly stories meant to scare a child into being good. Nevertheless, Agatha found them truly fascinating. Memorizing. And even the slightest idea that they were possibly true sparked a flame within her.

For those reasons alone, Agatha found herself taking the three vows of a nun and joining St. Mary's Convent. A thirst to learn more by combining her own knowledge and the teachings of Christianity. If her great, great grandfather was correct, then her efforts would not be in vain. That she wouldn't seem so air-headed as her brother had claimed from the beginning when she invested everything into proving Abraham's legacy.

It was only years later that she finally found the one thing that tied the loose ends. The Jonathan Harker Foundation. The very institution that was right under her nose. An organization that shared the same ideals to her cause. If only she had learned about the mysterious medical facility with an underground secret from the start, how different things might've been.

Agatha pulled up to the curb in front of the primary school watching as other children hopped out of their cars and headed towards the main entrance like a school of fish. In her rear view mirror, she caught sight of Zoe freeing herself from the confines of her seat belt, humming a nonsensical tune she'd just come up with.

"Do you have your backpack?" Her aunt inquired as the little girl swung it over her shoulders. "Lunch box?"

"Mhm," Zoe nodded, gripping the fabric handle of the floral decorated bag. "I made sure not to forget anything this time!"

"Good girl," Agatha smiled. She really didn't want to have to rush out of another meeting due to a call from the school that she'd forgotten to bring her food. "Kisses." Zoe gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Remember Mrs. Avery will be picking you up today."

"But I don't want to go to Mrs. Avery's," the girl whined. "She makes me watch The Price is Right and it's so boring!"

"Maybe she'll have cookies," the woman replied. "You like her cookies."

"I guess," Zoe answered, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. "You won't forget to pick me up?"

"I promise as soon as I get off, I will head straight over there," Agatha said with a smile. "Before dinner. I'll make something nice. Say...pizza?"

The young girl seemed to perk up a bit. "Okay!"

"Now run along, I'll see you later," she said as the child opened the car door. "I love you."

"Love you too!" Zoe called out as she exited the car. "Don't forget me!"

Forget. The more Agatha thought about it, the more it stung. Zoe had only just turned four when her parents died. She, of course, had still been in Budapest at the time, unaware until a few days later when someone finally contacted her. Apparently the girl had been in nursery school when the wreck happened. She'd watched all of the other children go home, confused as to where her mother and father were. Hours she spent there, waiting to be picked up. Believing that perhaps her they had forgotten her. Abandoned her. Zoe had been forced to learn about death early on. Something no child should ever have to face.

It had been rough, those first few months together. She and Zoe hadn't exactly been well acquainted, seeing as the former nun lived in Budapest while she called England home. Agatha didn't have a lot of experience with children and it showed in the beginning. Things were awkward. She didn't know popular shows, toys, activities, but she tried her damnedest. For Zoe. And with time and the compassion she held, the two eventually grew very close. After all, they were the only family each other had.

The parking lot outside of the institution was semi filled as Agatha, finding her usual shady spot, fished her identification badge out of her purse. She frowned at the photo on the key card, noting how ridiculous wide and unnatural her smile was. Why couldn't she ever get a decent picture right? Shaking her head, she exited the vehicle and headed inside.

"Good morning, Joe," Agatha smiled, nodding her head. "Ted."

The two lobby guards looked up from their hot drinks, their attention turning to the woman. Things had been slow, relatively speaking. Not much excitement had happened since Agatha became a part of the Foundation. Which, she supposed, in a way was good. But she craved true confirmation of Dracula's existence. A need to have real, physical evidence on top of everything she'd gathered from her own exploration.

The long stretch of hallway leading through the locked doors and into the belly of the building was rather bare. Except for a single portrait-that of Jonathan Harker. He had a kind face, soft expression that was welcoming. And yet, each time she came across it and gave it a hard stare, something didn't sit right. A strange, unsettling feeling that despite the friendliness of it was almost off putting.

"Agatha!"

Just as the former nun began to slide her card through the reader, a young man hurried up to her. Dr. Jack Seward. He, like her, had been hired around the same time by the Foundation. Fresh out of medical school, Jack was a brilliant man paired with a caring heart. She thought very fondly of him, almost as if he were a younger brother.

"Hello, Jack," she greeted. "I thought you were taking the day off today. Weren't you supposed to visit an old friend…" she paused. "Lucy was it?"

The man visibly flinched and Agatha was momentarily taken aback. Had she said something wrong? Before she could ask, or rather, apologize, another researcher came bursting through the set of doors. Very winded. Very excited. Meg.

"Oh, thank god," she panted. "You're finally here!"

"I didn't think I was running late," the former nun replied almost hesitantly, glancing over at Jack. "Did we have a meeting or…"

"No," Meg waved her hand, shaking her head. "No, we found something! Off of the mainland!" The researcher's smile was wide, a look of excitement that one does not usually see that early in the morning. "They sent out a team! They found it, Agatha!"

"Found what exactly?" She still wasn't quite following the other woman. "What did they find, Meg?"

"The Demeter! The wreckage! We bloody found it!"

For well over a century, The Harker Foundation had been searching for the vessel. It was believed, as a few survivors claimed, that Count Dracula had been one of the passengers onboard the ship set for England. But disaster struck, and mayhem with it, and the boat never made it to port. No one had known of its final location. Until now.

"What?!" Agatha asked in disbelief. "Are you-are they quite sure?!"

"It bloody says The Demeter on the side of it," Meg laughed. "I don't know what else it could be!"

She might as well have been a child on Christmas morning. Finally something. Evidence. A missing puzzle piece to it all. Someone was laughing and it took Agatha a moment to realize the noise was coming from her.

"What else have they found?! Any indication of Count Dracula? Are you currently in contact with them?" Agatha began to bombard the poor woman with questions. "Is Bloxham out there?"

"It's been over thirty minutes since they last radioed in," Meg responded. "Bloxham says they don't exactly know the extent of it. But they've begun to put markers down. The news is calling for a storm, so we might be forced to come in early and return tomorrow."

A storm. One hundred and twenty three years since The Demeter disaster and they were going to let a bloody storm step in their way of searching? The corners of Agatha's mouth twitched into a frown and suddenly she found herself wishing she was out there along with them. Her impatience was not allowing her to rationally consider the safety of it all. What exactly did the ship hold? And more importantly, where was Dracula?

"I want to be kept updated," she finally said, in the same firm voice she used to scold Zoe. "If anything happens, even the most minute detail, I want to be made aware."

Meg gave her a nod. "I'll keep you posted," she promised.

"Thank you," Agatha smiled, turning to Jack. "I suppose this is one for the books."

As the day wore on, the former nun's restlessness only grew as she anxiously awaited for any word from Bloxham and the rest of the crew. To distract herself, she tried to focus on her notes. It didn't help much, but at least it was something. Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to see it was nearly time for her to pick Zoe up. As much as she didn't want to go, she knew she must.

"Please keep me posted," Agatha said, gathering all of her things from off her desk. "I don't care if it's the middle of the night, wake me up."

"They'll be coming back in soon enough," Jack said, grabbing her key card before it fell to the floor. "I'm sure you won't miss anything."

"Nevertheless, I want to be in the loop," she replied, exhaling as she adjusted her belongings in her arms. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jack. Hopefully we'll have something."

Not in a million years would she have believed that her research on Count Dracula would've gone this far. Upon moving to England with Zoe, she wasn't quite sure what to expect until the day she received the life altering phone call. Evidently, it wasn't just Abraham Van Helsing who'd been hellbent on studying Count Dracula. Even more surprising was that he was at least aware of the construction of the institution and its purpose.

Bloxham had been the one to reach out to Agatha expressing her condolences. It was clear, though, that her intentions went further than mere well wishes. According to the head researcher, the Foundation had first contacted her brother, who immediately turned them down. He'd never believed in the existence of vampires and found the institution just as absurd as his sister. It was only when the former nun agreed to a position, that the Harker Foundation finally had a Van Helsing heir.

Agatha walked up to the front door of the tiny, blue house and wrapped three times. Almost immediately, it swung open and Zoe through her arms around her aunt's waist. She acted as if she hadn't seen the woman in years, much less a few hours. Old Mrs. Avery had just made it to the door by the time the little girl had grabbed her belongings.

"Aunt Aggie, I missed you," she exclaimed. "You didn't forget me!"

"I'd never forget you," Agatha smiled, patting the top of her head. "Were you good for Mrs. Avery?"

"She was very well behaved," the older woman smiled. "Why, we five episodes of The Price is Right together! I've never met someone who enjoyed it as much as I do."

"There were cookies," Zoe explained. "Can we go?"

"Tell Mrs. Avery thank you first," the former nun instructed, giving the other woman a smile. "Thank you, Jane."

"Of course. Anytime, Agatha," Mrs. Avery replied. "She's always a joy to have."

Zoe sang loudly, and off key to a pop song in the back seat as Agatha drove them home. At least she seemed to be in a pretty good mood. By the time she started dinner, the sun had already begun to set over the horizon.

"James Hopkins blew milk out of his nose today," her niece informed her as Agatha set a plate in front of her. "It was pretty cool. But then he got in trouble."

"Well I certainly hope you won't try doing the same," she exhaled, joining her at the table. "Did anything else happen today?"

"Hm…" Zoe pondered. "I painted in art!"

"Oh? What did you paint?"

"A toad," she answered, taking a bite out of her pizza. "I glued googly eyes to it."

Just as Agatha opened her mouth to reply, her cell phone rang. Excusing herself, she stood up and retrieved the device from where it sat on the counter. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she saw the name on the screen. Jack Seward.

"Jack?"

"Zoe," came the voice on the other line. "They found him. They found Count Dracula."

[thenightling]

I’m in a bad mood so I’m going to ruin this meme on you...

I’m about to ruin both of these memes in one swoop...

Here we have depicted Blade coming after Edward Cullen.

1.  There wouldn’t be much of a fight.  We already know Blade would win and he would win easily.   Everyone who fantasizes about “the battle” would see it over in twenty seconds and Blade,  himself, would likely feel disheartened by it since Edward isn’t actually a threat to anyone (except maybe himself).  It wouldn’t be that exciting.  It would actually be kind of disappointing.   Also do you really want to taint the Marvel universe with the Twilight mythos?   

2.   Let’s be perfectly honest.  Blade wouldn’t kill Edward. Edward used to kill but he hasn’t killed in an extremely long time.  He feeds on deer and is mostly harmless.  Do you know how many “Vegan vampires” Blade currently tolerates in Marvel comics?  There’s Morbius (who still occasionally slips up and accidentally kills, resulting in Blade kicking his ass periodically), Hannibal King (who doesn’t kill at all), and various others he looks the other way for.  He’s more likely to tell him (and threaten him) that he’s got his eye on him and will be watching him, and may even show up periodically like an overbearing parole officer, but that’s about it.   

3.  I’ve seen this argument. “But surely Blade would realize how creepy and predatory it is for Edward to be with an eighteen-year-old! He’s like a hundred!  It’s gross!”    Exactly how old do you think Blade actually is in the comics?  The movies played with the lore.  Blade in the comics is an extrovert with an English accent (No, really).  He doesn’t say Mother f---ker all the time.   And ...he was born in 1929...

His condition has greatly slowed his aging.   Blade, himself, has had very young (though consenting adult) love interests.   Imagine your ninety-year-old grandfather dating a twenty-one-year-old intern, or eighteen-year-old Van Helsing descendant.  It’s weird but not illegal.  And Blade’s done that.  

Blade could never judge Edward over his relationship.  He’s done the same (Just not in a High school.  A college, yes, not a High school.  I told you, I’d ruin this for you!)  Even the creepy stalking...   Sorry.   It’s a vampire thing...  I think it’s instinctual for them, part of the predatory nearly animal-like nature in a constant duality struggle against the human consciousness, predatory instinct vs. Human reason  (”I don’t know if I want to date her or eat her!” - Wolf in 10th Kingdom.)  I’m not saying it’s necessarily right but Bella is a consenting adult by the time she and Edward consummate their relationship, it’s her body, her choice. Don’t infantilize the protagonist just because you don’t like her or the poorly written story she comes from.  It’s a not-so-subtle kind of sexism to diminish any woman’s freedom of choice even if you don’t agree with her choice.  And don’t diminish her right to choose out of agism mixed with sexism. She was written by a forty-year-old who used the decisions that she, herself, would have made. So the character doesn’t even really have the psychology of an eighteen-year-old anyway.  Pretending she’s real, it’s her choice.  It’s fiction, yes, but in that fiction we should respect any woman’s decision even if we think it might be a bad one.  It’s fiction and if vampires all dated people their own age they’d be dating trees in the forest.  To quote the Emo Vampire song “When you’re six-hundred-years-old there’s no such thing as a cougar.”  

The point remains Blade couldn’t kill Edward for something he, himself, has done in his own comics...  Marvel even had plans to reveal Blade has a daughter from one of those relationships.  

I don’t like Twilight either but your fantasy requires knowing precious little about Blade’s original canon. 

I warned you I’d ruin this. 

[marveling-cg]

A Bit of Beyond Series Fic (that no one asked for)

Maricela cried between the ceremony and reception. It’s not that she regretted what she’d done. 

Marrying Alexei had been the best shot that either of them had at freedom. 

It was just that she’d always hoped to be able to marry for the sort of passionate love that everyone worshiped in Sector One. But the granddaughter of the prophet had other responsibilities. And, as long as she remained unwed, scheming mothers and ambitious sons would constantly be conspiring to keep her from the duties that truly mattered. 

No, marrying Alexei had been the right thing to do. He’d only confirmed it when he’d stumbled upon her in the gardens before their reception, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to carefully wipe away her tears before using it to dry his own eyes.

“This isn’t the end of love,” he’d sniffed as he turned his face toward the setting sun. 

“No. Especially not for you. You know I won’t stand between you and Hugo.” “No, I know that. It’s just a matter of getting to him to believe me. Or look me in the eye.” His jaw had clenched, but he’d cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and curled his mouth into his wry smile. “But for now, we should dance. The whole Sector waits.”

And so they danced.

“You’re either an asshole or you greatly undervalue your own worth. I’ve been having trouble deciding.” The man before her jumped and turned. When he saw her face, he bowed lowly. “Princess, I’m sorry - whatever I’ve done --” “It’s more what you haven’t done.” “I’m sorry, your--” “He loves you.”

Broad shoulders snapped back and a brow previously furrowed in concern smooths into a darkly shuttered expression.

“With all due respect, Your Highness --” “It’s not my business, I know. Not really, but --” “As Alexei’s wife, it’s certainly your business, but it’s no longer mine.” “Which is a shame. Because it breaks my heart to know that my friend’s happy ending is actually possible, but he won’t get it anyway.” “I may only be a gardener, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit at the edge of the table begging for scraps. I won’t be a dirty secret.”

At that, Maricela reached out. Hugo was as large as Alexei had said he was. But, he stopped at Maricela’s touch.

“No one’s asking you to be. He did this for you.” “Because the husband of a Rios is even more attainable than a minor noble’s son? Right.”

“Because my grandfather taught that love was above all - above class and wealth and power. The nobles in this Sector may have forgotten that, but I haven’t. And neither has Alexei. Just. Just talk to him.”

It took a couple of weeks, but Hugo did reach out. 

Which Maricela found out only after inquiring with the palace guards when Alexei missed dinner two nights in a row.

“Marry me, Nita.”

“What?”

The temple gardens were uncommonly quiet. In the distance, Alexei sat on a bench, book in hand, as Hugo bent to his work. Alexei laughed at some something on his page and called out to share it with Hugo. Nita and Maricela were too far away to hear the specifics, but Hugo blushed prettily, and Alexei’s smile softened into something unbearably gentle.

“Marry me, Nita.”

“Maricela--”

“No, you’ve waited for -- you’ve waited long enough Nita. And I know your mom’s been coming down on you harder.” “I’m not looking for your pity, Maricela.”

“I’m not looking to give you any. I just want to see you happy again. You used to smile. I used to smile. Maybe not like that,” she pointed toward Hugo and Alexei, “but it’d make me happy to see you free to help your siblings.”

“But bound in a marriage.”

“That look bound to you? Nita, you know he --” Maricela catches herself. They have a code, a sacred code, that one’s impossible love isn’t talked about. “If you ever -- I wouldn’t stop you.”

Nita paused, seemed to take a moment to actually think about the offer on the table.

“I hate to give my mom a victory,” she laughed finally. “Marrying a damned Rios.” Maricela chuckled. “Sure, but you’ll only be my second spouse. And, if I want my new baby sisters and brothers to become little designers and gardeners or marry their kitchen staff, she’ll hardly be able to argue.”

“Oh man, who could argue with a damned Rios!” Nita laughed. “Okay, honey, let’s get married.”

They married quietly, another message to Estela Reyes that Nita’s life would no longer be hers to control. She’d exchanged vows with Nita as Hugo exchanged vows with Alexei. 

Nita’d signed the papers after Hugo making her Maricela’s third. The smile on her face when she did so, it made it all worth it. 

As a concession to the powerful Reyes family, though, they’d scheduled the wedding for the week before the Reyes’ annual party. They kept the nuptials quiet until they arrived at the Reyes compound and gave her the opportunity to announce to the world that the Reyes and Rios families were combined at last. 

Of course, Hunter decided to get his head out of his ass after Maricela had gotten Nita to marry her. 

It was fine. Her vision of sharing quiet morning with Nita in bed, huddled together against the cool air, even if it was just as friends, wouldn’t come to pass.

But, she wouldn’t trade Nita’s smile for anything.

Marrying Hunter in an unseemly spectacle at the Reyes’ party the next year was the gift that finally seemed to earn Estela Reyes’s forgiveness, even if the woman couldn’t quite bring herself to say Hunter’s name without the creases around her eyes tightening.

The night was warm, and the press of the crowd had become unbearable. She’d normally find her way to Nita when she needed a moment away, but, tonight, Nita belonged to no one but Hunter.

She glowed in his arms, and he’d hardly let her go save for an obligatory dance with his other new spouses. She’d been sure to keep her dance with him short and to talk only of Nita’s beauty. He’d picked up on it shortly before the music came to an end and was clearly embarrassed.

“Forgive me, little Mari,” he’d whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“For what? She’s glorious.” 

And then she’d made her way to the gardens. For a breath. For a moment away from her glowing spouses. A moment to wrestle her wretched heart into place.

“Princess.”

Maricela gasped, and then relaxed as Ivan stepped forward hands raised in silent apology.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” “Which is why you approached without sound from the shadowed maze,” she huffed.

His lips tilted in the whisper of a smile.

“It’s hard to break training.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been consciously resisting training since I was a little girl.”

“Which is why you’ve dutifully married not once, not twice, but four times.”

“One a gardener, the other a Rider. I’m a walking scandal.”

“And for all that rebellion, you never smile.”

“Of course I do.”

He shook his head. In the moonlight, his hair shown silver, and his blue eyes were dark. He looked as she imagined a knight would, one from the tales of old about a round table served by faithful warriors.

It hurt to look at him.

“I’ve beautiful spouses, kind ones. My people flourish, and I’ve finally been able to renovate and expand our refugee housing. I’ve got everything to smile about.”

“Like I said: you’ve been dutiful.”

“I don’t serve my people out of duty.”

“That’s not - I didn’t mean - just because it’s your duty doesn’t mean it’s wrong. And it doesn’t mean you didn’t do it because you cared. I just meant.” He paused, clearly at a loss. 

And in all the years that Maricela had known Ivan, in all the years she’d quietly watched him and tried not to watch him, this was the most he’d ever said to her at one time.

His sincerity was clear.

“I just meant that you spend so much of yourself serving others. But, who serves you?”

“Ivan. I have more than enough of people looking to serve the Prophet’s granddaughter. I don’t--”

“I’m not talking about serving Maricela Rios. Who takes care of you, Mari?”

There were any number of correct answers that come to mind:

She and Alexei share breakfast together every morning, no matter how late a night he has. She and Hugo have exchanged books every week for the last year and a half. Nita, as ever, has remained her best friend and partner in work and fun. Even Hunter had become a friend.

But there was no room in Ivan’s gaze for anything less than complete honesty.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t in our terns & agreements.”

“You weren’t supposed to have contracts when you married.”

“Oh no?”

“No. No, I --”

“You what, Ivan?”

“I stayed away, so you could have something real, something forever.”

“Well, I’ve got that, friendships and contracts, and I’m sure kids that will come.”

“And what about passion?”

“Dammit, Ivan, what do you want me to say? You stayed away!” It comes out more of a sob than she intended, but it’d been so long. 

She’d spent years second guessing whether the heat between them had been one-sided, whether the intensity in his gaze was hers alone or just the wishful longing of an infatuated mind. Whether the quiet glimpses into his life were shared intentionally in a show of trust or were merely the work of convenient timing and fatigue.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter? Why wouldn’t you matter?”

“I’m just a Rider.”

“A servant to your people just like me.”

She hadn’t intentionally moved closer. She wasn’t sure if she had or if it was he who moved. But he was there, pushing hair away from her face all the same.

“And it’s exhausting sometimes isn’t it.”

The look in his eyes was tender and kind, and Maricela leaned into the broad expanse of his chest.

“Let me take care of you, Mari.”

“Please.”

[enjhae]

Double Exposure is a collaborative series that features the work of an admired artist.

LightLeaks second featured artist is Eva Mecham–a Vegas-based photographer who strives to represent women in an industry dominated by men. While the struggle to find respect always seems like a challenge, she continues her quest to become a respected photographer by practicing and perfecting her craft.

In this segment of Double Exposure, our aim is to support women, not just in photography but in every field where women are not represented fairly, respected or even paid enough in comparison to our male counterparts.

Eva and I interviewed each other to learn more about our love for photography, how our interest for photography originated, our influences and more.

EVA JACQUELINE MECHAM

Age: 23

DOB: 06/03/1994 Gemini

Background: Portuguese/Lao/German/French

Born: Las Vegas, NV

Raised: East Side Las Vegas

Insta Handles: 

 @spottiottieva was the first personal instagram I ever had but it became more technical to show ALL my work through.

…so I created the other two pages to serve as multiple outlets of exposure exuding different variable factors.

Humans AND Environment. Lol.

@sweetleaf_phto is female energy only and conceptual portraits/groupshots.

@jacqueline_images is my art and street photo page.

Why/how did get into photography?

My grandfather. He documented just about everything. He passed away in 2011 but his legacy lives on. He lived a life beyond what photos could show. His family traveled from Spain to America during the 1920’s. His determination, discipline, will, focus, and attention to detail rooted in me and allowed me to open my mind to the idea of collecting and acquiring but with tangibility and substance.

Past my grandfather stimulating my lifestyle choices I felt that spark after I developed my first roll of film. Being able to hold a photo in your hands is truly magic in the simplest form. Photos have influenced me my entire life. Keeps me constantly reverting back to instances and wishing I could save moments to time travel to. Just like music or a scent, a photo can greatly alter your perception or mood.

Last, a major reason I ever pushed my photography skills beyond documentation was skateboarding. I was at a young age when I fell more and more in love with every skate mag or video I ever watched. Naturally I began sourcing all my inspiration and tones through how the skateboarding industry plastered my brain. It’s common to have these wild kids throw themselves off staircases with ease and dive into 12ft deep drops every day. Whether it was filmed with thousand dollar equipment or the cheapest vx setup, A-1 quality images and content has always been around. It wasn’t until I learned real anticipation taking a pre meditated flick of a skater in motion performing a trick repeatedly without near success till maybe the 20th try in, that I understood the feeling of that equation. That 21st key shot is a high. All that focus.

What does your photos mainly consist /focus on? Why?

My photo collection is a mix of portraits of friends I’ve built connections or bridges with while the other half is a handful of my travels, daily life, and streets I walk through. I have to mention I LOVE ART of ANY kind. Art embodied within all forms. Especially if it doesn’t belong somewhere or a rule was broken to make or keep it there. I believe in the idea that the world truly is ours so exercising the freedom to express ourselves is common law to me. Almost like a personal passion project. On the other hand my favorite subject to photograph are literal human hands. I’m fascinated by hands. Our hands are such beautiful blessings that we often take for granted. With our hands we can touch, create, hurt, destroy, clean, whatever it be. Our hands are multifaceted and a huge relatable connection between us all as humans. No one hand is the same. Like our eyes, I feel they are also portals to the soul.

You are all about empowering women. How do you convey this in your work?

Confidence can be instilled in many ways but I have never seen more confidence instilled within a female more than when she enjoys a photo of herself. Living in this overly extroverted world, it’s common to find that most women compare themselves to everyone. Even men. I know this to be true because I can testify myself. I’ve grown up riddled with anxieties I’ve whispered to my inner conscience for so many years, without even realizing it. A photo can translate emotions and feelings you didn’t know you had. A virtual avenue. A portable capsule of what existed at that time. There is growth in a photo. People glorify in the beauty of a butterfly but fail to remember the stages of growth it took to become that butterfly we see. So for me to be able to capture the growth of is something one of a kind to me. Anyone or anything can have it’s photo taken. But it’s all about the subject. I stress to validate the women in my photos through our shared experience and what they represent passionately. Who are these women and how can I uniquely translate what they have made me feel through a mere photo for the world to perceive.

Talk about your experience collaborating on this project.

Norma! I’m extremely flattered you would have asked me to be a part of this project as it is so pure and beautiful. I love to share my thoughts and feelings and often feel I am overlooked and underestimated. Every once and awhile I meet someone who makes me feel human and included at the same time. I look up to you Norma as you are an incredibly vivid photographer with natural ability only acquired through patience, growth, focus, determination, and skill. I often wish we had met sooner. But there is a reason for everything and the influence you have provided has guided me quite a bit. I truly love Jelly and KNOW without a doubt that dog has a great soul. I’m lucky to have friends who aspire to create, as this will be so enjoyable in my older years to look back on and cherish as I fade.

Who is your fav photographer?

This is probably the hardest question you put on here but I’d have to say my grandfather.

Whose work has influenced your work the most?

I honestly wouldn’t be able to narrow it down but i enjoy and source my inspiration from lots of the lasting images of these timeless talents below….

Keegan Gibbs (so fucking fire)-

Atiba Jefferson (skateboarding essentials)

Mike O’Meally (classic skateboarding essentials)

Henry Chalfant (innumerable amounts of graffiti documentation)

Tobin Yelland (filmy skateboard shots)

Duran Levinson (insane portrait photographer)

Craig Stecyk (Z-town documenter/skateboarding essentials)

JR (graffiti/wheatpastephotographer)

Martha Cooper (80’s legend in street art journalism)

Alex Fakso (skate & graffiti essentials)

Ruedi One (for those wet blk&wht artsy street nights)

Ed Templeton (almost forgot this legend)

Nan Goldin (female legend)

Haris Nukem (vivid portrait photographer)

Ruth Orkin (female legend)

Who are you currently listening to, music-wise?

I have this private playlist I made myself I play every morning after I get up to get ready for the day. I’m revealing the first 3 songs but the rest is secret.

Rebel without a pause-Public Enemy.

Leaving Babylon-Sublime.

If 6 was 9-Jimi Hendrix.

Besides the essentials I‘ve been playing a lot of lo-fi hip hop beats/scratches/mixups while I work or create lately.

I usually have either an Alchemist or Madlib CD in my car stereo. I use a lot of CD’s and cassettes lol. Let’s just say my auxiliary option is variably unreliable so CD’s are solid lol.

What is your favorite photo you’ve taken and why?

I thought for so long on how to answer this. Haha. I have to say that every photo is my favorite. Not to feed the ego or anything but maybe in other words I’m a hoarder. Any and all photos I take fall into my collection and that to me is something that holds my life’s work and ultimate value. My archive. The best way to put this answer into perspective is the idea that I’m not done yet. I’m still constantly & avidly pursuing higher dimensions through photography, through life, through myself. For me to choose a favorite photo would be for me to say that I’ve reached some finished point. Don’t get me wrong I have favorited shots over others but like I said I love every photo I take because I love life.

Digital or film? Why?

Film is permanent. Technology isn’t built to last forever. You don’t need technology shooting film. Art in a post apocalyptic world is a priority. Creating something tangible is far more lasting to me. Especially one with an element of surprise.

A fixed restriction makes you think twice, I’m sure. Film is exactly that. Knowing you have that limited amount of shots, each one seems to count more. Film is a spectrum balance between a premeditated photo or a foggy moment in time. I’m a fast paced shooter but with shooting film I catch myself staring at nothing till I see something. Essentially, it’s something that actually slows me down and I need that.

Movie you’d recommend an aspiring photographer to watch for inspo.

Recommendation for inspo for an aspiring photographer hmmmm!

I’d say watch any Tim Burton film. That’s a given. I’m a major fan ofTim Burton’s movies and stories.

Then I’d say, Across the Universe and Inherent Vice. And after that watch some of Quentin Tarantino’s films. Those are all classic.

FEMALE POWUR PLAYLIST

https://open.spotify.com/user/normal_genes/playlist/351NQKgAj4lfzEnuamHKAm?si=V4TwoqWoQgWXME8Rzlzh1A

EVA PHOTO GALLERY

S E T  1

  S E T  2

  S E T  3

  FILM SET

  NORMA JEAN ORTEGA aka NJ

Sign: Gemini

Background: Filipino American

Born: Las Vegas, NV

Being self-taught, how do you educate yourself on new ideas and techniques to take better pictures?

I can’t say I was self-taught because my dad was photographer. So I essentially grew up with the concept of photography. One of my first jobs was at this photo studio at Meadows Mall. I learned the basics in color balance, posing models and composition. College is where I got my formal training in photography. I learned how to shoot strictly in manuel when I took 3 years of black & white film photography and I became obsessed to say the least. Practicing photography in this manner gave me a sense of meaning behind the photos I took. I loved the idea of building a concept for the photos I had taken and embraced the idea of suspension and surprise.

But to answer your question, I learn new techniques by trail and error. Stick to one camera for a long period of time until I feel like I’ve mastered it then move on to the next. YouTube is also a thing. LOL. What is it that you want to say with your photographs, and how do you channel your work to illustrate that? Why? My personal photography documents moments and captures feelings that I like to look back on. A photo diary for the most part.

The subjects I touch on in my more serious work, aims to unpack what it means to be an Asian American female—of course from my own person experience. I express distressing feelings from my childhood, my feelings towards Asian stereotypes and dissect the standards of beauty in Asian culture.

When packing photo gear for a trip, what all do you take with you and why? My olympus stylus, fujifilm 400/800. A majority of the photos I take on a trip mimic the documentary style that I grew up with, however instead of focusing on people I try to focus on a moment and gut feeling that I am drawn to capture.

What motivates you to continue taking photos, whether it be socially, economically, politically, intellectually or emotionally? Everything is cathartic for me. It is a way to release a thought or feeling that I wouldn’t otherwise know how to express. Writing was my source of releasing this energy but through photography, I love how subjective it is to everyone else. You can share your work and get a complete different reaction or thought for what it was intended. But for me, when I look at my images, I know exactly how I felt and what I was struggling with at moment. It is somewhat of a reminder.

Within the aspect of women and social culture, what would you say is the difference between capturing beauty vs. vulgarity?

I think that what is considered vulgar for women is a popular theme in art, where artists are trying to breakdown that social norm for women. What was expected of women is being shattered by the “vulgar” images expressed by various female artists and photographers. It is essential, necessary and about fuckin’ time. To be lady-like was a standard put together by men and women are fully capable of conducting themselves however they see fit.

How did you develop an interest in photography and at what age were you?

Grew up around photography because of my dad. So I guess I always had an interest in photography. I grew up with a camera in my face and albums of albums of every major holiday and moment in my life. One of my first jobs was working in a photo studio called Photomania. Kids would go there to take their high school photos and basically trade them to each other like Pokemon cards. Hahah!

But working there was dope! I got to learn how to print from an old school printing machine. Had to clean that beast of a machine and take it apart every night. But I never took photography seriously until college. It’s when I finally learned about the greats (like Ansel Adams, Robert Frank, Cindy Sherman, and Weegee) that I completely got turned on to it.

Whose work has influenced you most, any favorites? Francesca Goodman, Nan Goldin, Ren Hang, Petra Collins, Carrie Mae Weems, Stanley Kubrick, Catherine Angel and Kimber Beck

When you are out shooting, how much of it is instinctual vs planned?

Half and half. And some times it’s completely spontaneous which is the best because when you feel that it’s the right moment, you just gotta go for it and pray that the photo comes out the way you wanted it to.

How has social media played a role in your photography?

It’s influenced me in the ways of curating my posts. Before, I just use to post whatever. But I think moving along the years of Instagram, I’ve seen how streamlined people can get with their style and feel of their photos. I also have my job to thank for that too.

While, I do curated my post, the work os still all mine. So I still see my Instagram as a photo journal but broken down into different segments.

What advice can you dish for any entry level photographers?

By a cheap camera and master it. Don’t buy into getting high quality gear until you find your style. Also, hang out with the local photographers you admire. You want to surround yourself with people who will push you to do better. A good piece of advice I learned from my cousin, Ez. Thanks cuh!

and of course i almost forgot….Talk about your experience collaborating on this project.

From our initial meeting at 6th & Franklin, I knew you we’re a go-getter! Actually, I hadn’t even met you yet but people we’re talking you up so hard that I was honestly intimidated. But real talk, I admire your constant drive to create work and your strive to improve your skills as a photographer. You are a walking and talking think-tank!

Doing this project was another project that I felt drawn to do, just like with my first Doublexposure guest, Andi. Everything I pursue in terms of interviews is purely for the need to connect with people who I admire. I am proud for what you stand for as an artist and I will support you every step of the way. Love ya girl 😘

NORMA JEAN PHOTO GALLERY

SET 1

  SET 2

  SET 3

  FILM SET

  Double Exposure: Featuring Eva Mecham Double Exposure is a collaborative series that features the work of an admired artist. LightLeaks second featured artist is…

[marudny-robot]

Learning a lesson - ch.1

Title: Learning a lesson Fandom: DCU, Batman (Comics) Rating: 16 years old and up Additional notes: Reverse!Batfam AU Summary: Damian Wayne – Son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul; Grandson of Demon's Head – is ten years old when he is send to live with his Father to learn from him. Although his Father's teachings often confuse him (and seem foolish compared to League's training) – Damian will do everything in his power, to prove that he is worthy to be called his Father's Son. There's also Tim Drake, who curses the day he met Damian. Bad luck can't seem to leave him alone, just as much as Bruce Wayne's son. At least, his Mother seems to be more interested in his life, so maybe it's not that bad? Chapter: 1/?

A/N: For those who read my note in June about Tim&Damian fic: I apologize for the wait. To everyone: Enjoy.

Damian was ten when he was send to live with his Father. Don't misunderstand him. It was his dream to meet his Father. To meet the person his Mother always called Beloved, and whom his very hard to please Grandfather respected. To learn from the person he heard such amazing stories about. To show him his abilities, his talents, how he trained, learned and fought only to be worthy to stand with Him, side by side.

Apparently, it was his first mistake.

If Damian could allow himself to be sad… that would be the emotion he felt, after meeting his hero for the first time.

He still couldn't understand how he was allowed to stay in the Manor, despite his Father clearly not being happy with him there. Something about his Mother saying that – yes, he truly is – his Father's Son and his purpose for arriving here. She didn't contacted his Father after this, nor didn't allowed herself to be found. She even didn't allow Damian to contact her. Damian could understand that – his Father was Detective, as his Grandfather called him. He wouldn't be surprised if, by contacting his Mother, Damian would reveal her to him.

Still, living in the Manor with his Father – what was supposed to be his dream – wasn't really… interesting. He wasn't allowed to patrol with his Father, despite clearly being good asset. Even Pennyworth was against the idea of Damian patrolling, or even helping with patrol.

(Damian couldn't understand how his Father was advised by his butler, of all things!)

So, as a true warrior he was taught to be, he didn't give up. He fought for little things. For being able to train his body. For being able to train his mind – especially his detective skills. For being able to train those things under his Father tutelage.

Time went and his Father relented. He could train with his Father. He was showed many things, from how to look for the most concealed clues to how use everything around him to gain advantage in fight. His Father even showed him – in Damian's opinion – rather odd things, like: how to take care of injured or how to gain information from people, without threatening or torturing them. Nevertheless, skills are skills, and only fool don't see advantage in additional knowledge.

Despite Damian's many arguments, his Father never allowed him to patrol during that time. Damian wasn't worried. Soon, he would show his Father his worth. Damian didn't spend all his time on training and polishing his many skills – no matter how he wanted to. His Father insisted (and Pennyworth backed him up!) that he would go to school. And, begrudgingly, he went.

He always did extra work. Didn't allowed his grades to be less then excellent.

Unfortunately, he made his second mistake, by fighting once with other student – it was that idiot's fault, really. Damian just defended his Father's honor (rightfully so!), when that neanderthal called his Father an imbecile. He was really happy to hear bones breaking, to be honest. It's sad, he was stopped before he could inflict more damage. For some reason Father (and Pennyworth – Damian had to remember that apparently that senile servant have some power over his Father) weren't happy with that information. He wasn't beaten, or something worse, as a punishment. He was only lectured and his training time got reduced for a week. It was very light punishment, compared to what he was used to (seeing or receiving), but he wasn't stupid to point that out loud. Still, despite being there no real punishment, Damian saw the effect of his actions. He had lost in his Father's (and Pennyworth's) eyes. Gaining back what he lost was going to be harder work than before, that's for sure.

But he didn't let that crush him. So, he worked harder for his goal.

He started with school. Some classmate told him that questioning authority would bring him only trouble, no matter how wrong it is. So, his Father never had a chance to be called, because Damian never reduced his teachers to crying mess. See? He tried.

&&&

Year passed and Damian learned and got accustomed to his new life. To Gotham, the Manor and it's occupants. But he wouldn't call it acceptable.

During that time, no matter how hard he worked and tried and listened and helped, he couldn't made his Father see his worth. Bruce Wayne spent more time with him,talked with him, trained him and teach him – yes. But there was always some hesitation in his eyes. The lack of trust.

Damian sometimes thought about hating his Father. But it was rare precedence.

Surprisingly, also during that time, he… not started liking, but was thankful for Pennyworth. The old Butler must have started trusting him, that's why he became more helpful lately. Once in a while Damian could see pity in his eyes, but it lasted short. Practically, ended whenever that Old Fool saw Damian watching him. Good. Damian hated pity and was glad, that the Old Man at least tried to hide it. That, he understood. Damian tried too. He could find some respect for him for that.

&&&

The real change happened during his second year in Gotham. It was late March. His Father was working on finding the lair of new gang in the city. Unfortunately, they tried their luck in kidnapping, making the whole case priority for Batman. Damian, after living for year and almost three months with his Father, knew to some point, how that man's thought process went. He was aware, that with such important case, Batman simply couldn't be for all of Gotham, until kids return safe and kidnappers went to prison.

So Damian dared and offered help.

He predicted that answer, but still – it hurt.

Days later, Damian still played the obedient son. He saw his Father working day and night on the case, juggling WE, Batman, his Brucie persona for reporters and still listening to Damian, when he talked about his day or give his thought about some of Batman's cases.

He also saw how his Father slept less and less. How sluggish he became and tired. Pennyworth also saw this and shared Damian's worries.

After a week and a half, he decided to act.

Just as he saw his Father driving away, he turned to Pennyworth and stated:

“I'm going to help him. I'll be back before him.”

He was about to turn back and go for his suit (secretly made for this occasion) and weapons, when he was stopped by Butler's hand on his shoulder. Damian looked at him in question.

Alfred Pennyworth looked at his young charge and sighed sadly. With gesture, told Damian to follow him. They stopped before work table, cluttered with parts and tools. Damian was silent when Alfred opened the drawer and pulled two comm units from it. He activated them for boy to see and then put them both in Damian's hands.

“Second one is as a precaution. Don't take any of them out until you came back. Report to me every half an hour. And please – be safe, Master Damian.”

Damian looked him in the eyes. “I will.” He promised. “But why…?”

“You would go anyway, even if I told you not to. I wanted to make sure you would be able to call for help, if need arises.”

&&&

As promised, Damian tried to not go into dangerous situation too often (But really, it depended on how they would describe dangerous). He could hear his Father talking to Pennyworth over his comm, but he didn't say anything to any of them. He would report to Pennyworth later, on a private line. He didn't want his Father to know where Damian currently is. No. His Father, as well as Batman, was a stubborn man. He wouldn't ask for help, so help had to go to him directly – even if it would be against his direct orders.

Besides, it could always be the chance to show his Father. What were some half-witted thugs for a Trained Warrior like him?

At about hour till the end of his patrol time (0:30 am, as Pennyworth insisted), Damian lazily wandered near the beginning of Crime Alley. Surprisingly, streets were mostly empty – safe for that box full of kittens, abandoned near one street.

It was quite silent here – no small businesses here, no people going in and out of their homes, nor any wandering teenagers or drunks. Not counting noises from homes high above (and there were some windows with lights on), it didn't seem as anyone would notice him.

Damian quickly went to the animals and crouched in front of the box.

There were three black kittens, with white paws and white spots in various places. Damian slowly started to pet one kitten's head with his finger.

They are nice, he thought.

He always wanted a pet. It's not like he didn't have contact with the animals at all (some of Mother's or Grandfather's subject worked with those). It was more that he wasn't allowed to have one. Something about him being too attached and it being used against him.

Ridiculous.

Damian saw people being tortured or even killed by his Grandfather (or by any of his assassins), many times. And he was well aware why some of his teacher suddenly couldn't teach him any more.

He grunted. To think, he was still thought by people as faint-hearted. It greatly annoyed Damian.

His musings were stopped, when he suddenly heard noise far down the street. Damian hid in the alleyway, glancing from behind the building in the direction of the source of the noise.

Five men were walking in Damian's direction. What was worth pointing out, was the fact that two of those men, was considered suspect in the kidnapping case, that Batman was taking care of. Damian smiled, grateful that he decided to hack computer in the Cave, to read his Father's case-notes.

His mood immediately got better.

The men passed Damian without noticing him. Damian waited few more moments, to make a reasonable distance, then started following them.

He left the kittens, promising himself, to look for them the next day.

Damian followed the suspects for about fifteen minutes, hiding in the dark. During his last stop, he hid behind the car – little nearer than he kept his distance. The men stopped before the red-bricked four-storied building. Single light above the front doors, shone on them. They went inside, lighting the way and making it easier for Damian to see where they are going, through the windows. They stopped on the third floor. Not long later, lights went on in the window the most far away from Damian.

Bruce's son looked on the other side of the street. The old gray building had five stories and was almost wide as the red one. He looked up. The roof seemed as the better place to observe.

He almost smiled, thinking how easy today's patrol seemed to be.

Then – Something on the roof caught his attention.

Wait. Damian looked closely at the dark figure above. It was small, and was moving. Standing near the edge of the roof, only shape was clear enough to see. Person? Damian thought. Child perhaps? If yes, then that kid could be potential target.

Damian moved by the shadows to alleyway between buildings. Not choosing metal stairway, for possible noise, he climbed up using windows, balcony or anything giving him advantage. Upon arriving on the roof, he immediately hid in the shadows. Damian didn't go directly to the figure, choosing to circle it from the left. He stopped about five meters from it. Dark figure wasn't now as non-recognizable as before, but it didn't make Damian happy. Child before him didn't saw nor heard him - which was good. But that kid was probably too absorbed in his thought, considering how intensely he gazed low, at the red building. Little fingers were moving along something dark, near kid's chest.

Wait.

Was that child  t a k i n g  p i c t u r e s? Doesn't matter.

Damian silently moved behind the kid, then, when he stood directly behind kid's back, he dragged the kid away from the edge of the roof.

“Wha-!”

“Shhh!” Damian clapped one hand on kid's mouth. “We don't want anyone to look here!” he said silently near kid's ear.

The kid struggled to escape, but Damian was bigger and stronger than him. He easily hold the him in one place.

Damian choose this time to look properly at the kid.

The kid – or rather little boy in his arms, looked about seven or eight years old. Thin – judging by face and hands. With baggy sweater and opened denim jacket on him. Short dark hair. It was hard to decide if the boy was homeless or not.

His musings were stopped, when the boy bit his hand.

“Let me go!” the boy shouted, as soon as Damian took his hand away.

“Don't shout! I work with Batman! I'm here to help!”

Boy stilled in his struggling. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at Damian.

“I don't believe you. Batman always works alone.” Boy said in tone, as he was telling him, a very  o b v i o u s  fact.

Great. Damian looked slightly annoyed at kid – what is he gonna do now?

“What were you doing here?” Ha asked. “Where are your parents?”

Boy just looked more intensely at Damian (and Damian was very glad in that moment for his concealed eyes).

“I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.” That cheeky-

“Too late.” replied Damian shortly. “Besides, do you know how dangerous is here? There are kidnappers in that building you were looking at. Why were you doing it anyway?”

Kid's face just… blanked for a second. Then he moved his head slightly, in question.

“Are you a kidnapper?” The boy asked. And before Damian had a chance to reply at that absurd- “No, you can't be. You are also a kid. It would be strange for a kid to be a kidnapper.” Boy continued, furrowing his eyebrows. “What are YOU doing here? And how do you know about kidnappers? Are you working for them?! Or maybe-”

“Enough!” Damian stopped him. He turned the boy, so he was standing in front of him, and hold the boy by his shoulders.

“Listen here, now. If you are as smart as you think you are, you should know how stupid you are by being here. As for me - I work with Batman, and I don't care if you believe it or not. It's the truth. Just as well as that there are kidnappers in that building. Now - ” Damian glared at the boy. ”You are going to tell me what were you doing here, who you are and where are your parents. No games. Do. You. Understand?”

“F i n e.” The boy crossed his little arms and scowled. “I'm Alvin. I was taking pictures of that building, 'couse it has cool graffiti on it. My parents aren't home right now. I honestly didn't know there was someone – especially kidnappers there. Happy?”

“No.” Damian sighed. “You are annoying and I don't know what to do with you now.”

“You could leave me here?”

“Unacceptable. Annoying or not – you are a child in very bad place for you, so technically you need my help. Besides…” He paused, as he saw camera hanging on the boy's neck. What's the chance that kid got some good shots of the real kidnappers?  ”– give me you camera.”

“NO!” Alvin hided camera with his arms. “How do I know, you are not a bad guy, huh?”

“How do I know, you aren't hiding very important evidence there! Give it to me!”

“NO!” Damian thought he could easily take camera off Alvin, but the boy was fighting so much, and – as much as thin his patience was getting – he wasn't planning on hurting the kid (even by accident). When he (at least) took it off kid's neck and was holding in his hand, Alvin started to fight even more. Grabbing at his arms, kicking, trying to bite – anything for Damian to release his camera.

They were slowly getting back to roof's edge – the same side Damian was coming by. The fight became more heated (or annoying, in young Wayne's case). When they both could see the staircase below, Damian tried not to push the kid down there – but because of that, he accidentally dropped the camera.

They both stopped, when they heard sudden crash.

“Tt.” Damian commented, while looking down on the fallen object. Alvin looked devastated.

“YOU! You owe me new camera!” Alvin shouted at Damian, pointing his finger accusingly.

“I own you nothing. If you didn't try to take it from me, it wouldn't be destroyed now.” He answered , while going down the same way he came. He hoped that there was still a chance of film being intact.

“You took it from me FIRST!”

“And YOU were acting SUSPICIOUS! Now, go home kid, while I go do my job.” Damian hadn't heard boy's response, nor looked if the boy went or stayed, as he got down to get the remains of destroyed camera.

Tt. He should have stayed with the kittens.

&&&

Next morning, Tim Drake walked in circles in his room, while he was replaying last night situation.

Destroyed camera – while he was sad it happened – he knew it was replaceable. The film – was not.

Tim thanked every god he could remember the name of, that he changed the film before going out. No Batman shots were taken that night – only some landscapes, buildings, birds, cool stuff… and, of course, kidnappers.

(Or, at least, some bad quality shots of their faces and better ones of the building)

It could have gone better.

Hopefully, that strange kid wouldn't be looking for him? Who Tim was kidding – he said he worked for a Batman!

HA! That was a good one!

Tim knew that Batman didn't have any partners. He worked alone, probably to hide his identity (which – Tim strongly suspected – was really Bruce Wayne, or someone working with him).

“Wait.” Tim said aloud to no-one in particular while abruptly stopping. “Doesn't Bruce Wayne have  a son?”

Oh crap. Thought Tim, remembering about soon to be Wayne Gala. If there's a chance that Bruce Wayne's son is the kid from last night, then he will recognize me instantly. And Tim couldn't   s t a y  h o m e  for that one, because his parents wanted him to go. (Saying, he's old enough to not make an embarrassment.) Hopefully, he wouldn't have to meet the kid?

Fat chance. Tim knew what his parents where thinking. Make friends with the Wayne boy – they would  n o t  say -  but surely, will strongly imply.

No - avoidance will not be an option here. Tim had to prepare for the outcome, when the kid will (surely) recognize him.

Don't admit to anything. He said to himself. There's always a chance he won't remember you.

Besides – what if he does? Then what he will say to me? In front of all those people? That he worked for  B a t m a n? That he saw me alone in places where little boys shouldn't be? It will make him look crazy and it's not I, who has to make an impression during that Gala.

Yeah, it may not be that bad. Just make sure there are always some gossiping people near them, if he has to interact with Mr Wayne's son at all.

(And who knows? Maybe he could make younger Wayne pay him for his destroyed camera.)

&&&

Shit. Damian thought as he looked few days later at the developed photographs. Miraculously – film was not destroyed.

(Also, apparently, Pennyworth knew how to chemically develop them – that man surprises him with each day…)

Still – despite the not the best quality of those photos, but still good enough to recognize people in them – it didn't changed the fact, that that kid took those pictures for a reason.

And what reason had that kid, to take photos of the kidnappers?

Many questions popped in Damian's head. Who was that kid really? Why he was there? Why he took those photos? Was he aware what and whom he was taking shots of?

Anyway, he thought annoyed, he had certain Alvin to find.

And he had to find a way to give crucial evidence to his Father – hopefully, without explaining method of acquisition.

&&&

To say, that Bruce was happy, upon given the photographs, was clearly a misunderstanding.

Sure, Batman now had good clues, or even evidence, but he also knew where Damian had been.

How? The envelope containing those photographs addressed to him? For what reason would Bruce Wayne had interest in kidnappers? Not forgetting that Damian was too calm when asked about his thought on this precedence. He sighed.

(He had to remember to teach that boy how to lie. Maybe, as a parent, he should be happy, that he could read him like a book, but Damian would need that skill in the future. Bruce didn't even try to hope otherwise. As a rule, he didn't lie to himself.)

He relaxed in his chair and looked once again at the monitor in the Cave, displaying his report on the current case.

Lost in thought, he started to recall the day (or rather evening, just before patrol), when Damian came to the Manor. It was hard to believe back then – and it still sometimes is – that he has a son. A ten year old boy, who he met – whom he heard about – for the first time, back then.

(Of course, he really started to believe after he did the DNA test. G-d knows how many times various women tried that trick to get a hand on his money. Even Alfred probably doesn't know how many there were!) (Scratch that. Alfred probably knows. And keeps a little notebook with names.)

But going back to that day. Talia. Talia – still beautiful, as the first time he saw her She came to the Manor day later, after Damian, to prove to him that yes, Damian was their son, Beloved. Please, take care of him. (She left next day, without saying goodbye, without saying anything.)

He grunted. Thinking about what happened, won't help him now. He needs to prepare for the future.

Like an upcoming Gala.

The Gala was to be held in three days, and during which he would officially present Damian to the people (or rather higher class) of Gotham. To be honest, Bruce dreaded that day. He didn't want to let those vultures meet his son and wished that those short statements he left year ago to the media would had been enough.

(It's never enough for the media. Still, it was miracle that, after Damian's arrival, the Wayne family had about month to themselves before people started talking.)

Anyway, Bruce thought - it was better to do those things on his terms. That's why a need for hosting a Gala – to minimize surprises, by being in his territory and to tell people! Because Brucie doesn't have secrets! No need to look there when I can tell you most of it! (Especially, when Bruce choose earlier “what” to say on the matter).

Thankfully, Alfred took care of the general preparation. Preparing a ballroom, choosing the menu… Considering that invitation's were send long ago, what was left for Bruce was to seal or hide the various entries to the Cave. Because, unfortunately – drunk, horny and overly curious people have bad habit of going where they shouldn't.

He slowly stood up from the chair. He would better start now, when he has time. Maybe he should ask Damian to help him? Show him where everything is, how to open some of them…

Wait. There was a chance, that his son would interpret it as for asking for help with patrol.

Bruce sighed annoyed, going slowly up the stairs. He still need to talk to him about his last help. He knew what Damian is capable of. He knew how he fights, how he thinks… But still, Bruce was now a parent and he didn't want to harm his ten year old son by taking him with him on patrol! (Doesn't matter, that Damian might have seen worse. Point is: he shouldn't have been exposed to it at all!)

Tt. During all the years of his training, he never learned how to rise a ten year old. He never thought he would even need that knowledge. Unfortunately, it is how it is and Bruce is responsible enough to admit that he simply doesn't know what to do. Maybe parenting books would help him? If they covered chapter on League of Assassins, then  m a y b e.

Maybe Alfred would help him?

Wait. Alfred probably helped Damian with the photographs.

Damn it. He has to look for help somewhere else.

Bruce grunted annoyed once more. Lost in thoughts, he went to the floor where the currently used bedrooms where. When he got there, he slowed in his steps, walking down the corridor to Damian's door.

He didn't have any concrete plan yet, but he had a good idea on what he should do (and what he was working on from the beginning). Building trust.

He knocked on Damian's door.

&&&

It was the night of The Gala.

What that gala make it stood out from the rest, was the fact, that he was to attend.

'Wayne's Heir Gala' was it called by press and public. Damian was simultaneously happy, that – since he started living with his Father – he had time to be away from the public eye (“adjusting” Pennyworth said), and frustrated, that he had to attend one at all.

(He had to stop sulking now. Mother wouldn't like it. No. She would tell him to act as he is supposed to do. Not to embarrass her. Make her proud.)

(…Damian would like for her to also attend. That would be the first event like this without her.)

Pennyworth came, with Damian's cleaned and ironed suit in his wrinkled hand. Damian just nodded, but didn't comment or make any other movement as butler put the clothing on Damian's bed.

“Young Master, your official introduction would be about hour later after the start of the Gala. If you don't want to be there earlier, you don't have to.” said butler.

“That's alright, Pennyworth. I will be there from the start. I'm aware of what is expected from me.” answered Damian, not looking at old butler, as he was picking his suit.

“…If you wish so, Young Master. Know at least, that your Father wouldn't think any less of you if you would choose differently. Now, excuse me – I have to look at preparations.”

Damian didn't looked up from his suit, nor he said anything to retreating butler. What Pennyworth wanted to tell him? That his Father think of him as worthy? Why wouldn't his Father said so, then? Why would he send his staff to tell him that?

His Grandfather usually relayed messages to him by assassins and slaves. When he did it, it was a sign that he wasn't considering Damian as important. Or that he was as important as those, he was given massages by.

…Was his Father doing the same? Then what is with the message itself? Considering, those two… was his Father mocking him? You a r e  important, but not enough to be wanted and needed from the start.

Damian's mood worsened.

Now Pennyworth's offer sounded wonderful. Damian dreaded looking at socialites eyes, seeing their mocking (as his Father's) gaze. He hates being laughed at as much as he hates being seen as stupid child.

True, Damian admitted to himself, I am young and I still have many things to learn.

But I am Son of Talia Al Ghul and Batman! Their Firstborn! I am Grandson of Ra's Al Ghul! I was trained to be Warrior and raised to be the Leader!

He looked at his reflection in the window. Fire burning in his heart, was seen in his eyes. He was angry at world (at his life). He wanted to change it.

He decided.

I will show them all, that I deserve only respect.

&&&

Damian silently allowed old women to pinch his cheeks, younger ones to coo over him (and make other annoying sweet noises) and for all men to make loud comments of “How he looks like you!” “What a bright young man!” and other complimentary ones.

It was annoying, but manageable.

Unfortunately, those events also invited people, who had quite different thing to say.

From the start of the event, Damian stood beside his Father.

As planned before, he left answering questions to him, only thanking people when he was supposed to.

It didn't mean, he liked when people in sickly innocent voice were asking questions.

(No – they weren't asking. They were accusing. Insulting. Pointing fingers at him and his Father, when asking why now? Who's the mother? Where is she? Where is she from? Does he even understands what are we saying?)

(And his Father would give the same answers every time. Gotham wasn't safe for Bruce Wayne's child. He was with his mother's family. She died last year. Beautiful and smart woman. Not from States. I won't say more about her – it's still hurtful bringing her up in conversation, you know? Yes, Damian is fluent in English and two other languages. Did you know he is the best in his class?)

He studied the room lazily. He didn't know most of the people here, but he recognized some kids from the Academy. Not that he was overly enthusiastic to see them during the weekend.

Although it was …little fun to see them squirm in his presence. As their parents dragged them to Damian, urging, saying, commending as parents could “Say hi to your friend”.

Damian was civil –  but he didn't want help those people believe, that their child is anything but the nuisance to him.

Waynes were higher on the Gotham's socialites food chain. It wasn't his job to play friends.

It was hour after his official introduction – two hours since the start of the Gala. His was getting more and more annoyed with every person coming to him and his Father.

(Speaking of his Father – he was in awe, as that man still perfectly fooled everyone with his Brucie act. Hopefully, he could one day learn that Art of Acting and Deception from him.)

Still, everything was slowly getting on Damian's nerves. He entertained himself with studying the room and his occupants, but it also started to get boring. His gaze turned to the buffet table. He WAS getting slightly hungry…

“…Damian?”

He turned abruptly to his Father.

“Damian, those are Janet and Jack Drake. And this is their son – Timothy. Say “hi”, son.

Damian looked from the adults to the boy standing in front of him. He didn't saw him in Gotham Academy, that's for sure. But something was telling him that he knew the kid from somewhere. Drakes' son looked younger then him. Scrawny. With short black hair.

The boy outstretched his hand to the handshake.

“Hello.” he said. And that's when it hit Damian. He knew him.

He completed the handshake. “Hello” Alvin. “Timothy.”

Damian looked at Bruce.

“Father, would you mind if Timothy and I go eat?”

Bruce looked at him, as if Damian just now grown second head. Moment later Brucie laughed loudly and ruffled his hair.

“Of course, champ! We can't let you, boys starving! But remember – nothing alcoholic! You are still too young for that!”

Jack Drake laughed with his Father. His wife smiled shyly at Damian and pushed her son slightly in his direction. Tim didn't have time to say anything, before he was grabbed by Damian and dragged away to the buffet.

Tim's wrist was free, only after the boy's were far away from their parents, standing beside the center of the long buffet table.

Tim massaged his wrist. “What is your problem?” he asked Damian.

“My problem? I don't have a problem!”

Tim rose one eyebrow, while looking at him – then ignored Damian for the chocolate cupcakes near them. Damian grated his teeth.

“Look at me, when I'm talking to you!” he shouted irritated.

“Why are you yelling at me like that?” Tim asked between the bites. Damian grabbed him by the tie, so now their faces were inches apart.

“Stop acting like an imbecile and tell me: what were you doing week ago on that rooftop?”

Damian observed Tim's face. The Drake's boy stilled suddenly, after hearing the question. His eyes wide, greatly portraying the deer in the headlights. Damian, mentally congratulating himself, released the hold on boy's tie.

Timothy calmed down. “I don't know, what you are talking about.” he replied coolly.

That avoidance only angered Damian. “Don't play games with me!” he hissed. “You know perfectly well what I am talking about!”

Tim gave Damian hard stare, then proceeded to take another chocolate cupcake from the tray. Before he had a chance to grab one, his hand was caught by the wrist.

He looked up at Damian's deep green eyes. He could swear, he saw his soon demise in them.

“Look.” Tim whispered. “Do you really want to ask such questions, where everyone can hear? Think. If anyone is listening, then what would people talk about? Me? Some rich kid, or Wayne? You already don't have the best reputation, you know?

Damian, still glaring at Timothy, slowly let go of his wrist. “It isn't the end of our …conversation.”

Tim nodded, biting on the cupcake. “I know…” He replied after swallowing. “…You still owe me the camera, by the way.” Then took another bite, completely focusing on the food before him.

Damian's eyes widened, then – when words sank in – he slowly smirked.

“But I never said anything about the camera.”

Tim stopped mid-bite. “Crap.” He muttered to the cupcake in his hand. As looking for a way out, his gaze wandered everywhere, while avoiding looking at Damian as best as he could. Then – clearly surprised – he looked somewhere far behind Damian.

“What is  t h a t?!” Tim asked aloud, pointing in direction he was looking at.

Damian looked where Tim was pointing, then turned back to the boy – only to see said boy retreating to the dance floor. You fucking–

Before he had a chance to move, Janet Drake was walking in his direction.

And, surprisingly, she was dragging her son with her.

Damian choose this moment to take a breath and control his anger. Because, if that woman thinks, that I hurt her son- No. Anger won't help him. Unfortunately, that brat was right, and Damian's actions here have enormous impact on his Father's good name.

Mrs Drake stood before Damian – tall and imposing. It was complete opposite to her son (who's wrist was still tightly clutched by his mother), who tried to be as less seen as possible. Especially by Damian.

Janet crouched to Damian's height. Her lips formed in tight smile, as if she wasn't happy to have any apparent conversation they were about to. Her icy blue eyes were different story. She was looking at him from head to toes, observing Damian, as one would observe some kind of rare creature.

“Hello Damian” she said aloud, then – while looking the boy in the eyes – whispering, she added: “You look just like Talia.”

Damian's eyes widened in surprise then immediately narrowed. Janet stood up. “I believe, you would be capable of looking out for my son. Am I wrong?” Without waiting for Damian's answer, she addressed Tim, while letting go of his wrist. She started to slowly brush her son's hair with her hand. “Don't be too hard on him Timothy.”

Tim – while not used to this acts of affection – didn't stop his Mother. He looked up to her and dared to smile shyly.

“I won't be, Mother.”

Janet returned the smile with her special one. That one with too pointed teeth and mocking gaze, which she reserved when something went exactly according to her plan.

(It was also the only kind of real smile Tim saw her do.)

“Good. I'm going to your Father. Play nice, boys.”

She walked away, toward center of the room, where her husband were talking with Bruce Wayne. Damian observed her, until she vanished between other people.

He didn't like this. That woman seemed to be bigger threat than her son. He would have to get some information on her. Contacting his Mother may be a problem – at least, until he finds secure way to do so. For the rest of the Gala, thought, he had to not look suspicious.

“Come with me.” He said, grabbing Tim by the arm. For now, he will ensure Timothy would be far away from places he shouldn't be.

[dpeace85]

Job

Job was a very unfortunate fellow. Job was “blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil” (Job 1:1). He was also a man of great wealth. But, for seemingly no reason at all, God tested him. God allowed Satan to personally attack Job. Now one thing you should understand is, Satan is the father of all evil and sin. He was, and still is, the most powerful of all created beings. There are very few people who can say they’ve been attacked by Satan himself. Satan is not omnipresent like God. He can only be present in one place at a time. His demons are at work all throughout the universe, but on this day, Satan wanted to personally inflict physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual pain on Job. Satan just had to get permission from God. Job suffered… greatly. But in the end, Job was restored… or was he? I’m not so sure he was.

It all begins with Satan. Remember the part where Satan gets permission from God to attack Job? This idea that our loving God would allow such great suffering to someone “blameless and upright” seems cruel and unjust. I’m pretty sure I would not allow my children to be physically, mentally, and emotionally abused for any amount of time for being well-behaved and kind. It just doesn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense to Job either. In one day, Job lost everything. I’m not referring to the important things in his life. I mean, he literally lost everyone and everything he had. Yes, I know his wife and a few friends stuck around, but we’ll get back to them. Job not only lost people and possessions, he also lost his health, and most importantly, his hope. Job said, “My days are swift, and come to an end without hope.” (Job 7:6) The only thing that keeps someone going in hard times is hope. Without hope there is no reason to keep going. In the deepest, darkest times in our lives we still have some glimmer of hope that things will get better. If not, we have no reason left to live. There are many different reasons people commit suicide, but there is one emotion they all suicidal people share… hopelessness. Job was hopeless.

At least his wife was there, right? Well, she told him to curse God and die. My wife is my closest friend. We have no secrets. I love her more than any other person on this planet. If I had to choose between my children and my wife, I’d choose her. If that is not the relationship you have with your spouse, you’re wrong. There are so many things in life I do, and don’t do, because of my wife. I’m sure Job was no different. He and his wife where “one flesh.” In his darkest hour, she told him to turn his back on God. In fact, she said, “Curse God and die.” His own wife told him to blaspheme the name of Almighty God and then die. It appears she was annoyed or irritated by his troubles. I consider this a loss to Job. Although she was there in the flesh, Job lost his wife.

Then there were his friends. True friends are hard to come by; those you trust and can count on to be there when you are in need. Job had such friends. They heard about Job’s plight and immediately came to comfort him. Job 2:12 says, “When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads.” Their actions were part of a custom to show great remorse and heartache for someone; a sign of grieving like our modern custom of dressing in black clothing for a funeral. Job’s friends grieved for him. This reminds me of my grandfather’s funeral. My dad had a friend that lived far away and only saw him a few times each year. He called my dad often and when he heard about my grandfather’s death, there was no doubt he was going to make the long trip to be at the funeral. When he saw my dad, he sobbed. Not just cried; he sobbed. He grieved for my dad. Job’s friends were so grieved at the sight of him they didn’t speak a word to him for seven days. But eventually they had to throw in their two cents.

First up was Eliphaz. He uses two chapters of the book to ramble on about how Job’s past will determine his future. He reminds Job of all the good and righteous things he’s done and ensures him God will not give him more than he can handle. We’ve all heard that sermon. It’s a very self-righteous approach to life’s hardships. If I just remember how good I’ve been and all the good I’ve done, surely God will see me through this. The good always outweighs the bad, right? Isaiah 64:6 says, “all our righteous acts are like filthy rags.” That’s a strong statement. That money you gave to the homeless guy; filthy rag. That time you paid for the food for the guy behind you in the drive-thru; filthy rag. How about the all the time you spent at the hospital, sitting beside your loved one, prying for and comforting them? Filthy rag. There was a reason Job was being tested, but he knew his righteousness wouldn’t pull him through. He knew only God could intervene. But Job truly believed God would not intervene and this was, in fact, the end of his life. He even begged for death.

Next up, Bildad. He offers a message of perseverance. Keep fighting the good fight. “Your beginnings seem humble, so prosperous your future will be.” (Job 8:7) Bildad was the equivalent of a prosperity preacher. Trust in God, follow the rules, keep believing and soon enough, God will deliver you. This is dangerous thinking. This is the most common approach to hardships today. Everyone is waiting on their blessing. That brings to mind something my wife experienced at work. She worked at a bank and on one occasion a member told her she was “just waiting on [her] blessing.” The lady was referring to a settlement check from a lawsuit. I can assure you God will never bless you with money for a new car that was obtained through a frivolous lawsuit. Job saw right through Bildad’s self-centered advice. Job said, “(9:12) If [God] snatches away, who can stop him? Who can say to him, ‘What are you doing?’ (9:19-20) If it is a matter of strength, he is mighty! And if it is a matter of justice, who will summon him? Even if I were innocent, my mouth would condemn me; if I were blameless, it would pronounce me guilty.” Job knew his life may not get better. He knew that his death was still an option for God.

Then we have Zophar. Zophar was a worker bee. You earn your forgiveness. Zophar was certain there was an unrepented sin in Job’s past. If only Job would meditate and ask God to reveal the sin, maybe God would restore him. Job knew better. Job knew there was no unrepentance in his past. He was dedicated to his God and made sacrifices often, even on behalf of his children. This pushed Job to his breaking point. He then lashes out against his friends. (13:4-5) “You however smear me with lies; you are worthless physicians, all of you! If only you would be altogether silent! For you that would be wisdom. (13:9) Would it turn out well if he examined you? Could you deceive him as you might deceive men? (16:4) I also could speak like you, if you were in my place; I could make fine speeches against you and shake my head at you. (16:6) Yet if I speak, my pain is not relieved; and if I refrain, it does not go away.” Job was experiencing pain that could not be explained or relived with words.

Although Job had his wife and friends by his side, he was alone. Their good intentions were useless to his suffering. Job was a broken, sick, and lonely man. He had lived at the top but was now at the lowest of lows. Job had it all. Thousands of heads of livestock, thousands of acres of land, ten children, and many servants. In one day, his children were killed, his livestock was either stolen or killed, and most of his servants were killed. He received this news all at one time. Can you even begin to imagine the grief? He was then stricken with a terrible disease – boils from head to toe, fever, and weakness. It’s safe to say most of us would consider suicide at this point. Job had no reservations about voicing his grief. He cursed the day of his birth. He longed for death that would not come. He pleaded with God to let him die and erase all memories of him from the earth. There are few people who have ever lived that have experienced the great sorrow Job experienced. However, through it all, Job never cursed God. Job knew, no matter what, God had a reason for his pain. But Job was still angry with God. He questioned God over and over, pleading for an answer to why he was suffering.

During Job’s conversation with his friends, there was another ear listening. There was this kid in the back of the room patiently waiting to offer a few words. His name was Elihu. I like this kid. He waited to speak, out of respect for the elder men in the room. But he could no longer contain his emotions. (32:7-9) “I thought, ‘Age should speak; advanced years should teach wisdom.’ But it is the spirit in a man, the breath of the Almighty, that gives him understanding. It is not only the old who are wise, not only the aged who understand what is right.” I love this passage. This kid was uneducated, untrained, and seemingly unqualified to offer advice on spiritual matters, but he was the wisest man in the room. He reminds Job that we are all products of God. No matter how blameless and upright we are, we still deserve every punishment or test God decides to throw at us. Elihu goes on to say, (35:2-3) “Do you think this is just? You say, ‘I will be cleared by God.’ Yet you ask him, ‘What profit is it to me, and what do I gain by not sinning?’ (35:6-7) If you sin, how does that affect [God]? If you are righteous, what do you give to him, or what does he receive from your hand? (35:12-13) He does not answer when men cry out because of the arrogance of the wicked. Indeed, God does not listen to their empty plea; the Almighty pays no attention to it.”

Jobs eyes were opened. While the boy was speaking a great storm arose outside. God then began to speak to Job through the storm. He wanted Job to remember who the God of the universe really is. He asked Job, (38:31-33) “Can you build the beautiful Pleiades? Can you loose the cords of Orion? Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons or lead out the Bear with its cubs? Do you know the laws of the heavens? Can you set up God’s dominion over the earth? (40:2) Will the one who contends with the Almighty correct him? Let him who accuses God answer him!” Job was speechless. (40:4-5) “I am unworthy – how can I reply to you? I put my hand over my mouth. I spoke once, but I have no answer – twice, but I will say no more.” God goes on to say, (41:11) Who has claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to me.” There was no mistaking that God was in control of all of Job’s plight. Job was so agonized he nearly forgot his place with God. Job replies to God, (42:5-6) My ears had heard of you but now I have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.”

The Bible I use titles Job 42, “Job is Restored.” Job 42:10 says God made him “prosperous again”. God gave him twice as much as he had before – livestock, servants, children, and wealth. But was he really restored? Job had suffered beyond any stretch of the imagination. He buried 10 children, all at the same time. The God of the universe turned his back on him. I can’t bring myself to believing Job became a happy, jovial, content man after all he had been through. There is no way he was “restored” to his former self. He had more, but I doubt he was a better man. I believe he was a better servant. He had been broken and humbled.

But how does Job’s life apply to us today? I’ve heard this story presented, numerous times, in the most superficial ways. This is the message – God tests us; we persevere; God blesses us. That is not the lesson Job took from his time of sorrow. Job truly believed God had turned his back and death was knocking at his door. It’s easy for us to read the story through and think, “Oh yeah, God had this the whole time. God’s going to see me through and bless me.” Well, what if he doesn’t? What if he doesn’t heal your sick child? What if he doesn’t send the money to keep a roof over your family’s head? What if he doesn’t stop the war? What if he doesn’t protect you? What if… I could go on for days. It really, really annoys me to sit in a room full of “Christians” and hear them complain about the “shape our county is in”, or how bad the next generation will be, or who we hope the next president will be. The fate of the world and all mankind were written down literally thousands of years ago. This isn’t news. But these things are real concerns for “Christians” today.

We feel let down or rejected by God when we lose our job, but as you read this, millions of children – not adults, children – around the world scavenge for food in piles of garbage. We worry about the corrupt leader we have, while thousands, upon thousands of Christ followers around the world are slaughtered by their government for their faith. We become angry with God when our loved one succumbs to cancer, while millions of people in third-world countries die yearly from diseases that, thanks to modern medicine, Americans haven’t seen since the ‘70’s.

So, what’s the takeaway here? What do we really need to learn from the book of Job? Here it is: If you are facing hard times, know this – it may not get better. In fact, it may get worse. But God always has a reason for our suffering. It may be to open our eyes; to humble us or redirect our attention. Or, maybe our pain is for another’s benefit. Maybe the trial you’re facing is an opportunity to let God use you to open someone else’s eyes to his grace and love. You may fight your way through the hard times, reach the other side, and never know why you suffered. But to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Philippians 1:21 says, “For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” Just in case you forgot, Christ suffered… a lot.

The next time you face a trial in your life just remember, the worst it can do is kill you.

Dusty Peace

11/06/2018

[sending-the-message]

I’m severely regretting posting a photo of my great-grandfather online by kapekilp

I posted a picture of my great-grandfather over to r/OldSchoolCool a few days ago. I posted it on my main account (not this one). I regret posting it. It’s turned my family’s lives upside down, opened up possibilities I’d rather not even contemplate, and thrown into question everything I thought I knew.

I was scanning some old family photos onto the computer for my Mum. I’ve always been fascinated by my great-grandfather – my Mum always has so many stories to tell me about him, and how he brightened her childhood – he was truly a remarkable character. Plus, he was a particularly handsome man – I’ve always loved that photograph of him, with his chiselled face and his dark eyes staring into the distance. He wasn’t looking directly at the camera. It’s the only photograph we have of him. My Mum says he was caught off-guard by that photograph, because he normally never liked having his photo taken.

Before I posted the photo, I was pretty certain he’d be a sure-fire hit with the online crowd. And I was right. But you know, at the same time, I was still surprised by the extent to which people agreed actually with me – the photograph shot up to thousands of upvotes very quickly. My great-grandfather was internet famous.

I got the usual ‘Oh my goodness your great-grandpa was soo handsome!’

and ‘Is your great granddady single?!’ comments.

Also: ‘Hey, can we have a picture of you, OP, so we can see how much of the good looks you inherited?’

The first few comments made me smile and feel oddly proud of my genealogical inheritance. After a while it started to get a bit creepy, as some people started to cross boundaries and take things too far – I started to feel guilty.

Sure, there were some beautiful, respectful comments, discussion and questions – but as the popularity of the photograph steadily increased, so did its exposure to the world in general, and that was when the less-than-savoury characters started coming out of the woodwork.

I never knew my great-grandfather, but from everything that I’ve heard, he was such an upright, almost regal sort of man – well-bred, well educated, respectable and dignified. A true gentleman, and he had been greatly loved and revered by my family. And now, it felt like an oxymoron, this clash of worlds – having my amazing, dignified great-grandfather on display for the ugly underbelly of the internet to ogle and make crude remarks. It felt like I was violating his memory; like I was literally whoring him out for my own personal gain. And what gain? A few arbitrary internet points?

I was about to remove the post – when two things happened, in fairly quick succession. First, someone kindly offered to colourise the photo and asked for details about hair/eye colour etc. I asked my Mum for details. She had been very close to her granddad, and she could remember everything very well. The most striking thing about him – that you couldn’t see from the black-and-white photograph – was that he had two different coloured eyes: one a deep green, and the other dark brown. In the black-and-white photo it just looked like there was a shadow over the darker eye.

When the colourised version came, it was beautifully done. They got the shades exactly right. That made the whole ‘online sharing’ experience slightly redeeming, I must say. I showed my Mum, and it made her cry. I’d almost been afraid to show my Mum, because she had loved her grandpa greatly, to the extent that she still didn’t like to talk about the end of his days – all I know is that it had been an extremely traumatic time for her. She sometimes still tears up, if something happens to remind her about the end.

Anyway, a few minutes after the colourised version was posted for everyone to see, someone responded.

‘Hey there. I know this is going to sound really weird, but after seeing that colourised photo of your great-grandpa, I know a guy who looks EXACTLY like him! Seriously! He comes into my coffee shop almost every day so I see him a lot. It’s like his doppleganger or something! I’m going to take a photo and send it to you tomorrow morning. I swear, it’s exactly like him!!’

I checked out the poster’s history, and it didn’t look like he was a troll or anything. I don’t know, something about his entire post history and earnest way that he’d written the message, made me believe him, and feel mildly interested about the promised picture. His enthusiasm seemed genuine, and so I was intrigued to see this alleged doppleganger. Most likely it wouldn’t look like my great-grandpa at all, though, I was sure. After all, we’re often told by friends that they know someone who looks exactly like so-and-so, and when you see the proposed ‘twin’ later on, it’s usually quite disappointing.

So I just replied:

‘Hey, cool! I can’t wait to see the photograph of my ancestral twin, haha.’

And then soon forgot all about it, basically. The next day, though, I got this message:

‘Hey. So, I know I promised a photograph, and here it is. Just a quick disclaimer: I was hoping to get a straight head-on shot of the guy. I asked him if I could take his photograph, and he asked why, and I tried to briefly explain without sounding too stupid. Basically I told him that there was a picture on the internet that looked just like him, and I wanted to send his picture to a great-granddaughter of the dude he looked just like. It sounded progressively weirder as I tried to explain it, haha… It made me realise that things that are perfectly reasonable on the internet can sound so utterly bizarre in real life!

Anyways, I don’t know why but he got quite angry and wouldn’t let me take his photo. I mean, fair play to him, not everyone likes their photo taken to be shared on the internet. But I mean, it was weird how his attitude just did a 180… he’s always so friendly and nice and he tips really well. I would have expected him to say ‘no’ nicely. But it really upset him. He was very curt with me. I got the sense now that this’ll be his last visit here, which is a shame, because he seemed like a cool dude before all this :(

Anyways so, I didn’t want to let you down after the build-up yesterday. Plus, the fact that he seemed so annoyed meant that he likely won’t come back, and so this would be my last chance to get a photo! So I know this is really iffy, ethics wise or whatever, but I sneaked a photo anyway, haha. He had to stop at the door – he held the door open for someone coming inside. So I *was able to snap a quick pic, but he wasn’t looking right at me, which is both why I was able to take the picture, but also why the picture isn’t that great.

It’s a side-pose so maybe you won’t be able to see the resemblance as well as if it had been from the front. But seriously, I still thinks it looks just like your mom’s grandpa. I hope you’ll agree. Let me know what you think.’

Given the lengths this poor guy had gone to in order to attain this picture, I was quite amused, so I clicked the photo with neutral expectations. The man was visible in side-view, but I had to admit he did bear a passing resemblance to the colourised version of my great grandfather. Maybe he was a distant relative, somehow. It bears noting that the guy who sent the photo was practically on the other side of the world to me, and to my knowledge, I have no relatives in America, so this is really unlikely.

I thought the ‘doppelganger’ photo would amuse my mother, who of course, had known her grandfather very well. It would be interesting to get her opinion on it, I thought.

I took over my laptop to her and showed her the photograph. She glanced at the screen, first absent-mindedly, and but then she did a double-take. She couldn’t take her eyes off the screen.

‘My God,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. She leaned into the screen, peering at it. ‘Can you zoom in? On his face?’

I zoomed in as much as I could without making a pixelated blurry mess of the face.

She stared at him for what seemed like ages.

‘My God, it looks just like him,’ she said, finally. ‘I mean, honestly. Just like him. I mean – even…’

She ran her fingertips over the screen so earnestly and lovingly.

‘Do you see the slight scar there? On his cheek, near this ear? He used to tell me stories about how he got that. A different story every night. I was so little – I’d sit nestled on his knee and gaze up at that scar, sometimes until I fell asleep. And – ’

She gasped and pointed at the scar on the man’s hand, which was clutching the cup of coffee. His sleeve was slightly lifted back. There was the trace of a scar protruding from his forearm, extending onto the back of his hand.

‘That one, too. That one was so prominent. It was a deeply-cut scar. I could feel that one underneath my fingers when I held his hand. It seemed huge to me, then, underneath my small hand. He’d tell me stories about that one, too. Silly little stories, to amuse me. Fights that he’d gotten into. Or mythical beasts he’d wrestled.’

She sighed and smiled, lost in her happy childhood memories for a moment, and then, I guess, the bizarreness of the situation hit her. The man holding the coffee in this modern photograph, was a young man. And yet he had the face and accurate identifying features of my mother’s grandfather.

She sat down heavily on the chair next to the table.

‘How is this possible?’ I asked, voicing the obvious question for both of us.

‘Could it be a hoax?’ she said. ‘Could this man – who sent you the picture – could he be playing a trick on you? These internet people can be so clever with their – their Photoshop stuff, can’t they? Could they have worked from your original photo?’

‘Well… yes… maybe but…’ I trailed off. I mean, it was the only possible explanation I could think of. Anything else would be too bizarre.

I brought up the original photograph, the one where my actual great-grandfather was facing towards the camera more head-on. The scar near his ear wasn’t visible due to the angle of his face. His hand wasn’t in view at all, either.

My mother and I both took in these details, wordlessly. She stared at me, her eyes wide.

‘This is impossible,’ she said. ‘It can’t be possible.’

I sat down next to her. We sat in silence for a while. My blood was ringing in my ears. There had to be some explanation, surely? It had to be a trick, or a joke, somehow. Or just a really, really weird coincidence?

Having said that, the picture wasn’t that great quality. You could see the scars once my Mum had pointed them out, but not before. So maybe it was like an optical illusion, like one of those ‘hidden pattern’ type things that aren’t really there, but you make yourself see them, and then you can’t unsee them. Maybe it was like that, and the scars weren’t really there, and we saw them because my Mum expected to see them, because the man’s face looked a bit like her grandad, and she’d made me see them now, too. Hey, it could be a prominent vein on his hand, or the lighting, or something, and the lighting had caught it just right.

I said all of this to my Mum, and she nodded along, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

‘I suppose…’ she said, and then she trialled off. ‘But…’

‘What?’

‘It might have something to do with what happened at… at the end.’ She was staring at the floor, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her hands were shaking, and she seemed… frightened.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, carefully.

She shook her head.

‘I’m being ridiculous,’ she said, and she just got up, and left. Her whole body was trembling, and I could see tears on her face.

You have to understand some backstory, even though admittedly I don’t know all that much. Mum has never spoken about those last few days, despite my previous careful prodding. All I know is, it was a traumatic time when she lost him. It was some sort of violent accident. I know no details beyond that. She still has nightmares about it, and was in therapy for some time. I was itching for details when I was little, but I had eventually made peace with the fact that I might never know. Any small details had been like gold dust.

She talks about him all the time, his life, his character, passing on his wisdom. But never about those end days. Not to me (and never to my Dad, either, because I’ve asked him). It’s basically ‘restricted territory’ for our family to discuss. I think, partially because of the mystery around his end days, and what an amazing person she describes him to have been – I’ve always been so intrigued by this man’s presence in our family history, and the bond my mother shared with him, how he had shaped her character. I guess it’s because of this general awe and intrigue that I’d scanned that old picture into my laptop in the first place, and then why I posted it online. Because I wanted to share his essence with the world.

So, of course, my natural curiosity was on fire when she just walked away like that…. So close to telling me more, and clearly in some sort of turmoil. And she thought – whatever it was that happened at the end – might be related to this? This modern-day man walking around who looked like him? How on earth is that even possible, and what the hell was it that happened?

I really wanted to go after her and just open up my flood of questions, but she seemed in that unreachable mood again, liked she often did when she was reliving her traumatic memories. I could hear her crying and I didn’t want to open any wounds.

So I just sat there awkwardly, my nerves a squirming bundle of unease… and confusion and an uneasy feeling of fear, I guess. I was trying to process things but just coming up blank.

The modern photo was just a coincidence, we were seeing scars where there were none, and I’d managed to open up a whole can of traumatic worms for my poor mother, probably messing with her mental health. I should have known better than to post about this sensitive subject online at all.

My mind was made up, then, to delete the post – and forget all about it.

I logged into my account and I had hundreds of new messages. I’d been offline most of the day, because my Mum and I had been discussing the new photo for quite a while. I opened my inbox with a bit of a sigh, expecting more of the same general comments of jokes and compliments and the occasional lewd remark.

Except, what was posted just amplified my unease by a thousand. I have no idea what to think. I’m terrified now…. I think I’ve opened up a Pandora’s box in our family history.

Here’s what happened: after that guy posted the modern photo of my ‘great-grandpa’ in the coffee shop, along with the colourised version from the other user… there had been a barrage of comments. Here is just a sample that I copy/pasted and saved at that time (there were many, many others, though, some that I didn't even manage to read):

(Edit: I've now quickly edited out their usernames, sorry if this messes up formatting)

User 1:

‘Dude… this is gonna sound pretty random, but that guy looks just like a mythical figure famous in my hometown. They say he’s evil and has a flying beast at his behest, that he’ll summon, if you cross him. The sounds of its helper-creature’s screams are enough to kill you. We have an old portrait of him in our Town Hall, it’s basically part of our heritage. They say that many years ago he and the Screaming Falcon wiped out half the town population because they mistreated him. I’m going to post the portrait tomorrow. Same chimera eyes and everything! Freaky!’

(Reply to the above):

User 2:

Are you from my hometown? I won’t post the exact place b/c doxxing… but are you in South America? We have exactly the same legend here! Except we call him something different. We call him the Cunning Eyed One. They say he has two different coloured eyes because his flying minion can see through one of his eyes. Anyone he doesn’t like… anyone with attitude… the monster flies over immediately. Its screams are enough to paralyse you and pulverise your flesh, just from the sound alone. I used to be so scared whenever I heard screaming during the night. My mother would scare me and my brothers with the Cunning Eyed Man all the time whenever we misbehaved. And there are old people here who swear they’ve had run-ins with him, or know someone who has. Everyone thinks he’s real. I got thrills when I saw you mention the legend.’

(Reply):

User 1: I’m not from South America – I’m from a tiny town in Eastern Europe! How scary that you guys have basically the same legend over there! I’ve never heard anyone else mention this legend other than here in my home town.’

User 3

Wow… now that you post those two photos… I have an old book of legends. One of the illustrations is of a handsome dark haired man with two eye colours. They say he’s a cruel monster disguised as a man, uncannily clever. Anyone who fails his tests is woken up to the sound of screaming, and the screams make their flesh rot and fall off. It’s described in so much detail with historical eye witnesses and stuff. The man looks like the photo here (sorry, OP, no disrespect to your grandpa, but it looks so much like him). This was an old legend from a small, remote Scandinavian village, I think. I can’t remember the name they gave to the monster. I’ll dig out the book and post more details. The way it was described gave me the creeps. Never heard anyone talk about this before, it was a really obscure legend.

User 4:

’OMG I know what you guys are talking about! We have a similar legend in India! In the village where my parents were from! I am SO EXCITED to hear others talking about this! My mother would tell me about something that happened to her aunt when she was little by the (rough translation) ‘Cruel, One-Eyed Demon’ with his Helper, the ‘Screaming Devil’. They call him one-eyed because they said he could only see through his dark eye, or he closed one eye to look at you through his good eye. I’m going to have to type out that story properly for you – I’m going to get my Mum to tell it again. Seriously, me and my cousins loved and hated that story in equal measure, it was so scary and we’d never sleep afterwards! We’d freak each other out by screaming in the middle of the night and scare each other awake. My older cousin did that once and I peed the bed, I was so scared (TMI, I know). All the elders in our village would tell us about it when I visited back home. OMG I am so thrilled that other countries have this same demon guy in their history too! It makes it so much scarier… like he really roamed the world. Wow, I can’t wait to tell my cousins. This is, like, all my childhood excitement/fears rushing back!’

User 5:

’We have a very similar urban legend in the place where I am from. They say he’s immortal and he flies from place to place on the back of his winged screaming monster thing… it had a name, can’t remember it. They have different names for it. They say that he had different coloured eyes, one evil and one good, and depending on how he felt about you, he would use one or the other to look at you. If he looks at you through the black eye, you’re screwed, basically. I also remember something about the screaming. It was my grandpa who would tell us kids stories about him, that he heard from his mother. Pretty cool to see it being talked about on here. My family is from a small village in China, but haven’t heard anyone else mention it. I thought the stories died out with my grandpa.

User 6:

’I’m blown away. Honestly. I thought this story was just an urban legend confined to my family, or something! I had a great uncle who swore he saw this man with unusually uncanny, beautiful, eyes, that were two different colours. He was almost hypnotised by them. The man – who my Great Uncle always swore up and down was not a man, but rather a monster of some kind presenting himself like a man - was very strong, and my uncle was very scared. My great uncle was working in a factory on the night shift. This man managed to bend metal with his bare hands, or something, because he was angry. My Uncle was freaked out, and he managed to get away from that place, came come with a high fever. The next morning the people who were there at his work that night were found literally pulverised. On phone, will type out whole details later if anyone interested. Can’t believe others are mentioning this same sounding man in other parts of the world that match up to what my great uncle said. Never really believed it fully until now.’

User 7:

’Guys. I had that photo open in my browser, and my grandma walked past – she’s visiting us. I’m not lying I swear. She saw the photos and she did a double take and just froze. She’s saying the man’s a ‘terrible creature’ from her childhood. I’ve never seen her like that before. She was legit scared and asking me where I got the photos, why I was looking at him, where were these photos taken, was this man still alive, where was he…. and she was getting all worked up… she just left our house and she’s gone home now, really abruptly. Won’t answer my calls. She seemed really upset and shaken. I swear I’m not making this up.’

(Reply): ’Which photo? OP’s great gramps or the new pic?’

User 7 (replying to the reply): ’Both. I was comparing them side by side, just out of curiosity. I never expected a reaction like that. I’m really freaked out. And reading other replies here, even more freaked out. I’ll see if I can get anymore info from my grandma when she calms down.’

User 8:‘I feel really sorry for OP. Turns out her great-grandpa looks just like a legendary demonic monster guy.’

User 9 (replying to the above): ’What if OP’s gramps really is this monster guy? Everyone swears it looks just like him, and it’s his likeness that’s triggered all this discussion…’

And on and on. Many legends and lore of a man who apparently looks JUST like my great grandpa, with two coloured eyes, one green, one dark brown, and different stories but all sharing very similar elements to the lore that follows this man all around the world. Lots of people saying they heard this legend, these stories around this man/monster/demon.

But here’s the worst part.

I felt really tired out reading all that stuff. I mean, obviously, I reasoned that they’ve just latched onto the fact that my great grandpa just happened to have the same unusually coloured eyes as the man in these legends. But with my Mum’s reaction earlier I was just feeling bad and overwhelmed I guess, so I just left the laptop and I went to sleep. There were hundreds of comments I still hadn’t read, and I’d changed my mind and I didn’t want to delete the discussion just then, because there were so many people involved and the whole thing was just buzzing and taking on a life of its own, and so I felt like I’d be rude just to cut it off abruptly when there were so many people so excited.

Besides, it wasn’t even about my great-grandpa anymore, it was just that his multi-coloured eyes had unearthed a legend that people had thus far just kept tucked away in their little corners of the world until then. At that point, I was even slightly proud that my photo had managed to bring to light a hidden, very interesting sounding, obscure legend that many cultures seemed to have their version of. I felt I would enjoy the discussion more when I was better-rested.

I wanted to take another look at the updated discussion in the morning, so I left the laptop in the living room, with the page open.

Big mistake.

I woke up this morning and my Mum was sitting by the laptop, reading it all. Her face was white as a sheet, honestly. Even on her worst days she’s never been like that. Even on the days when she’s had nightmares that reminded her of how her beloved grandpa died… even when she’s been reliving the trauma, I’ve never seen her look like she did that morning.

I was kicking myself for leaving the laptop open, so I snapped it shut, quickly, so she couldn’t read more (kind of rude, but it was basically to protect her) and I just tried to laugh the whole thing off. She wasn’t in a great place, mentally, anyway, because my stupid post had probably awakened further traumatic memories for her about his death and just… I really felt awful to have pushed her to this point. The discussion about the legend of the two-coloured eyed man was an off-shoot and unrelated, she had no business reading about it in her anxious state.

‘I know, Mum. It’s weird how there’s a legend about a creepy figure… with similar multi-coloured eyes!’ I laughed. ‘I guess there must be something in our collective unconscious about people finding chimera eyes scary, or something. So they built a legend around that.’

She stared off into middle distance, her gaze still fixed on the place where I’d closed the laptop monitor.

I tried to talk about other things, I rambled on, actually. And she just sat there, transfixed. In shock.

I was getting really scared now, so I got her a glass of water. She took it, just absent-mindedly, and held it, but didn’t drink it.

I was feeling terrible, there were goosebumps on my arms. Somehow, reading all that ridiculous, hyping up and exaggeration of the lore surrounding a two-coloured-eyed man had messed with my poor mum’s head. Was she having a mental breakdown? I really was such an awful human being for throwing my family’s sensitivities to the mercy of the internet like this. I was wondering whether to take her to the doctor.

She put the glass down. And got up. She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. I could hear the sound of her retching.

I ran behind her and stood at the door helplessly, crying too, now, really, seriously, feeling like such a terrible person for opening this whole thing up. People on the internet think they can say what they want and run their mouths and create theories and not realise that those careless comments and hysteria can really impact people in real life. How dare I open up my family, my poor Mum, up to that sort of stuff? She was having therapy for his death, she still had regular nightmares, for God’s sake. Why did I ever think this was a good idea, and why had I let her be exposed to those horrible, persistent people getting their kicks from relating their stories?

When she emerged, she was puffy-eyed and hoarse.

‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I said, and hugged her, held her tightly, trying to squeeze away the bad feelings, somehow, to protect her from all that bad stuff. To fix her through sheer determined love. I really, really, hate seeing her when she has one of her anxiety attacks. It was a constant fear of mine, to see her in that broken state, when I was little. If you’ve ever seen a parent in a vulnerable state, you know exactly how awful, how scary, how heart-breaking it is. ‘All that stuff on the internet, it’s so stupid, I’m so sorry…’

‘It isn’t stupid,’ she said, in a small voice. She basically pushed me away. ‘It’s what I’ve feared, all these years.’ She was looking at the floor.

‘Ok… so, Mum, I think we need to go see the doctor this afternoon…’

‘I heard the screams,’ she said, looking at me in eyes for the first time. ‘I heard the sound of the screams. When I was little…. I saw the…’ She coughed and put a hand to her mouth, and I thought she was going to be sick again. But she wasn’t. She swayed a little, but steadied herself.

‘I had no idea about the scale of things. I had no idea he was… I mean, I guessed a little… but… Oh God! I was always so afraid to face the fear I always had. I loved him so much. I never wanted to face it.’

She covered her eyes and started sobbing – deep, gut-wrenching sobs – and then she went into her room. She hasn’t come out.

I really have no idea what to think, how to feel. I can’t even concentrate on the newer posts and messages I received. I’ve deleted the original post now, with its photo and discussion. I just can’t handle it.

I feel numb, but there’s this definite sense of terror, too, eating away at the back of my head. I feel so many large, unwieldly thoughts that make no sense, just clanging around in my brain, getting larger, like echoes, but I can’t focus on any one coherent thought. None of this makes sense.

Edit: I just went for a nap, and woke up to find a letter from my mother. She’s written something for me and I think she’s gone out for a walk. I think it contains more info, finally, about my great-grandpa. I’m going to read it through and will try and update.

x

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #21: Love #2.

Written: 1/15/2017

He felt like his girlfriend was loving him less and less, so to keep the magic alive he decided to mix his love for her with his profession, and thus the puppet was created. He worked as a puppet maker for a popular children's show that was very inspired, to the point of it getting accused of ripping off, Sesame Street. He was used to making at least one or two new ones a week, and was moderately respected, but he felt his girlfriend didn’t like this job, so in a way the puppet of her was also an attempt to bring her into the world of his. He was proud of his creation, and although his friends and coworkers didn’t have much to say about it, and they often looked uncomfortable, he could tell they envied his skill and his love. His love was of a strength that they could never feel, for he was pure of heart, and the puppet was a symbol of that, a physical representation of how deeply he could love.

The thing wasn’t enough for him, so he decided to add a letter with it, folded it until it was as small as it could be, and then stuffed it in the things mouth. The letter read:

My love for you is endless, it is time itself, could you know how deep it runs, into the energies of creation that made the universe? There are primordial forces of the world-I once read-that embody every aspect of humanity that runs through the unseen worlds, like ley lines, and I feel as if I am sensitive to these forces. When we first met I must of been positioned in the one of love, for my passions for you were sparked like none other, and I knew you had to share these feelings, you had to feel the same way for we were both in the embrace of the energy of pure love, and although as you’ve been outside of that line, and because you’re not as sensitive as me and thus can’t retain these forces as strongly, I have made this as a conduit, so you can always have your love restored when you touch it, and I hope you’ll touch it forever! Oh how my heart beats for you, and even as I [several words are blotted out by tear stains] like it will rip out of my chest, a love so wild thats hard to conquer like those wild stallions you love so much, but I’m strong enough to bear it, hold it in, and I have mastered that love, for I couldn’t die without you! I feel as if before we were born, when we were in the unseen world, our spirits must have touched in the lines of love, and so that first time we saw each other the embrace of those aspects were greatly expanded, because it brought back those memories of when we loved in that past life! And I feel like, no. I KNOW that we shall never be apart, you will always be in my soul, and we will never die and leave each other alone, because we will die at the same time, our souls joining together to return to that unseen world that we must have belonged to! Oh! Our love will be like a song sung for eternity, it will become love itself because thats all it is! Pure love, pure pure pure [the rest, about a second paragraph, is illegible due to tear stains]

He decided to put the idol in a box, wrapped it in paper of his love’s favorite color, and topped it with a bow colored like his own, a symbol of their union. Before he went to the restaurant for their date that night he decided to dress up well, borrowing, from his mother, the tuxedo that his grandfather married his grandmother in, he made sure his hair was stylish and parted down the middle, his glasses polished. The corner store was visited on the way to his date, since he had to make sure that he was well prepared for the night ahead, so he bought two boxes of condoms. He figured they would make love so rapturously that it would feel like their bodies would meld together, and when the greasy man behind the counter gave him a wink, he was sure the man could sense the love inside.

So he arrived at the restaurant, a simple chain burger joint, he made sure he was 30 minutes early, to show respect for his soul mate, and sat and waited, twiddling his thumbs, staring at his box every now and again, and drinking only a ginger ale so the waiter would get off his back. Who was that strong jawed man to look down on him? He was probably jealous, like many were, that he had the rare gift of being able to hold love in its purest form. When his girlfriend was running 20 minutes late he decided to order appetizers to further appease his harasser, but made no move to eat them until his love had arrived.

When she did walk in to the restaurant, in that elegant stride he loved so much, he began to sense something wrong when she showed up with that guy, and by the angry expression on her face when her eyes were laid on him. Why did she keep on her work outfit? It bothered him a little that she didn’t dress up like he did, but it was no problem, because in anything she wore she was still radiant, because of the love they both shared. The man at her side was dressed like a barbarian, wearing a simple leather jacket, some t-shirt displaying a band of low taste (especially since music was the lowest form of arts, simply crude, unlike classical paintings or puppetry), and his jeans, ha! He didn’t even want to talk about the mans jeans, for even wearing them in the first place was a huge mistake. He was surprised that this fowl man wasn’t laughed out of the restaurant! When his love and that crude man approached the table he elegantly waved over the appetizers, showing that they were there waiting for her, and how he hadn’t even dared to take a bite, for he cared for her more than himself!

“Oh, I don’t like crab cakes. I’m good” She said as she sat down into the booth, oh how his heart wanted to split in two! How could he make such a mistake about her? Was she unhappy, was she thinking that this showed he didn’t care about her? Or was it, like always, a test?

“Thanks man,” the caveman had said, reaching over to grab one while securing the other, brutish arm around his love. It made his blood boil to see such a fowl act committed by this man! Who was he anyways? Didn’t he know that the meal was intended to nourish his love, to show her that he wanted to keep her pleased and happy? And why didn’t his girlfriend object to these fowl acts, and, again he wondered, who was this man, why was he here? As the man put the appetizer in his mouth, a look of displeasure came across his face. “Oh, these are cold…”

He could not control his temper, so with one quick strike he slammed a fist onto the table. Then, while trying to keep his composure in front of the fair maiden, through gritted teeth he responded, “What problem is it to you, I simply got them as a token of love for my girlfriend. It is not your place to-”

The sentence could not be continued when he saw the look of anger shoot across his girlfriend’s face, and, although it confused him, he watched her divine lips form and expel the words, “Dude, you have to cut this shit out! I told you several times that we are not, and never were, dating! How the hell am I supposed to get this across to you?!” He couldn’t understand, maybe she meant that their relationship wasn’t as real as it was about to come, and they would finally step it up into a new level of love? “This is my boyfriend,” she gestured her head towards the beast who had her in his grip, “now that you see him can you finally leave me alone? He’s real, I love him, and I never had, and never will, love you.” That last word held a shocking amount of contempt. What was she saying, maybe she was testing him? Or was this brute abusive and forcing her to say these things, while all the while she didn’t mean what she said, and only meant so out of fear? The man was crude so it was possible, and how badly had he been treating her? Was her warning a pleading cry for help, a coded message so she could be saved from the beatings, and-this he hated to think about but seemed possible-rapings that she probably endured? “I seriously need you to leave me alone! I don’t know how you even got the idea that we were together in the first place!” Hm, more lies probably prewritten by the brute. That’s probably why the man had his arm around the delicate maiden, to keep her from running, like a dragon guarding a princess in her tower! “And what is this?” She pointed to him and the present that was sitting on the table. “Why are you dressing up like this for some crummy restaurant? Why can’t you see that this is off putting? Who thinks this is a reasonable thing to do?” This one was confusing at first, but he realized his outfit might not be sending the right message. He was only trying to show her that he loved her so, but maybe she wanted him to dress up nicer, to dress to the strength of his love, maybe that was what she required to leave the grasp of that awful man, like how a crucifix was used to ward off the unholiness of demons and vampires, only a symbol of true love could ward off a sham one! “And why did you bring a gift? You have to understand how creepy this is for me, right? Please tell me you can understand.”

He nodded, knowing all to well what she was trying to say. She had to pretend to be displeased so it wouldn’t seem like she was to eager to receive it, mind games to trick the beast, and when he was unsuspecting, and she would open it, the idol would ward him off for it would be radiant with pure love. So, with one hand he slid it over to her and quietly said, “I understand what you’re saying, and I feel as if this would clear everything up.” He ended  the sentence with a wink and folded his hands into his lap, hoping at least, before the brute was warded off, that he could teach it a thing or two about being civilized.

She looked unsure, a little afraid, and looked over to her captor for support. He looked uneasy but nodded, suggesting that she should probably open it, securing his arm even tighter around her. Ha! The beast thought he was in control of the situation while he was just falling for their trap! He wanted to wink again at his love but he knew that he had to play it cool or she may be dragged back to his den, probably filled with drug needles and pornography. Reluctantly, probably worried that her captor would smell the trap, she tore off the wrapping paper, opened the box, and pulled out the puppet that he had made to resemble her, and he waited for it to ward off that savage, but it never worked. Instead the beautiful thing sat there on the table, and his girlfriend just sat there in shock, the brute still firmly held his grip on her. Maybe she was crying because their plan didn’t work, so he had to think fast. “Look in the mouth there… there’s a letter that should clear things up!”

After slowly unfolding and reading the letter, she could only, through tears, look up and ask “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Confused at first he sat there trying to understand these words, but eventually he found their meaning: he simply hadn’t proved enough how much he loved her, so he must try again later to save her. The savage took her away, holding onto her as she sobbed, probably because she was returning to a life in captivity, and when they disappeared, outside the restaurant, he stared at the idol and wondered where things went wrong.

His waiter asked if he wanted a check, but instead he ordered two burgers, since he could not leave from the spot. He sat there, slowly eating, with the puppet sitting across from him, wondering what he should do next to win back her love. Well, he wondered if he had to win it back, for it was unthinkable that she couldn’t feel the same way about him, so he was at a loss. And as he ate and stared at the puppet he realized his fatal mistake, and what a fool he’d been for not seeing it before! The puppet was too pure a symbol for his love, and in the attempt to fill it with pure love he realized that he must have filled it with too much, and the idol had actually become her! His real girlfriend was imprisoned in the puppet, and the one that he saw at the restaurant had to be an empty shell, what a fatal error in communication he had made! She didn’t want him to expose the gift to ward off the man, because it was the gifts fault that she let herself be imprisoned by the brute. He had to break it to return her to her true self, so they could finally be together as they were meant to! He quickly paid his bill, got a takeout box for the second burger (his love would probably be hungry when she was returned to her real body), got in his car, and sped over to her house to prove himself.

The tricky thing about her neighborhood was that the neighbors would yell at him if he was noticed, often threatening to call the police but he knew they acted only in jealousy! Their lives were probably empty, so to see him with his love was probably maddening for them. He had to park a block down, and he quietly, but briskly, walked to her house. A man came out to yell at him but he only broke into a sprint, and when he was in front of her beautiful dwelling he dropped the puppet on the lawn, got some matches out of his pocket, and began calling her name. He let the neighbors yell and threaten, because he knew that when he returned her love she would tell them to all go away!