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spookyboywhump · 4 years

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Mayhaps a cool prompt??? Young Everett and Eli at home, sitting together, Everett comforting Eli through fears about future planning?

Hi hello I loved this, and also I’m so sorry in advance for the second half of this drabble because it just kinda happened. Also apparently everything I write with these boys ends up being 2000+ words and a lot of dialogue

CW: Mentions of a neglectful parent

***

Elias tiredly stared at the screen in front of him, reading and rereading the same paragraph several times, trying to will his brain to cooperate and focus for once. His eyes kept straying away though, glancing around the dark room, looking back to the screen and going over the several tabs he had open, occasionally he’d switch tabs to choose a new song to play on low volume, he usually wasn’t able to focus without music- though right now, even that wasn’t enough.

He sighed and moved the laptop off his lap, setting it on the bed and tiredly rubbing his eyes. It was almost midnight, and he already dreaded school the next day because he knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. He considered going to try and find something to eat, wondering if that might’ve helped him focus, but he already knew he wouldn’t find anything and he didn’t want to waste his time, not more than he already was anyway.

He perked up when he heard the front door to the apartment open, Everett always tried to be quiet so he wouldn’t wake their mom but the door creaked no matter what they tried to do to fix it. Eli liked the warning, liked not being startled when someone came home. It took all his self control to not leap off his bed and go to greet him, he was usually tired when he got home from work and he didn’t want to bother him, though he knew Everett would say he wasn’t. It didn’t take long for him to wander back to their room though, coming in with a plastic bag from the store down the street hanging off his arm.

“Hey,” Eli said, looking up at him from where he sat, “How was work?”

“Exhausting.” He sighed, reaching into the bag and taking out a can, passing it to Elias as he sat down at the desk between their beds, facing his younger brother. “What are you up to?” He asked, gesturing to the computer.

“School stuff. Looking at colleges and all that, or, trying to anyway. My eyes keep unfocusing.” He said, popping the tab off the energy drink and taking a swig from the can. “Actually, all of me keeps unfocusing.”

“You should go to bed then.” Everett told him, though he had been the one to bring him more sugar to keep him up through the night, even getting a can for himself. “Why are you worrying about schools and stuff anyway, aren’t you like, only the second year in high school? You have time, right?”

“I guess I have time but, it can’t hurt to start looking early. It’s more wishful thinking than anything.” He shrugged, leaning over to the computer, switching tabs to turn off the music still playing.

“What do you mean “wishful thinking”?” He asked.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m going to actually be able to go to any of them.” He shrugged.

“What makes you see that? You’re a fucking genius, Eli, you could get into any school you wanted.” He leaned forward, arms resting on his thighs.

“It’s not a matter of intelligence or grades, it’s a matter of money. You know, that thing we’re chronically lacking in.” He snickered, setting the can he held on the desk beside him.

“Yeah, but aren’t there like, scholarships and shit? I don’t know, I didn’t really get that far, but I’m sure there’s something you could do.”

“There is, if I could somehow manage going to school all day and working every hour that I’m not at school, homework and assignments be damned. I don’t know if I could even get a job though, and if I lost that job then I’d be fucked.” He said, having already overthought every terrible scenario that could come to pass. He sighed, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “There’s no way to guarantee that it would work out, and that’s assuming I even got accepted in the first place.”

“Don’t worry about the money thing, you know I’ll help you.” Everett assured him. “I don’t want you trying to work and go to school at the same time anyway, that would be too much. Besides, you still have time, if you really wanted to you could try working in the summer to save up at least some money.”

“It’s not… It’s not just the money thing.” He finally admitted, staring down at his lap. “I already know where I wanna try to go, and I’ve already looked at scholarships and stuff, it’s just… it’s out of state, y’know? So I would… I would have to leave…”

“... Yeah? Isn’t that a good thing?” He laughed. “I would’ve fucking killed to get away from here when I was your age.”

“Would you come with me then?” He asked, almost hopefully. “If… if we could just… move there… if you were at least close by, then, I don’t know, maybe…” He said, slowly trailing off when he saw the look on his brother’s face, he already knew what he was going to say.

“Eli, you know I can’t leave, not for good like that. Mom needs me around, and… and I think it would be good for you to go out on your own like that. You don’t need me around, you’re more than capable of handling yourself.” He told him, moving to sit beside Elias on his bed. He put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as he anxiously picked at the skin around his nails.

“It would be easier with you around though… I’ve never just… been away from you…” He’d always been anxious over the thought of being away from Everett, when he was little he’d even cry when he left the house. A part of him knew it was kind of inevitable, either Everett would leave eventually or he would, if only to get away from their mother. He didn’t like to think about it though, the thought of it made him sick.

“Well… it might be good for you to be away from me. You’re a super smart kid, Eli, and I know you have big plans for your career and all that. You shouldn’t hold yourself back just because we’d have to be apart. It’ll happen someday, might as well give it a try now- or, well, in two or three years that is.” He told him.

“Yeah, but- but what if something goes wrong? What-what if I get hurt, or sick, what if you get hurt? What if I need you?” He asked, rambling away as his anxiety got the better of him.

“Hey, hey you’ll be fine.” Everett said gently. “We’d still be able to talk, you would come home on breaks, it’s not like it would be for forever.” He told him.

“But it would still be a long time. Longer than I’ve ever been away from home, away from you… and that’s even assuming I could get in. I still have a lot of work to do before then, I sure as hell have to keep my grades up-”

“Kid, I’ve seen your report cards, I don’t think you’ve ever had below an A.”

“Yeah but-but what if something happens?!” He cried, getting worked up all over again. “What if- I don’t even know! What if I just suddenly forget how to do anything, what if I start messing up, what if I miss a few days and I can’t ever catch up, what-what if-”

"Elias.” Everett said sternly, and it was enough to shut him up, his brother hardly ever used his full name. “You’re working yourself up over nothing. Just because you can come up with some wild scenario doesn’t mean it’s going to happen, if anything, it’s really, really unlikely it will. I told you, you’re smart, you shouldn’t let all your anxiety hold you back. You could do fucking anything you wanted, you have got to take advantage of that.” Elias groaned, pulling away from Everett only to hide his face in his hands.

“Every time I think about it though, it’s… it’s fucking terrifying. It’s so fucking scary, and on top of, well, everything else, the schoolwork I already have, and the chance of mom ending up in the hospital again, and you working all the fucking time… it’s scary, and thinking about what’s gonna come after I graduate is even scarier…”

“You don’t have to think about it right now then.” Everett told him, putting his hand on Eli’s back. “I’m sure it is scary, so give yourself a break. You still have a lot of time to figure it out, at least for right now, just take a break.” He said. “And you know, you can talk to me if you need to. I might not understand everything you have to say, but at the very least I can listen, and try to help you the best I can.”

“But I don’t wanna bother you…” He murmured.

“Eli, you could never bother me. I don’t think you’ve ever bothered anybody in your life-”

“Mom would say different.”

“She doesn’t count. Listen, I just want you to know, I’m always ready to listen to you, I’m always ready to help you. I’ve been with you this far, I’m not leaving anytime soon.” He told him. Elias was silent for a while before finally lowering his hands, lifting his head to look at him.

“Promise…?”

“Of course I promise.” He smiled at him, reaching up and ruffling his hair before pulling him into a tight hug, Eli finally cracking a smile as he leaned into him.

He could never figure out how he did it, but Everett always knew what to say to calm him down, to slow the frantic flow of thoughts that would make him panic when left unattended. He knew that someday they’d have to exist away from each other, and he didn’t know what he would do when that day came, but for right now, all he could do was cling to his brother, and be thankful he was here for him in the moment.

***

Everett sat on his bed, staring at the card in his hand. It was early the next morning, Eli had just left for school and he was only awake because he always made sure to say goodbye before he left. He was alone now, staring at a phone number he’d been debating calling. The man who had given him the card wasn’t as shady as his offer was, he was older, well dressed, he clearly had money and he seemed polite. He wasn’t pushy, unlike everyone else who had offered him a shady job, which made him feel a little less uneasy about this.

The man had told him if he changed his mind, he should call him, and he’d handed him that card. He’d dismissed it at first, left it in his jacket pocket and almost forgotten about it. The job he had now was fine, but the man had offered more money, at the time though, he didn’t think it was worth it to risk it, but the offer was starting to appeal to him more and more. He’d gotten Eli talking the night before, and while his brother was in the shower he’d looked into the school he was interested in. Even if he had his tuition covered, there was still the cost of necessities, money in case of an emergency, the cost of getting him there and home on breaks. He couldn’t blame the kid for getting nervous, it was a lot, but maybe, if this offer was as good as it sounded, it would be manageable.

He knew there was still a couple years until they had to worry about that, but even easing their current financial issues sounded good to him, and he knew it would take some stress off Eli. He knew their mom wasn’t doing well, she’d already spent time in the hospital twice that year and at this point he was the only one who could provide for them. He was just barely making enough to pay rent, keep their phones and internet going, only for Eli to be able to do schoolwork, and he knew they never had enough food- even though he knew he gave money to their mom. If he had the time he’d do the shopping himself, but he didn’t, and he knew Eli didn’t, and even though he felt guilty for it, he was angry that their mother was so unreliable, and that his brother was suffering the most for it.

He’d eventually reasoned with himself that it couldn’t hurt to call, couldn’t hurt to get more information. If this really was some miracle, if it was as good as it sounded, then he’d be happy he did it and things would improve, and if it turned out to be a scam or another desperate pervert, then he could forget it ever happened and go back to struggling like normal. It couldn’t hurt though, so finally he dialed the number, and hoped for the best.

#not whump #my writing #my oc's #wren #Everett #this is comfort kinda but #it's comfort that made me sad #just cuz #we know what happens #is it obvious i never looked into colleges and stuff #probably rip #eli was listening to vocaloid in the beginning i dont make the rules #Anonymous

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feminist-propaganda · 4 years

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Single Mothers Will Probably Cry During Every Episode Of Queen’s Gambit - Episode 1

I’ll start this long piece with a quote by Toni Morrisson. She once said : “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”

After watching Queen’s Gambit yesterday I rushed to the Internet to see if someone had written all of the things I am about to write, all of the symbols I saw in the miniseries, all of the dog whistles, the references. I found articles about chess. About how the community had adopted the film, about which grandmasters the characters were based off of, about chess moves and theories, about production and the unexpected success of the series.

According to me, this is quite mediocre commentary. I eventually clicked on the New Yorker article that seemed to be a tiny bit smarter. After a couple of paragraphs I realized that the male writer was only going to rant about how the actress is “too pretty” to be Beth Harmon, and this seems to upset him. A lot.

But no one talked about Beth’s mother. Or the name of the series. Or the embroidery. The chess board. The tranquilizers. The math. The flashbacks. The exchange of queens. The sacrifice of the queen. Did no one see it? Or is it again one of those things; where the world is so obsessed with single mothers and representing them as huge, massive, quite literal train wrecks, but no one actually wants to look at them in the eye, talk to them, help them?

Let me tell you, as a single mother, this miniseries had me in tears the whole time. It’s really difficult to watch. It’s downright triggering.

Single mothers like to keep their silence. That’s because we know the world doesn’t like it when we start talking. It hurts. A lot. So instead, the world likes to make memes about how single moms are whores, how they are drunks or over worked. How they’re psychotic. How they ramble. They don’t make any sense. Bipolar. Crazy. How their children stare at the television all day, the way they microwave bad food. We laugh at them, and use them as comical relief in our ... what exactly? Cultural objects. Then we move on. We send a message to single mothers when we do this, and the message is important. You suck. Shut Up. Don’t exist. It’s your fault.

We make an entire mini series about a single mother who killed herself to save her kid, we put on the television images that hurt and harm single mothers and then the public responds with nothing. They don’t even bat an eyelash. Miss the point entirely. Great series about chess! Except it’s not about chess. Not at all. It’s about raising children alone, when the world hates you. It’s about a trailer. In the middle of nowhere. A strong willed woman who was a mathematician in the 1940s. Who taught her daughter everything she could. Realized she couldn’t do more. And made the ultimate sacrifice, the queen’s gambit. The riskiest, most reckless, bravest move of all.

So let me tell you about what it’s like to watch Queen’s Gambit when you’re a single mother. So that somewhere in the AI, it’s written. So that when our great grand children will try to understand our times, they’ll read it.

I’ll write an essay for each episode. And in each essay I will review the important lession that Alice passed on to young Beth, and how this takes her to Moscow, where she can live a much more fulfilling life than in the U.S.A.

Lesson 1 : Find A Two Dimensional Algebric Plane. Study It. Control It.

I recently learned from instagram user @itllbeokbaby and Amsterdam based artist and weaver Liza Prins that the words textile and text have the same origin as the word texture.

Text derives from the Latin textus (a tissue), which is in turn derived from texere (to weave). It belongs to a field of associated linguistic values that includes weaving, that which is woven, spinning, and that which is spun, indeed even web and webbing. Textus entered European vernaculars through Old French, where it appears as texte and where it assumes its important relation with tissu (a tissue or fabric) and tisser (to weave).

Women have been weaving, beading, sowing and stitching since the dawn of times. We also know that women used this technology not just to create clothes, tents or shoes. They used it as a container of information. As cultural DNA.

In South America, in places where writing as we know of it was never created, women would bead important tribal information into skirts. They would then use the skirts as a database of the tribe. To track births, deaths, epidemics, droughts and other important group defining events.

In modern times, women still use embroidery as a means of expression. My memories from childhood contain strong images of my aunts and grandmothers, sewing my name and date of birth onto pillow cases, bathrobes and bedcovers. They would do this by the pool, at the bottom of the ski slopes, on the beach or in the train. They would engage into conversation as they embroidered; as this activity required some concentration, but not their full attention. It was their way of being present; but also transcending into the past and projecting into the future. They sewed our lives into the cloth.

I once heard my grandmother counting the holes in the cloth she was decorating with her beautiful colours. I asked what she was doing. She said that to build the letters on the cloth, you needed to count the squares. Two to the top, four to the right, ten to the middle, etc etc. I was quite mesmerized. I was maybe eight at the time, the same age as Beth when she loses her mother. I had started learning some math in school but somehow the math in school seemed to be presented to me as the epitome of something quite different than this excruciatingly feminine passtime.

Math was presented to me as masculine, out of reach to us girls. And now I was disovering that these women in my family were geometry experts, fluent in linear algebra, and that at a higher level, they were database account managers.

In the first episode of the miniseries, in the first couple of minutes; we discover two Beths. The first Beth is in Paris, the beautiful, the chic; the glamourous Paris. Paris will always be the undisputed capital of Fashion.

Paris is the undisputed capital of fashion not because it is the home of polluting massive textile industries like the ones in Pakistan or Zara’s empire in Spain. Paris is the capital of fashion because it is the capital of Haute Couture. And Haute Couture is custom made, sowed by hand, piece by piece, bead by bead, sequin per sequin. It is delicate. It is slow. It is sacred. It is what my aunt’s did.

It is the opposite of industrial, the opposite of a sewing machine, the opposite of an engine. The opposite of yield failures, punching in and punching out. It is lace. Delicate, personal, eternal.

The second Beth we see is the eight year old Beth, that has just lost her mother. She stands on a bridge. Two cars have crashed into one another. And she stares on at the police officers. One says “Not a scratch on her. It’s a miracle”. The other says “I doubt she’ll see it like that”.

My theory is that the miniseries explain how Beth eventually begins to “see it like that”.

The first time we see 8 year old Beth she is wearing a dress, with her name embroidered on it. It reads Beth, in pink. Feminine. Purple flowers surround it. The embroidery is delicate. It’s on her heart.

We follow eight year old Beth as she gets sent to an orphanage. In the first couple of scenes at the orphanage, we think, for a minute, that maybe Beth will be okay here. The head mistress smiles, has nice hair. Shows her around. Yes, the bed is by the lavatory, but at least she has a bed, a roof over her head.

We only start despising this new mother figure when she takes Beth to choose new clothes. Beth takes off her dress, and stares at her name, written on the front. The headmistress selects a white shirt and grey dress for Beth. She hands to her these new items, symbol of her new life, of her integration within the orphanage and later mainstream society. The headmistress then grabs the dress with the name embroidered and looks at it with disgust. Then, she says “I think we’ll burn this one” and disapears.

Beth then understands that she is no longer allowed to love her mother. That to fit in this school, this orphanage, to survive, she must let go of the embroidery and all of the things she associates with her mother. Her mother, in the words of the teacher was a “victim” of “a carefree life”. A free spirited whore, a lesbian, a witch. There’s a lot of words we liek to use to describe women who don’t conform. And Beth’s mother, as we learn, never conformed.

At night, Beth sees her mother’s eyes, she hears the last words her mother uttered before dying in the car crash. “Close your eyes”. She said it with tears in her eyes and an air of great determination. She knew what she was doing, which is something Beth doesn’t want to tell anyone. Not even her new friend Jolene. Beth’s secret is her mother wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t crazy at all.

Then, Beth discovers the board. One day, she gets sent to the basement and sees the janitor playing chess. Later in the miniseries, Beth tells the journalist from Life it was the board that attracted her. Not the pieces.

As the first episode unfolds, Beth learns that the squares have names. She learns the names. And at night when she looks up at the ceiling she sees the board. She visualizes the pieces moving on the 64 squares. She moves them in her mind and imagines all of the alternatives. What the board would look like if she moved this piece to that square. What would her opponent do then?

To the journalist of the Life magazine, Beth says that the Chess board was a universe of 64 squares, and that she could control this space. All she had to do was study it.

The board is much like the cloth that Beth’s mother Alice would sew information onto when she was a young child. You count the squares and move your material through it. As you go, you make shapes, patterns, motifs. Beth looks up at the ceiling at night and the first night, without the tranquilizers, she sees her mother say “Close your eyes” which is too painful or such a young child. A young child doesn’t understand yet why a mother would say “Close your eyes” and then crash on purpose into a truck. A young child doesn’t know about the world yet.

Alice aknowledged that she was about to do something extremely risky, that the outcome was uncertain. Alice told Beth that she was going to purposely provoke the car crash.

But when Beth takes the tranquilizers at night, and now that she knows about chess, she can transfer her love for her mother into her growing obsession with Chess. She looks up at the ceiling and instead of seeing Alice’s last thoughts, she sees the Chess board. Which is the small piece of universe that Alice controlled, when she was alive. The cloth that she sewed her daughter’s name on: “So that you’ll always remember who you are”.

#feminism #single mom #the queen's gambit

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wxrm-pxddxng · 3 years

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Ch 2 of "My life (but the better version)"

Warnings: Flashbacks, death mention, and bone mention in a metaphor for a pain that feels like stabbing

The guy came in and Tord took a bit to get used to the familiarity. There was no way though, right? What the fuck, you're supposed to be dead? Not that it was bad someone he didn't mean to kill was alive after all but there was no way, right? He was definitely dead. What the fuck are you doing here, Jon? Tord manages to blink the memory itself away in that split second.

It didn't take that long after Tord realized who that was, then there were words to start pouring out of Jon's mouth. He was talking about his condition, it seemed, or going over it somehow. Tord wasn't fully listening. He was focused on trying to just push away the memory, but whenever he blinked, there were flashes of red, of explosions- and something on his arm felt like needles that were not just stabbing into his skin, but really painfully digging into the skin there, almost like those needles were digging down to his bones. When he tried to reach over to grab that arm, he remembered that he was in fact an idiot and doesn't have that arm anymore. Ugh, those kinds of pains were the worst, especially when you couldn't get rid of them. He groaned in annoyance. The groan had gotten the attention of Jon and he immediately looked over and stopped rambling about whatever he was rambling about.

"Is there something wrong? Other tha-"

(Warning: Flashback start)

He didn't even LOOK like he was dead. And he was talki- No, nevermind, he was definitely starting to look like he was near dying. The blue button up with the Red Cross symbol soon had the symbol missing and was much darker. The white walls around them disappeared, replaced by the open sky. In the time it took for him to blink once again, he found himself back there, back at his old place. Where he loved for a good few years, left, and came back. back where he had hurt Matt and Tom physically, Edd emotionally, and Jon completely.

Blink

Shots. A destroyed house. "NO! MY EVERYTHING" "TOM! NO!"

Blink

Blue, Emerald Green "...not going to take over itself!" Red. "-And THIS IS FOR MY FACE" Magenta

Blink

Dark Green "-SAY SOMETHING YOU IDIOT!" Navy Blue "S-something. Ehe...he...he-"

(Flashback end)

"-ellooooo? Oh no- you're crying what do I do? Wait okay- um. Breathe, okay? 4 seconds in, hold for 7 seconds, out for 8. Got it?" Tord couldn't nod. Or do that. Who was talking? What was happening? The giant robot suit couldn't talk.

That didn't sound like Paul, or Patryk. Huh? 2 seconds in, 4 seconds hold, 4 seconds out. He probably messed that up. 3 seconds in, 5 seconds hold, 6 seconds out. Was that it? 4 in, 7 hold, 8 out. 4 in, 7 hold, 8 out… 4 in, 7 hold, 8 out.

"Now you got it! Good!" Jon was now beside him, Catherineng his back. He wasn't dead? Tord wasn't there. It was over."

Why don't you hate me?" Tord asked. "Hate you for crying? There's nothing bad about that!" Tord looked at him, dumbfounded, blinking repeatedly again. "I killed you." "Huh? You just met me. And I'm alive! Maybe your brain's not fully awake. Oh, of course. I'm supposed to check what symptoms you still have. I'll write down concussion- how do you spell that? Cun cushion? I'll write it like that. Yeah"

He blabbered on while writing stuff into his notebook.

Then he gasped. "Oh yeah! I need your name! We didn't find anything to identify you. Nobody was able to come and see you because of that. Do you remember anything?" Tord shook his head before thinking. Jon looked thoughtful but then he nodded slightly. And just like that he was gone.

What the faen just happened? The Norwegian stared straight at the blank wall in front of him, processing all the new information. He was found in a river as if he had drowned, someone called the hospital, he has no identification, his old neighbor who he swore he KILLED (watched BLEED OUT) (he couldn't stop remembering it) was alive and had never seen him in his life. He had a different arm. His face had bandages again.

Well, whatever all of this was, he decided to think about his options. Maybe he was the afterlife and it was just weird dreams like these, he travelled back in time but at the same time both fully, he was experiencing some kind of pre-death hallucination, or those alternate reality movies are actually a thing. Jon didn't look remarkably younger or anything, so he could cross traveling back to the past out of his options. In fact he looked older, if anything. Maybe basing everything off of Jon was not reliable, but it wasn't like there was anyone else he knew conveniently around at this time.

Whatever the case, Tord realized something else. Jon is alive. Oh yes, such a new revelation. We didn't know that like over 10 paragraphs ago at all. But no, if Jon was alive and never met him, that's what it seemed like. So far, the alternate universe movies sounded very probable.

(link) First Chapter

(link) Next Chapter

(link) Masterpost

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amphtaminedreams · 4 years

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A/W 2020 Fashion Month: Before Vogue Went Blank (Part 2)

Hi to anyone reading,

I was going to start this post by jumping straight into Dion Lee and part 2 in general but there's been a lot going on the past couple of days-although this blog is primarily fashion, it wouldn’t feel right to start talking about designers without acknowledging all the shit that’s been going down.

^Photo Credit to @spiltcoco on Twitter

Yesterday, police footage came out of US police murdering yet another black man in broad daylight-George Floyd. He joins Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Gray, and Alton Sterling, plus hundreds more named and god knows how many more unnamed African American citizens in the ever-growing list of victims of police brutality.

The majority of these are just people going about their daily lives, a majority of them doing absolutely nothing wrong; even those we know to have committed crimes have been unarmed and non-violent offenders. That being said, their offences are beside the point when we’ve seen the white perpetrators of mass shootings be calmly cuffed and escorted into the backs of police cars as if they were the ones selling cigarettes without permits. American police, given the amount of them that are armed, regularly become judge, jury and executioner trained for 8 weeks by an institution that originated from slave patrols. I cannot imagine how terrifying it is just to walk around as a PoC in America. I cannot imagine the collective trauma that has been suffered because of recent events on top of the intergenerational trauma that most likely exists because of centuries of oppression. I cannot imagine what it’s like to live in a country that was built to suppress you and was by law allowed to do so until very recently, those original structures still in place. I cannot imagine what it’s like to be made to feel like this is your fault. I mean, Boris Johnson is a useless, cold-hearted twat and I won’t defend him or this country for a minute (we have much blood on our own hands, and racial profiling is just as much a thing here as it is in America-I read earlier that you’re 28 times more likely to be stopped and searched in London as a non-white person compared to a white person), but I still can’t imagine him publicly advocating for the mass murder of groups he knows to be primarily made up of black people via Twitter. This whole situation is so unimaginably fucked up; anyone who still sees America as one of the world’s most developed nations needs to take a long, hard look at what is going on and reconsider that opinion.

Whilst we can’t fix everything, we can all speak up and make our voices heard, and it is our duty to do so. It’s not good enough to just “not be racist”, you have to be ANTI-racism, even if that means constantly reflecting on your own privilege and challenging your assumptions. Neutrality is complicity. Signing a petition isn’t going to change the world, but it’s a start:

https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd?recruiter=false&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf_combo_share_abi&recruited_by_id=7ba70000-a127-11ea-87fb-d1ff0bf6ea96

As I publish this, there’s less than 50,000 signatures needed to hit the target of 6,000,000 so if you happen to see it, get signing! There are lots of other petitions online but Change.org seems to be the only major one you can sign in the UK as the other are US based and require a zip code. I never thought I’d close a paragraph by quoting Macklemore but the line “no freedom 'til we're equal, damn right I support it” is at the forefront of my mind right now. Again, neutrality is complicity. We’re never going to achieve a fair society by sitting on our asses and hoping things will improve. Let’s all do the best we can.

Sorry if that intro wasn’t what you came here for, but I just think it’s so important to talk about. I know I’ve said in the past that fashion is supposed to be an escape from everyday life but there are some times when real life needs our attention and this is one of them. Feel free to unfollow if you disagree.

Anyway, onto the fashion. If this is the first post you’re reading, welcome! There’s a part 1! But I don’t wanna be pushy so start here if you wish!

If you read part 1, welcome back!

I ended that post by practically falling at the feet of Dilara Findikoglu, and I so wanted to start this post by regaining a sense of dignity and go straight into what-the-fuck-ing at Dior, but I know breaking chronological order would really piss off those “OmG I’m SoOo OCD, tHis BuzZfeEd aRtiCle WiTh DiFfereNt SiZed TiLes ToLd Me!” which is basically me minus claiming liking things to be organised means I have OCD-no, just dermatillomania and the denial that a compulsive skin picking disorder has anything to do with OCD because the neuroses club that is my brain doesn’t have any space left. SO, I have to continue where I left off and star the post with Dion Lee, whose collections I am a big fan of.

I could ramble a bit more but I did enough of that at the beginning of part 1 and am sure I’ll do more than enough in this post anyway, so here it is, Dion Lee:

Considering we ended with the maximalism of Dilara Findikoglu, sliding back over towards the other far end of the scale with a designer that tends to pitch their tent on the borders of the minimalism camp feels correct. Dion Lee, fortunately, seems the perfect collection to open with. There aren’t many other brands who do edge in such an understated and masterful way. If you want to be ready for combat and look like you’d fit right in at Vogue at the same time, look no further. This season’s collection is full of perfectly placed cut outs and immaculate tailoring and subtle street fighter-esque details as ever, and that’s why it pains me to say it:

Not that this is enough in the way of critique to restore my dignity by any means, it’s not a patch on last season.

I don’t think there was a single bad look in that show, and at times it felt like I was weeding through them here. When the looks were good, they were GOOD but a lot I found to be disappointing. Plus I have no idea why you’d put tie-dye in an A/W collection. I appreciate that it’s an Australian brand and that our winter is their summer, but they’re presenting to the rest of the world at fashion week and anyone in Paris, Milan, London and New York is going to be freezing their tits off and looking like a twat in an orange tie-dye sundress. There wasn’t much of a dip in quality for the menswear compared to last season, but honestly womenswear left a lot to be desired. That’s what happens when your expectations are high.

I used to think that if you assume the worst, it’s impossible to feel let down. And then I saw Dior’s A/W 2020 collection. Did a full 180 on that statement.

I suppose it’s a step up from haute couture, but then at least the styling in that was simple, and it just didn’t look like anybody had tried at all; here it’s clear Maria Grazia chucked everything she could at this collection, every headscarf, every gingham print, every shallow feminist undertone, and it was still a fucking mess. At first you think some of the individual pieces are cute but have just been ruined by the styling, and then you begin to look, and realise that even those individual pieces could’ve easily been bought in a New Look Boxing Day sale.

THIS IS CHRISTIAN DIOR, SUPPOSEDLY ONE OF THE MOST LUXURIOUS BRANDS OUT THERE. WHAT IS GOING ON!?

I don’t know, I included as many looks that I didn't mind as I could, but it’s like there always has to be a crappy, unnecessary detail in there. Everything is so literal. Of course the collection based around the divine feminine has the models dressed like basic ass Greek goddesses, so of course the collection based around the modern woman and equality has women walking the runway in ties and ill-fitting shoes too. Maria Grazia, here is a box:

Think outside of it.

Next is, thankfully, Elie Saab:

No, not exactly a trailblazer of a collection, but executed with poise and elegance as always. I mean, the styling is spot on. It looks like each part of the outfit was made for another, to contribute to a whole clearly envisioned look, similar to what we saw in the Alberta Ferretti show. Elie Saab is known for its haute couture shows where all the tiny details, the sequins and the silk and the embroidery come together to make something beautiful, and this is just that on a larger scale, with less “wow”s and more quiet admiration, more wishing you were the one wearing that outfit. If you’re gonna play safe, do it this well. The night dresses are stunning of course, but not even my favourite bit of the show. It’s the casual looks, the pussy bows and the ruffles and the neck scarfs and the private girls school monochrome colour palette with the occasional pop of red or purple, a toned down version of what we saw at haute couture, any of which deserve to be worn whilst eating macarons in front of the Eiffel Tower before trip to Musee D’Orsay. It’s Poppy Moore’s school uniform grown up and made fit for a fashion magazine editor:

Somehow managing to cram an Emma Roberts early 2010s fashion moment into every post is my talent, who knew. Wild Child was really a gem.

Erdem was a mixed bag:

With a lot of the outfits, I can’t tell if I actually like the garments that much or if I just like the look as a whole. I mean, without sounding too gluten-free Callie from the Valley, I like the VIBE, but there was a lot of outfits I almost included before I had to ask myself “LAUREN, do you ACTUALLY like this or do you just like the walking-into-your-sugar-daddy’s-will-reading-to-claim-his-fortune DRAMA of it all!?”

It happened a couple of times, where once I took off my black and white, theatrical violin accompanied entrance filtered sunglasses, I realised that the actual print was ugly. A collection so cohesively ornamental and kitschy is going to lean too far into that at times, and they were a few overly-fussy moments where it seemed less nudge nudge wink wink and more like Erdem Moralıoğlu fell into his grandma’s wardrobe, stole some fabric, and called it a day. I don’t want to sound like I’m not a fan of the collection because overall it’s gorgeous, I just thought it was a bit much at times.

Continuing with the theme of clever seasonal continuity that weaved its way throughout this year’s A/W offerings, Ermanno Scervino kept the core of his summer collection and made it just that little bit darker, added some weight to everything, and this is one of the rare occasions where I like the winter incarnation a lot more. I’m not huge about either but there’s a lot of things I’d love to wear here, the coats especially.

Up next is a reliable favourite of mine:

Etro.

Was it REALLY necessary for you to include ALL those coats I hear you ask?

Alaska Thunderfuck as Gia Gunn voice: Absolutelyyyy.

When it comes to bohemian fashion, Etro is unbeaten. Everything is always exquisitely coordinated and styled. Like I usually fucking hate aztec print but I love the way it’s done here. I’ve never known a brand to make belts seem like such an integral, tasteful part of the outfit in a field where they so often seem like a last minute addition for the sake of accessorising; it pains me to say it, but Elie Saab, I’m looking at you. It’s your only fault.

Yes for bringing back embroidered jeans! Yes for all those high necks! Yes for the tapestry print! Yes for the Afghan waistcoats! Etro will keep fedoras cool forever and I love them for that; I don’t know if she ever actually wore any of their stuff but I just know Stevie Nicks was in her prime would’ve ate this shit UP and she is my style icon for the ages. Plus, I might be way off base here but a lot of the collection seems to be inspired by traditional Romani style and it’s a beautiful direction to take things, a treasure trove of layers upon layers and rich textures and opulent prints.

I can’t wait til the phase of my phase of my life where I can swan around in maxi dresses and ponchos. I just hope those maxi dresses and ponchos are Etro.

Onto another brand which hasn’t had a bad show since I started my reviews: Fendi. This season, they took their late 60s/early 70s wild child aesthetic and gave a millionaire’s high maintenance wife spin on it, and what’s not to like about that?

I mean, Fendi is a brand which is always going to excel in its F/W presentations-the rich, bohemian prints (pro-tip: if you can’t already tell, me mentioning the word bohemian in a review pretty much guarantees I like the collection), the furs, and the warm colour palette all perfectly translate into clothes suited for walks through a city going through a post-summer burnout, where it rains red and orange leaves. You can tell Silvia Fendi is in her element when she’s got texture to play with, something that comes across in the gorgeous coats Fendi consistently puts out, and this season continues that trend. Plus, there’s a lot of adorable details here-shoes that show off the decorative socks underneath, the cube shaped bags and those furry ear muffs which I hope bring about a high street muff renaissance because they’re the equivalent of slipper socks for my ears and THEY’RE ACTUALLY REALLY PRACTICAL. The only thing I’m not in love with is the mirrored glasses, and I can’t help but think how replacing them with a pair of grandad style aviators would be the icing on the cake for the collection. Maybe I just need to see Miss Robyn Rihanna Fenty wearing them and then I’ll get on board. Usually works.

Ah, GCDS. I got so excited for it after last season but this time round, it was a bit of a disappointment. There were a few outfits that semi-matched up to how cutting-edge I saw their last collection, however a lot of the pieces looked pretty low quality. I get that streetwear is in the name, but it’s supposed to be a high fashion take on that, and a lot of the looks were quite pedestrian. Stand outs are the top 2 rows and the leather motocross style jumpsuit on the far right, third row down, but the quality of these pieces wasn’t consistent across the board and I feel like I ended up having to convince myself I liked some of the others just so I had enough photos to justify including the brand. It really sucks when I look back on how ahead of the game last season’s collection was-we’re talking outfits that wouldn’t be out of place on Instagram’s Tokyofashion page and as far as I’m concerned that’s the fashion holy grail. Some of these looks, especially the menswear, could be from a Boohoo TV ad and that makes me sad.

Meanwhile, Giambattista Valli put out a collection that looked like a virtual postcard of Parisian fashion; if a St-Germain-des-Prés streetwear themed Instagram doesn’t exist already, someone should capitalise on that, stat, because if my typical vision of French feminine fashion is correct it would be full of outfits like this. I feel like this is what a fashion novice EXPECTS Chanel to look like. Trust me-these days the reality is much more disappointing.

There’s many things I'm happy to see here besides the tulle and florals and prettiness I expect of the brand. Obviously the berets and the bows and the elbow length gloves are the kind of off-duty ballerina style touches I’ve become accustomed to but there are also some nice surprises here: the military style white jacket, the unexpected snake motif on clothing that’s otherwise overly delicate, and to my delight the return of the boater hat. IDGAF, this is the summer where I’m buying myself one off Ebay and making this happen for me whether they become a “thing” or not. I shouldn’t squander having this little of a double chin; the opportunity may never present itself again.

I haven’t watched Killing Eve in a longggg time since there’s only so much of two women attempting to kill each other and then miraculously avoiding death you can watch but I’d love to see Vilanelle prancing round a city in this kinda shit slitting some necks again. I hope that doesn’t make me sound like too much of a sadist; only in a purely fictional world is this something I want to see, I assure you.

Givenchy was really, really great this season too, imo. Definitely a step up from the last RTW anyway. Aside from the drama of the exaggerated floppy brim hats and the quirky tassle detail dresses a la Schiaparelli, a lot of these outfits kinda remind me of something a Miranda Priestly/Cruella De Vil type would wear, and you know me; I’m all for that kind of intimidating, about-to-either-slap-you-or-fire-your-ass bad bitch energy. The gathered leather gloves with the androgynous subtly checkered power suits feels CORRECT and if Giambattista Valli is the bottom in this relationship, Givenchy is the top. Am I allowed to reinforce sapphic relationship stereotypes as a bi girl? Probably not. I’m sorry. Won’t do it again. Just this once. And you know I’m right really xoxo

And OMFG Gucci. Another impeccable collection for me, honestly. Once again, it’s probably my favourite of the season. How it is that Alessandro Michelle gets it SO right for me despite his vision being so bold and different every time? He has this specific brand of strange, conceptual beauty which blends past and present trends in a way so supreme it should be considered art. It’s not a term to throw around loosely but the man is a genius, and tbh I’m still not over the human head props from the 2018 F/W winter show.

In my Haute Couture week review, I talked about the Viktor and Rolf collection (which I loved, don’t get me wrong!) and said that pretty meets grunge is my fave thing ever-this is that, but much even more substantial and intelligent. The Wes Anderson-esque pieces or that late 60s/early 70s hipster aesthetic that I loved in last season’s show hasn’t been done away with either-be it the level of detail or the colour scheme, it all somehow fits together. Never did I think I’d see dresses fit for porcelain dolls through the lens of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen seamlessly slotted in between outfits that could’ve been put together from the clothing rack of Dazed and Confused’s costume department. I want it all-opulent fur-trimmed coats, crucifix jewellery and pilgrim hats I’m sure both Edgar Allan Poe and modern goths would approve of, and the tiered skirts that wouldn’t be out of place in a Westworld saloon. The models were delightfully sad and almost creepy looking and I wouldn’t change that for the world. To say 10/10 doesn’t do it justice, so I’m gonna have to open a reviewer’s can of worms and say 100/100.

Gucci is a tough act to follow, and I’m sorry it has to fall onto the shoulders of Halpern. In the nicest possible way (as if there is any nice way of saying it), I don’t think I any expected anything but a downgrade, so if anything, my standards will be lower so...Michael Halpern, you can thank me I guess?

That was really mean, I’m sorry. It’s not a bad collection, and I definitely like it more than last season’s. It’s a slightly garish colour palette at times but an exciting one in spite of that, which when paired with the animal print dotted throughout makes this collection the perfect fit for a tropical beach party or at the very least, a semi-decent night at the Caribbean themed bar in your local town centre. The sequins and silk, a Halpern trademark, are as tastefully done as ever, and seeing them on the models, I can’t deny these are some power fits-the kind of clothes you are bound to look and feel confident in; if you wanted to play queen of the urban jungle for a night, this is what you need to be wearing.

Ah, Hermes.

Generally not one to stoke a fire inside me. In all fairness, the tailoring here is really, really nice and French biker chic, and the pieces are perfectly crafted-it’s not that I don’t like the outfits because I think that if I saw one of them individually in a natural, messier setting I’d probably be impressed. These are classy, elegant winter looks and what more could you want when you’re looking for outfit inspiration for this season? It’s just that it’s always a little too neat and uniform for me, and on the runway I like my fashion to be risky. This could almost be the sophisticated mother to a Tommy Hilfiger collection and whilst that’s something I would probably wear if I wanted to look put together, it’s not what you get excited to see at fashion week. Primary colours all together aren’t where it’s at for me either, the infamous colour scheme of the cheap plastic playhouses you’d find in the garden of every working/middle class British household back in the day. Yes, I had one. So did the after school club I was forced to attend whilst my mum was at work. Apparently the negative connotations are still too much for me (a boy I went to the after school club with did once fall off the back of one and crack his head open so maybe it’s justified).

Isabel Marant was pretty much exactly what you’d expect from Isabel Marant; if the Etro bohemian woman is one who rolls out of bed and chucks on the first thing she sees, the Isabel Marant bohemian woman is the one who claims she’s done the same thing but who actually planned it all out the night before. She designs for the gluten-free, bikram yoga Kourtney Kardashian style “hippy” who claims to be a free-spirit but would definitely not do acid with you. I was gonna say it was a collection for the Gwyneth Paltrows of the world but then I remembered Gwyneth proudly released a candle she claimed smelled like her vagina and changed my mind-she’d definitely do acid with you.

It’s definitely a cohesive transition from the summer collection; both have that seemingly laid-back, clean-cut vibe, and cater to the rich, impeccably groomed scented candle loving woman everywhere. Obviously the pieces are a tad more suited to an alpine lodge in Switzerland than a beach in Malibu this time round, but that same mild colour palette, pretty, naturalistic patterns, and generally relaxed fit persists. It’s cute enough.

J.W Anderson is a bit of an enigma.

Despite the experimental silhouettes and the kooky details that you think would very “look at me!”, the collections still seem to have a chilled, easy-going feel to them. They toy about with the strange but remain entirely sophisticated whilst doing so-I think it’s because aside from the little quirks that make the garments J.W Anderson, they’re otherwise fairly reserved and simple; even the quirks themselves mostly tend to be exaggerated, more conceptual takes on more typical stylistic motifs anyway. Anderson has a knack for producing statement pieces that don’t look like they’re trying too hard to be statement pieces, a talent he expertly deploys at Loewe as well. Whilst Maison Margiela collections are like the fashion equivalent of that Jughead “I’m weird, I’m a weirdo” speech, J.W Anderson’s refusal to conform is quiet and modest. I like it. It’s not generally my personal style but I can admire the thought behind the work, and there are still some things I’d love to try. I have a few standouts-the shoes with the hoop detailing dancing from the ankle straps, the dress on the bottom right with what appears to be art nouveau typography on, the trench coat with the cape detailing and the gossamer dress to its right are all stunning, especially that dress. If I ever want to dress as the bubble Glinda the Good Witch descends in when she meets Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I know where to go, though I don’t suppose there’s going to be an occasion that calls for that any time soon. Can I just have the dress anyway?

Kim Shui is another new designer I found through blessed Twitter screencaps-thanks guys for doing my research for me. Much appreciated.

But anyways! Like Charlotte Knowles, it’s clear she’s still establishing her aesthetic as a designer, and thus far I love it. The whimsical, throwback prints on urban silhouettes that range from the androgynous suits of city dwelling cool girls to the amped-up sex appeal of nightclub dresses is gorgeous, especially twinned with dainty headscarfs and opera gloves-all in all I think this a very cool and wearable collection and I’m looking forward to the next collection she puts out.

Next up is Lacoste, and IDK why I always include their collections to be honest, considering they’re not really known for “high fashion”. I guess it’s because my dad has collected Lacoste shirts since I was little so I kinda have a soft spot for it and feel obligated to include it every time presentation season comes around. Yes, the outfits are unbearably preppy and the colours are garish but I feel like that’s kind of the appeal? So what if some of the tracksuits look like they could’ve been pulled out of a bad mafia movie? I see the argyle jumpers, with a bit of wear and tear, as a charity shop gem my sister would come across (she has the #Y2K Depop girl knack for finding old designer pieces in the shittiest charity shops without the audacity to try and sell them at a 70% markup) that I would then steal from her wardrobe to wear myself, contrasted with a ripped mini skirt, chains and and docs. I see the POTENTIAL of a look that is very fuck you to the rich middle age tory styling we see here. It’s punk, okay?

Lanvin was STUNNING this time around. Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching Mad Men recently and it reminds me of the fashion on that-which I hope somebody won an award for at the time BTW, it is SO fucking good-but I just adore every look here. I can’t even remember if I reviewed Lanvin’s SS20 show, and so clearly if I did it wasn’t that memorable (no shade intended), however this collection is a different story. Every single one of these outfits is iconic movie moment worthy, a 60s Cher Horowitz plaid two piece equivalent that would get screencapped and replicated ad-nauseam, all the best looks of Betty Draper and Peggy Olsen and Joan Holloway and Megan Calvet brought together and refined for the modern day woman. I might even consider sacrificing my anti-royalist principles if it meant I could transport myself back in time and switch bodies with Grace Kelly so I could make this collection my princess-off-duty wardrobe and drive around Monaco in that Bella Hadid look, roof down, all the drama of the fur trim and the gloves and hair whipping about in the wind (but in this unrealistic vision I can actually see what I’m doing and I’m not choking on random strands and swearing at Mother Nature as if she is a real entity with a personal vendetta against me).

Loewe! More J.W Anderson! I’m gonna try not to repeat myself by arsekissing too much all over again and get the good points out of the way quickly! So rapid fire: elegant! Delicious colour palette! Interesting shapes! I think I’m seeing a Victorian/Edwardian influence there! Correct me if I’m wrong! I like it! The coats are strong! Remind me of the suffragettes! But lets pretend in this case these Loewe style coat wearing suffragettes are not raging classists!

AH. Apart from that, it was a bit too austere for me. I definitely preferred Anderson’s eponymous collection; there were a fair few recurring details in this show that I couldn’t get behind that I didn’t include, in particular this bib-like black panel that just kept popping up on everything. Sorry J.W Anderson. But a 50% success rate is still good! And at the end of the day, having 2 collections on Vogue Runway at once is more prestigious than the accumulative total of every accomplishment I’ll probably ever have achieved in my life by the time I’m on my deathbed so what do I know anyway? Sigh:( At least I’ll always have the honour of having the largest head by circumference of my class in year 4, right *sweats nervously*!?!?!

Louis Vuitton was definitely a downgrade on last season for me. There were for sure elements I liked-the Vera Wang-esuqe mixing of the tulle bustle skirts with the rougher, more masculine biker inspired vests and jackets was a cool choice, reminiscent of Gucci’s mixing of the lace dresses with harnesses. I enjoyed the baroque jackets and subtle nods to steampunk style too. Though we’ve already seen it a lot this season, the wet look coat with fur trim I can’t help falling in love with, and I’m immune to the potential ugliness of the muted blue monotone look purely on the basis I can picture Ripley from Alien in it. So like I said-it’s not as if I hated it. I guess when it comes down to it, the collection wasn’t bad so much as I just had higher hopes. I will say though, the staging was INCREDIBLE. As a history nerd, I never thought I’d see the day when a Henry the 8th lookalike actor was part of the backdrop of a Paris fashion week show-and I always thought there was no interesting career path for me in the subject!

And another big name I don’t tend to be so partial to, Maison Margiela. IDK, I did like last season but I wasn’t a fan of haute couture and it took me a while to warm to this. Call it deconstructed, experimental, whatever, but you know when you can’t decide what to wear and you’re in a rush so you kinda just throw all the shit you decided against into a pile? Well, my initial thought was that this season Margiela is kinda that, on the runway.

I will say, once I let go of my need to see a clear shape, a lot of the individual pieces were stunning (NOT the puffed up tabis though, I still can’t even get behind the regular ones). I guess I just wish they’d go for less is more with the styling because as it currently stands, it makes it hard to actually take the clothes in.

Ultimately, one thing you can always say about Margiela, like their clothes or not, is that it has a monopoly on being effortlessly bold.

Marc Jacobs I really liked again, though I will say it doesn’t stand out quite like the S/S collection did. That was absolutely STUNNING-I can’t remember specifically where I ranked it in my top ten but I know it was at least in the top 5. This, on the other hand, is...pretty. It’s very pretty, and very put together, so I’m not saying at all that I don’t rate it. I suppose it’s just a lot simpler than I expected it to be-I don’t have a problem with simplicity, at all, especially if it’s what a brand is known for but I feel like part of the appeal with Marc Jacobs is that it’s pretty kooky. I mean, not Thom Browne or Margiela kooky, but commercial kooky at least. I feel like the kookiness is lacking here? And that’s where this feeling is coming from? And also, the fact that Lanvin tackled the same era and did it a lot better? So there’s that, too. Plus, I adore Miley Cyrus but...why? Random celebrities waking the runway just doesn’t do it for me-it always comes across as a publicity grab, as if the designer isn’t confident enough in their collection’s ability to get people talking on its own, and I suppose in this case that says it all really.

Margaret Howell was...well, Margaret Howell. She’s known for her basics, and they’re always pretty non-offensive “regulation hottie” in the words of the icon that is Damian from Mean Girls. It’s been, what, four years? More? Since I last watched that film but I’m pretty sure watching it about twenty times between the ages of 9 and 15 tattooed it on my brain. I include her because even though they don’t get my pulse racing, I like these pieces; considering the fact that expecting straight white men to ever have style on the level of barbiedrugz (his instagram is my favourite thing ever) or Rickey Thompson is ludicrous, Margaret Howell’s menswear looks are probably are the best, realistic goal for any future partner. Because I like my men dressed like Paddington bear/a depressed Brown University English lit lecturer, okay? Or in other words, Will Graham from Hannibal.

Marine Serre had a few good moments-the looks that I liked were the ones that stayed within her lane of blending the weird with the visually appealing. There were a lot of cool things going on, and I like the utility vibe (the boot with the pouch detailing and the mask are perfect examples of this done well), but outside the fits I picked out a lot of it went over my head tbh.

Marques Almeida is a show I was looking forward to-it has such a youthful, experimental quality to its collections (it’s no surprise the designers said they were influenced by the HBO show Euphoria this year!), similar to Central Saint Martins, and you can tell the designers (Marta Marques and Paulo Almeida) are based in London too; we are talking about the birthplace of the punk fashion movement, and as a designer it’s probably almost a rite of passage that you incorporate elements of that into your work. Marques Almeida does that with a flair and consistency you can count on. Their clothes don’t have the wildest silhouettes or anything like that but the fun they have playing around with print and colour and the ease and confidence with which they settle on those combinations always comes through-the black and white coat with the yellow furs trim is one of my favourite pieces from the entirety of this season’s offerings.

I wasn’t so fond of Max Mara’s SS20 collection and I'm not gonna lie, this isn’t THAT much of a step up for me personally. It’s just one of those brands I feel obligated to include because it’s talked about quite a bit but I’m not totally sure if it’s for me. Too monotone, but I’ll give it another season! And I mean, there is a slight improvement here-this collection is a lot more laid back than the stiff, austere feel of the last, and there are some very well fitted and structured pieces. A lot of the looks kinda remind me of a 2020, fashion take on The Breakfast Club’s “Basket Case”, which is kinda cool, and just from looking at the clothes, the high price tag is palpable. Also, scruffy hair club unite! Though obviously it’s intentional here! That’ll be my excuse for the next time I turn up at work looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards-Max Mara made me do it.

Ending on those words of wisdom, I’m gonna bring this post to a close, because I can’t fit any more photos in! I’m desperately hoping that I can fit this all into 3 parts like I did with my last RTW review but even if I do have to make 4 posts, I still include my top 10 shows as I did before. I hope to get that post up within the next couple of weeks! After that, I’ve shot a Lana Del Rey inspired by each of her different albums and “era”s though given last week’s events I’m on the fence about whether to post it or not, especially given her silence over the last couple of days. I’m really proud of what I’ve put together and I’ll always love her art and music (I have 2 bloody tattoos, for fuck’s sake!), so I’m trying to think how I can reconcile that with those awfully worded posts and just the general lack of awareness of bigger issues that she’s displayed the last week. JFC, being a Lana stan has always been so chilled up until now. All the very valid and important takes aside, that “Lana pls delete that post and apologise, we can’t fight the barbz all your stans are depressed” tweet is the only good thing to come out of this shitshow. He got a point. Breathing feels like effort lately:( IDK, if you’re also a Lana stan and you have any opinions on the matter, feel free to DM me, because I’m feeling pretty conflicted rn.

Most importantly though, are the issues I opened this post by talking about, and I thought I’d finish by including the thread of petitions I saw on Twitter. Like I said, a lot of them aren’t available to sign in the UK but to anyone who read up until this point (thank you!) idk where you’re reading from so maybe some of them will apply to you:

https://twitter.com/yericvIt/status/1265801832930045953

Also, while we’re at it, because every tory voting twat seems to treat our country as if it’s some beacon of hope where racism is non-existent and love to tell PoC to stop moaning about their experiences, here’s a thread of black British men and women who have lost their lives to police violence:

https://twitter.com/illh0eminati/status/1266441604170223617

Thank you for reading until the end. I hope that you enjoyed the fashion part of the post but also that if you did read this far, you read the other bits too if you didn’t know what was going on already. It seems like everyone does but you forget that Twitter’s a bit of an echo chamber and that outside of it, there’s a lot of ignorance, whether intentional or not. I know Tumblr has a similar audience to Twitter so I imagine there’s loads on here about everything going on too, but ya know. I wanted to talk about it just incase.

Stay safe, keep fighting the good fight, and again, thank you for reading!<3

Lauren x

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dulcetscen · 6 years

Note

Hello! Welcome as a new svenario/headcanon blog! Can I request headcanons for Shindo, Yukihiro, and Haiji crushing on a sweet and supportive classmate? Thank you!!

Thank you! I hope you enjoy these. ♡

Sugiyama Takashi (Shindo)

There were few things that Shindo looked forward to on Friday nights. After morning practice and classes, he usually made it a point to find a quiet corner at the local coffee shop to finally work on the few assignments he had due. One of those Friday’s were different, though, when he met you, his first words to you being

“Excuse me, could I sit here?”

The small talk the two of you shared quickly turned into full blown conversations, and the more he learned about you, the more he began to develop a (not so) subtle crush on you.

Shindo is extremely modest, and always makes it a point to not have the conversation be about himself, so when you mentioned that you heard about his recent 5000m run, he became something like a stumbling mess.

“It’s honestly nothing, y/n. I’m just glad I finally made a time to qualify.”

“It’s definitely not nothing, Shindo!” You would nudge your elbow against his arm lightly, though you were 1000% serious. “I’m so proud of you, you should be, too.”

Hearing that you were proud of him meant everything in the world to him and then some. And since that day, he looked forward to telling you about his latest feat in long distance running. He had to admit to himself that he was being a bit selfish, but he loved how encouraging you were to him and how much you motivated him to do and become better.

When he’s running, and begins to feel his legs grow heavy and his gaze go a bit blurry, your voice pops in his head as if you were right beside him cheering him on.

“You’ve worked so hard for this, Shindo.” “I know you’re going to do your best.”

And so he does, your words giving him that extra bit of energy to make it across the finish line, and when he meets with your eyes for the first time, it’s nothing for him to drag himself over to you, his smile growing larger once he reached you.

“I did it, y/n.” “I knew you would, Shindo.”

Iwakura Yukihiko (Yuki)

Yuki at first made it a point to hide is affiliation with Kansei’s track team from everyone, especially his classmates in his law courses. So when you, Miss/Mr Law-Prodigy (whom he has a bit of a one sided rivalry with), approached him asking about the teams fan club, he nearly died.

At first, he contemplated lying about it “Oh, it’s just something I do for volunteering hours - I’m not apart of that dumb team.” But he knew that somehow, you could always tell when he was lying, always. So he owned up to it, admitting that he was actually starting to like running and the freedom it gave him.

He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest as he continued explaining his history with the team, you taking in every word intently. He loved the attention that you gave him, but hated it all the same.

“Are you any good?” You’d ask, raising an eyebrow playfully at him. He’d scoff at you in return giving you the cockiest response he could muster up.

“I guess that means I’ll have to come watch one of these days.”

And so you did that same weekend. And the weekend after that. And the one after that.

And the day that Yuki finally qualified with his 5000m run, you were there cheering him on with the rest of his team. Again, ignoring the tightness in his chest he’d walk over to you after finally escaping the crowding of his teammates.

Taking the towel that you handed out to him, he gave you the cheekiest of smiles. “How’d I do?” Shrugging, you’d smile at him, “I think you were one of the best.”

He sooo hated your smile and the effect that it has on him, but he quickly came to love it all the same.

Haiji Kiyose

Haiji’s attraction to you was always existent. From the first day he met you in the Intro to Lit class during your freshman year, he always thought you were beautiful/handsome, but it wasn’t until your final year when you learned of his efforts for Kansei’s long distance team that his crush for you developed (or he actually admitted it to himself).

He knew you were busy, a full time student, working part time to pay your way through university, so it meant so much more to him whenever you offer to lend a hand to help out the team. He accepted every opportunity, wanting to spend more time with you than he was able during lectures, and knowing that you were there during practice, watching him run, somehow made him perform better.

You encouraged him to be the best version of himself, even without saying so much as a word to him.

But whenever you did, he took every one of your words to heart, memorizing them for when he needed the extra encouragement and reminiscing on the smile that you always wore when you spoke to him.

“You know, Haiji, you take such good care of the team,” you’d begin as you finished rinsing out the team’s water bottles, dancing around Haiji in the small kitchen, “You really ought to take care of yourself every once in a while.” You tried to not sound too worried, you didn’t want to discourage him but his heart warmed at your concern for him, and at the fact that you notice what he does for his teammates. He’d look over at you, undoing the apron that was tied around his waist, nodding his head as a soft smile played on his lips.

You always take the role of being Haiji’s voice of reason. Some nights, no matter the time, he’d text you without hesitation, a paragraph of him releasing all of the worries that he manages to hide from his team. His worried that he isn’t doing enough, or that he’s pushing his teammates too much. His worries about his inadequacies as a leader and so on.

You’re always able to put his heart at ease, though, reminding him all that’s he’s done so far and everything that he will do in the future. He always knows that any and everything you say will calm him down, and can’t help but like you more and more.

“Thank you for always listening to me ramble, y/n.” “Always, Haiji xx.”

#haiji #haiji kiyose #haiji kiyose x reader #shindo #shindo x reader #takashi sugiyama #sugiyama takashi #sugiyama x reader #sugiyama takashi x reader #kaze ga tsuyoku fuiteiru #kazetsuyo #run with the wind #run with the wind headcanons #Yukihiko Iwakura #Yukihiko #Yukihiko Iwakura x Reader #Yukihiko x Reader #Iwakura Yukihiko x Reader #Iwakura Yukihiko

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ladylynse · 6 years

Note

Hello, I apologize if you have already answered what I am about to ask. When you write a story how do you develop the plot? And do you ever think about plot holes? If so how do you prevent those?

Hi, Anon. Thanks for asking!

I start with my idea. Sometimes it’s as simple as “it would be hilarious if Maddie saw Phantom get hit with the Booo-merang when she knows it reacts to her son”. Sometimes it’s a paragraph or two or ten of random ideas smushed together(technical term)--this is more or less the stage my DPxML fic is at. There’s a lot of me going, “Oooh, this would be fun” or “ooh, or I could do this”, and I’ll actually talk to myself like that in my notes. It’s long, ramble-y, grammatically incorrect, and basically the equivalent of me brainstorming some sort of initial idea, the root of the story. (I’m already rambling, so the rest of the answer will be under a read more.)

I then start doing a bit of research on stuff I’ll need to write the story. Depending on how long I’ve been in a fandom, this can be very basic stuff (people’s names) to more specific things (what day does Adrien have fencing?) and will always include some sort of cheat sheet for myself if the characters use slang (like Randy. And Jake.). If I come up with any ideas--or potential ideas--while doing that, I jot them down. Even if it’s a couple lines of dialogue or a way to end a scene, at some point, if I can write that scene into the story (eg Gwaine saw Merlin’s eyes glow gold.) All of this starts in my initial fic document and eventually gets moved to a scrap file associated with that fic. Do not delete ideas/scenes/dialogue/anything even if you aren’t currently using it. You might be able to recycle them into a different fic or later in the current story.

Then I start writing. To see if it’ll work. Even if I don’t have a very clear idea of where things are going yet, and certainly no idea of the end. Sometimes I need to try a few different ways to start a story (Reflections went through various iterations. Mockingbird and my DPxML fic are still in that stage) before I find one that seems to flow. That’s when I look at the situation the characters are in (or about to be in) and try to figure out their actions and reactions to the stuff I’m putting them through. And then I try to let that drive the plot. It’s something I’ve gotten better at over time--making it less obvious that the characters are doing that because that’s the way I want the story to go--but my best plots tend to be character-driven. (This may or may not help you avoid some plot holes. Depends on what the plot hole is. It’ll hopefully help you cut down on the “well, why didn’t they do that like they always do?” sort.)

If you need a character to do something that’s not in character for your plot to go the way you want, you need to give them a reason to act out of character (eg Danny not telling Jake his secret because there’s a paranormal studies/ghost hunters convention in town--and because Jazz keeps ragging on him). If you can’t give them that reason, then you need to find another way to achieve what you want to happen without them doing that--or change your initial idea for the plot. Even if you start with a plan in mind, you will probably have to tweak it at some point. This is normal. You’re just adapting to your story. Sometimes, a story will get away on you--it’ll write itself in a direction you weren’t expecting or past the point where you’d initially figured it would end (hello, Treachery)--but, at least in my experience, if it’s the characters driving the story that way, and you let them, it can actually turn out to be a better story than what you’d initially planned. (Again: Treachery. The unplanned part ie second half is much better than the planned part.) It’s just a matter of keeping them reasonably in character so that things don’t get too out of hand.

I only think about plot holes once I notice them. Honestly, I’ve gotten good at patching. If something doesn’t occur to me, I can’t prevent writing it in. It’s not so much plot hole prevention for me as adaptation of the story to make it more acceptable once I realize it’s there.

Sometimes, when I’m editing a chapter or rereading something to remind myself of the story thus far/what’s happened, I’ll see something that doesn’t work that I’d missed before. (Random note on the ‘remembering what’s happened’ bit: if you plan a long fic taking place over multiple days, do yourself a favour and make a timeline for yourself in your scrap file. So much easier. That’ll allow you to make accurate references like “last week” and “three days ago”. I did this with Shattered and regretted nothing.) Once I notice a plot hole, I consider the damage. Have I posted something where it’s already stated? If I haven’t, repairing it typically isn’t that hard, though of course it depends on what it is--you just need to give it some justification, shaky or otherwise, or do a bit of rewriting to patch it up. Once it’s firmly written in and you don’t notice it until chapters later, your best bet is writing in justification for it later. In some cases, this involves you turning your plot hole into a plot point. It may be a small plot point or it might be a significant one that will actually shift your intended story a little bit. I did this a lot with my earlier Doctor Who crossovers. I got quite good at retroactive patching there, and my plot hole turned into foreshadowing, although in all fairness all of those involved time travel to one degree or another so that made things a bit easier; I didn’t have to stick to the rules of the actual universe.

So here’s a plot hole of mine that’s recent that you might have noticed if you’ve read Down the Rabbit Hole: the note on Toby’s bed. Why...why are they communicating that way? Why go to the trouble of sending a note to him that way? Why not just phone or text or email? I missed that initially. And now I see it. And now I have justification (that hasn’t yet appeared in-fic) for not communicating by normal 21-century means. Depending on how things go, it might be hinting at something bigger, or it might just be a small one-off thing.

Now, in case you’re interested in my disaster of a ‘planning paragraph’, this was how Masks began--and please bear in mind I’d seen ten episodes, subbed, at this point and wasn’t entirely sure on what stuff was called:

Blademaster. Fights with knives. Unless it’s someone fromAdrien’s fencing class; the transformation could make that thing deadly sharp.That’s better, actually. Go with that. Marinette actually beats Adrien to thetransformation because she was skulking around waiting for him to come outafter class/lesson/club/whatever it is is over (to just ‘happen to be there’and try to ask him to catch a movie or something in casual conversation) andheard the commotion, while he got caught up in the fleeing people beforemanaging to sidestep and transform. Ladybug hasn’t managed to get the swordaway from Blademaster in the meantime and nearly gets the cord of her luckycharm thing cut for her trouble. Chat Noir shows up and pretty much fences withhis quarterstaff thing until Blademaster starts to cheat, at which point hevaults over him and tags him from behind, hoping the distraction is enough forLadybug to free herself from whatever she ended up in. Evil moth guy isdemanding the gems, so Blademaster starts trying to take a slice out of ChatNoir, who evades rather than parries, trying to draw Blademaster awayfrom…something…and Ladybug takes over when he’s backed into a corner and needsto turn to scale the wall. She yells at him to get the something away if he’sfigured out what Blademaster is after—she hasn’t, yet; just that the blade isprobably what the akuma is in—and Adrien, being there for the transformation,knows exactly what happened and can oblige. But he isn’t long out the door whenhe hears Ladybug scream; Blademaster had either grabbed another blade orsomehow acquired something sharp—I’ve never fenced; I’m not entirely sure howsharp those things are—and while avoiding one blow, she jolted off the courseof the other and got her earlobe sliced off/the gem ripped out. Blademaster hasa gem—moth guy is rejoicing and demanding he now get the other one—andMarinette, with one hand clamped to her ear, has to get out of there despitethe pain because as much as she needs to get Tikki (?) back, she doesn’t wantto risk her identity and—more importantly—she’s not sure how much longer shecan remain upright. She hits the change room or office or something, aiming fora first aid kit or at least a wad of toilet paper, and Chat Noir is shocked theLadybug is gone. He manages to defeat Blademaster and retrieve her gem, but itis inactive, and while he manages to catch the dark butterfly in a fencingmask, he doesn’t have the means to banish its evil OR to erase the ill that hashappened here; that’s Ladybug’s turf. But how is he supposed to return hergem—return her—when he doesn’t knowwho she is, and his own transformation is wearing off? (Marinette will bepulling a new hairstyle or modelling a hat or just plain skipping school—ifthere IS school; what day was fencing class again?—and getting Alya to coverfor her with her parents on the pretence that she’s trying to work up thecourage to do something with Adrien, perhaps, and she really doesn’t want tohave that conversation with her mom,when in reality she’s just trying to find Tikki. Not sure what happened withTikki, exactly. Needs to regain energy, which Plagg (?) would know and informChat Noir accordingly, but with them trying to keep secrets from each other….)

and that will give way to notes like this:

Tikki, PlaggMiracle Stones/MiraculousHawkmoth

Ladybug – lucky charm at end, always ends up with somethingshe doesn’t know what to do with at first and then figures it out; yo-yocompact; BOTH EARRINGS for the miracle stones…but maybe ripping one out woulddeactivate the other. She is the ONLY ONE who can cleanse the akumas. Chat Noir – (allergic to feathers), ancient destruction/cataclysm; batonYeah, if that ring comes off, the Kwami is forced out and the detransformationis right awayPlagg is SUCH a glutton, he’ll even chase after stuff he thinks is food

----

Okay. Adrien picks up Tikki and Miracle Stone, so Marinettefinds nothing and tries to track down Chat Noir, but Tikki, once recovered, canjust tell Adrien who Marinette is. Problem solved. That’s not fun. Unless Tikkidecides to respect Marinette’s wishes?

Or maybe they each find one earring, and Tikki isn’t wellbecause they’re divided?

Adrien and Marinette can both find nothing—Marinette because she hasn’t achance to look, Adrien because he doesn’t know TO look—but unless Tikki’strapped there, she gotta be able to get out.

Wait, Adrien’s chivalrous. He’ll respect Ladybug’s wishes.Even if he hates it

----

If Plagg can’t see, when they transform, Adrien won’t beable to see, either.

“What do you mean, I can’t transform?”“If we transform, this thing would get sucked in, too, and you won’t be able to do anything.” [lines from the Rogercop episode]

Statue set on green stone (granite?) with the top edgejutting out about chin height for Adrien

-------------------------Nope, gonna have to go back and change Blademaster’s restoration to Phillipebecause that DOES seem to be after Ladybug’s restoration. [turns out I was right the first time with this, but I’d checked with someone else and they’d thought no one changed back until after the Miraculous Ladybug bit, so I’d changed my initial plans here, and a few months later we got an episode that confirmed that, no, the magic link just needs to be broken, things don’t need to be fixed yet.]

#ladylynse #asks #my writing #writing advice #kinda #the don't delete your scrapped ideas is writing advice #my writing advice #for what it's worth #Anonymous

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wolf-with-a-pen · 3 years

Text

Twin Skeleton’s Part 1

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Death, Gore, Unreality, Murder, Being Watched?

Masterpost, Next

Please tell me if I have missed a trigger, and I will be sure to add it, if you want to be mentioned when I post a new part, ask, and if oyu want me to tag this with anything else, tell me.

This is a new series,hopefully shorter than Knockin' On Heaven's Door, it physically wouldn't let me work on it until I had wrote at least part of it. I should hopefully be able to work on it next week, but if not, expect another part of this.

Word Count:2909

I HAD BEEN dead for 6 years when they arrived. Unwilling to leave the hotel after the horrors they saw and the near-death experience they had. I watched as their friend took their last breath, just like I had so many years ago, albeit in a more... bloody way than mine. Almost reminded me of Psycho with the amount of blood that poured out of them, spilling on the yellowing carpet, pooling around both of them. However, this time I wasn't fully fixated on the dying people-not this time. No, I managed to dial 911 and somehow get an ambulance for them (I'm as surprised as you are) and made sure to memorise the perpetrator’s face in case I saw them again. Anyone willing and able to kill is bad in my books. Especially after that, but I refuse to talk about it. There's no point dwelling on the past anymore.

For the event that happened, it was quite a sunny day. Surprising since deaths almost always happen in the rain. (Yes, I'm looking at you authors. Why? Oh, and hi to the audience I suppose. Who knows why you are using my life for your entertainment, but who am I to judge? Still don't like you, but I guess I'll put up with you.) Anyways, where was I? Right, honestly, I didn't mind that day, for the life of a ghost is a lonely one- we are rare. Only people with unfinished business become ghosts. Surprisingly only a small amount of the population. Most say "I want to do X before I die", but most of those desires aren't strong enough to cause them to become a lost spirit. And even then, most leave within a few years, or their unfinished business isn't necessarily needed to be done on earth. The rest of us are doomed to stay in one room for most of eternity, invisible to almost all. Almost being important. There are a few who can see through the veil of death, but it is rarer than ghosts themselves. Imagine my surprise when I found out that 1) they are created, not born, and 2) when one found their way into my room. Are you imagining it? That's you audience. Yes? Ok, now times it by 100. Yeah, I was shocked.

It was a month later I found out. You see I believed that both of them had died. I only saw one of their souls leave, but I assumed the second's wounds were just as severe- severe enough they wouldn't survive. I was wrong. They stumbled in 4 weeks later, discharged but clearly not out of the wars. Way too many bandages were on them, almost excessively. Their entire body appeared to be covered, save for their head and hands, despite only one wound being present. And it was on their chest. They didn't need half of them. But, oh well, better safe than sorry I guess? Who knows. All I know is they were followed by one of the staff members- clearly to make sure they didn't get hurt. However, they ignored their aide to stare straight at me. Yes, that's right. At me. Not through me. In the background the aide started. “Here you are,” he announced. “It hasn’t been changed beyond the clean-up and we made sure it stayed empty the entire time,” he launched into a full blown speech- I could tell he would. I cautiously stepped to one side, sure that they couldn’t see me, and were just staring off to the distance. Their eyes followed keenly. I knew I had to react before they told the staff member. Quickly I put my finger to my lips, saying out loud. “They can’t see me, act like normal.” I saw them nod slightly, before turning to the staff member, pretending to be interested in what he was saying. But the whole time, they carefully cast sidewards glances at me, as if I would disappear if they didn’t constantly look at me, while trying to decipher if I was actually real or not. It appeared they couldn’t decide.

Only once the other human had left did they talk. “Who are you? And how can I see you?” they said tentatively.

“Who I am does not concern you as of yet. And I don’t know how you can see me. Probably something to do with being stabbed made you able to see through the veil – you can see through the divider that separates our world and yours, automatically making me visible to you.” I replied curtly.

“Wait, so are you a ghost or something?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So, I can see ghosts now?”

“Yes, you can see ghosts,” I replied, annoyed “you can also see angels and demons in their true form, though why anybody would ever want to do that, I don’t know.”

“And you saw me get stabbed?”

“Who d’ya think called the ambulance sweetie?”

“And I’m gonna ignore how you managed that. Despite saving me, you don’t want me to know who you are.”

“Of course not. You might get attached and do something stupid “to be with me” or worse, I might get attached and have to watch someone else die. No way am I letting that happen. I can’t do that again. I don’t think I’d last. Plus, the first thing is a fast track to hell- it wouldn’t work. The only reason I’m still here is unfinished business. You have none. And you have the rest of your life to live out. I don’t want to infringe on it."

“Fine, keep your secrets then. I’m staying here and talking to you anyway, whether you like it or not.”

“Great, just what I needed. A companion. I have been fine for the last 10 years, I think I’ll be fine for 10 more, or however long it takes for my spirit to disintegrate.”

“Don’t be like that. I might not be that bad.”

“Fine, you have one chance, don’t waste it. You have a month to earn my trust. If you don’t, you leave me and this place alone. If you do, I might let you stick around for a while. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The first day was relatively annoying. For some reason they decided to pester me until I gave them some information about myself, whether on accident or on purpose to shut them up. That and gushing about how they have always wanted to meet a ghost and asking me to explain how everything in the new world they discovered worked. I didn’t mind telling them that much. Why wouldn’t I when they would have to get used to it, and fast? Despite being a minority, they would soon see us everywhere. Well, us and angels and demons. God forbid they meet a Guardian. That’s why I don’t mind. They opened up a world of just new, unfamiliar and dangerous things. I kinda owed them an explanation of what was going on. How the world truly worked. I started with two concepts that most people already knew of: heaven and hell.

“So, what do you know of heaven and hell?”

“Just the religious speculations people came up with. Heaven is said to be a safe haven of angels you reach when you die- if you have done good deeds that is. Hell is supposed to full of demons, and where you get tortured for eternity for all the bad things you have done to others. I always hoped it would be the other way round cause everyone says I’m going to hell.”

“First, none of that is really right. Second, what do you mean by you’re going to hell?”

“Because I’m a demigirl and a lesbian, everyone says I should be in hell.”

“Well, we’re all going to hell- only those of pure heart or are naive enough to be manipulated go to heaven. There are few exceptions to that rule. The rest of us end up in hell for having too much personality. It’s better for us anyway- you don’t want to go to heaven. It is a dictatorship, ruled by one person with a hive mind to enforce their laws. Highly corrupt, anyone who even slightly misbehaves or shows opposite ideas to the leader has their soul removed and their shell is sucked into the hive mind- an army of ruthless soldiers with no feelings or general consciousness. All actions are controlled by the leader. Hell is much better. It is more of an anarchist government type thing, with no rules. What you can do is only limited by the strength of your moral code. Only those who are deemed the worst of the worst are punished- mostly the ones likely to disrupt the relative peace too much or are general pieces of shit. For example, genocidal maniacs, and the likes of Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk. From what I’ve heard, there is a special place in hell for those two to suffer. Plus, demons can come to earth, whereas the angels are trapped in heaven from the second they step foot in there by the guardian angels and the border guards.” I rambled on, forgetting who I was talking to, and the fact that most readers and listeners prefer to have shorter paragraphs.

“Wow,” they said once they managed to recover from the information overload, “So, technically I was right about the role reversal.”

“I guess.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to introduce myself, I’m…” they started before I cut in.

“Ruby-May Johnson, but you prefer to be called Bee. You are 30 years old, and have been single all of your life. You were born on the 19th of May, which is likely where your double-barrelled name came from. You are an extrovert and sister to Lily August Johnson-Kennedy, who died in the attack.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Your passport says a lot. The rest are assumptions from watching and listening to you before, I had nothing better to do, so I watched you.”

“Right, OK. You still not willing to tell me about you?”

“Nope.”

“Alright. What should I call you and refer to you by? I’ll go first. I’m a demigirl, I like she and they pronouns, but prefer they to she. With relationship terms, I prefer the gender neutral terms, but I’m still fine with the female ones.”

“Ok Bee. Try not to refer to me. Nobody else knows I exist, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. If you have to use she/her or you’ll get she/hurt. If you need me, use Spectre. Everyone else does.”

“Thank you Spectre.”

“It’s late, sleep now.”

“No, I wanna know more.”

“No,” I announced, forcing them into their bed, “I refuse to tell you any more until you have slept.”

“Fine, but only because you leave me no choice,” they agreed begrudgingly, “Good night.”

“Good night,” I replied, making myself invisible to all- including veil-seers- and turning off the lights.

“Wait! Please stay until I fall asleep. And, can you turn the light back on.” I heard, their voice cracking slightly.

I made myself visible, flicking on the lights before inquiring, “Autophobia, nyctophobia or somniphobia?”

“A bit of all of them.”

“Ok, I’ll stay. I’m pretty sure in the bottom draw of the dresser, there is a night light if you want it.”

“Really? And yes, thank you.” They climbed out of bed, making their way towards the dresser grabbing the night light and pushing it into the wall. It illuminated the room nicely, I remembered that from when I had to use it. I simply answered her first question: “Yeah, I know what it’s like. Now, sleep. You are safe as long as I’m here- I will be watching you and making sure you don’t get hurt.”

“Thank you.” Bee whispered, closing their eyes and falling asleep.

“Sweet dreams. I hope.”

The second they fell asleep I turned invisible and ventured as far out of the room I was able to go. Here, the barrier between the possessed areas of the world were thinner, allowing me to talk with the nearest spirit to me. Or at least, what I believed must be the nearest spirit. And he probably wasn’t actually a ghost, but good enough for me. I called out to him, knowing he would most likely be there. “Ashton, are you able to talk?”

“Yeah, sure, nice to talk to you again Spectre. How long has it been? A month or two at least. Anyway, what did you need?”

“What, no, I don’t need anything,” I said. You know, like a liar.

“You only talk to me if you need something, whether information or more physical, you cannot fool me.”

“Fine. I managed to somehow end up with a veil-crosser.”

“Seriously? Cool. How did you manage that?”

“I called an ambulance.”

“You know we’re not meant to interfere.”

“It was them, they struck again. I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“I understand, but you still know the rules. If anyone found out you’d be doomed to stay there forever, unable to interfere anymore. You’re lucky that I’d be a hypocrite to tell them, if I was anybody else…”

“I know. And I need help. What can they do that I need to know about, and what do I need to teach them?”

“Firstly, you need to teach them about all of the aspects of death.”

“How am I meant to do that when I don’t know all of them myself? You refused to tell me more than angels, demons, ghosts and veil-breakers.”

“There are more, I’ll get my human to take the book to your room, and see if I can get him to talk to them, and teach them a bit. As for abilities, they depend on the person, you just need to wait for them to figure it out themselves. They only find them when they need them the most. It works on instinct, don’t force it.”

“Ok, thank you. It should be helpful. How are you getting on with yours?”

“Turns out he can give us temporary physical forms.”

“Is that how I could call the ambulance? Usually I can’t touch anything.”

“Probably.”

“Tell him thanks, if it was him. Also how is the asking out thing going?”

“Badly, I have tried so many times and it never worked. He’s just really oblivious.”

“Himbo?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him out straight. Well, since you’re gay, it wouldn’t be straight, but you know what I mean. Tell him outright that you want to date him.”

“I’ll try.”

“Keep me updated, I want to know if he accepts.”

“I will. I suppose I’ll speak to you later then?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Bye then.”

“Goodbye.”

I stayed in the bathroom a few minutes before making my way back into the bedroom. The first thing I noticed was that they were still asleep. “Good.” I thought, “At least they won’t be sleep deprived.” Then I noticed it- the door was ajar a crack. “Strange.” I thought. “I was sure I made them lock it.” That’s when I saw it. A singular eye, peering at them through the door, filled with a malicious intent I noticed instantaneously. I shivered. Bright blue with red streaks running through it- easily distinguishable and recognisable. It was the same eye I had seen 1 month ago, and again 10 years ago. They were back to finish the job. Gently, I used whatever power I could muster to push the door closed and lock it, leaning on it to make sure they couldn’t get in- I knew whoever it was had the keys. Quickly I remembered something Ashton had given me a while ago in case of a situation like this. Carefully, I fished a small silver charm with wood beads in white and yellow out of my pocket, and tied it around the door handle. Hoping it would work, I stepped away form the door. Their key turned in the lock, unlocking it again. I prepared for the worst, standing by the telephone- next to the door in case I could apprehend them.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” screamed the door as they tried to force their way through the door, quickly realising it wouldn’t open by the handle, after trying the key in the lock a few times. Despite it being just wood, they were failing miserably. Glad to know Ashton’s charm worked. For he believed it was a protection spell, given to him by a god looking like a crow, but at the same time, he could tell it wasn’t really a crow. Why wouldn’t a god choose a crow to parade around as- I mean, it’s jet black, sleek and pretty, and supposedly very clever. As I always say, who am I to judge? At least I knew the charm worked, and we had something to protect us until I could convince Bee to but some more security stuff for the doors and windows- especially the hinges that have a pin to lock them so it doesn’t pivot. Those would be a godsend. Then we’d only have to worry about the strength of the glass and the door- easily fixable with the charm. With that plan set, I sat in the corner, next to the bed, and with a clear view of the door. I sat, planning out a security plan for next time, before eventually losing consciousness- something I didn’t know ghosts could do.

#Twin Skeleton's #TW unreality #Original Content #TW death #TW gore #TW murder #TW swearing

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nadoblabla · 6 years

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About Me

I bet you already knew from my Twitter (twitter.com/elnado108) that I posted shits on daily basis. Recently, or maybe should I say "usually" , my tweets consist of rage, sadness, questioning myself, questioning the world, practically self doubt and self loathing almost all the time.

Finally, I snapped. Even Twitter can no longer support my overwhelming feelings. "Feelings? Why you use Twitter for feelings?" That's probably what logical people said. Yes, I can use Twitter for good purpose, to share interesting and useful stuffs, knowledge, information, etc. Then what? You see, I am a logical person too. In fact, I use logic almost all the time in real life, so logic that I start to doubt and questioning human nature and their beliefs (I still belief in Allah SWT as God, I simply question the system itself). Then after all these logic starts to bored me and problems come and go, I finally need to rest. I realize I have no one to share all of the pain and happiness other than myself.

Can't believe what I just wrote? First, let's put "parents" and "God" out of equation. Let's become an egoistic being and focus on me for a while. Focus on you. Focus on one single entity, yourself. Try, try to understand my point of view. Let's analyze the last sentence in my last paragraph.

"I realize I have no one to share all of the pain and happiness"

Yes. Let's analyze it (or let me analyze myself) using 5W+1H.

1. What do you mean by you have no one?

-> I do have friends. Most of them are men. I don't have that kind of charm like some of my friends (unsurprisingly, they all are extroverts) that can talk their way with girls, without making myself weird or vulnerable.

As a man, 22 years old, in a third world country that is closer than ever to conservatism, it is very difficult for me to share my problems with my peer. Toxic masculinity, or to put it simple, expectation for a man to always be strong, independent, having huge willpower, and never put themselves in a sentimental/emotional position in front of public. How many of you that told your friends to "don't cry! Boys don't cry! Steel yourself! These are nothing, there are worse things out there!" ?? Even in my campus, my department, my close friends circle, it still happened most of the time. Not only men, most women here expect the same thing. There is nothing wrong with being a tough guy. But it is impossible, yes I declare it with all money on the table, it is IMPOSSIBLE for any human regardless of gender to be tough and badass all the time 24/7. Now when I became vulnerable, when I am down, when I am sad, where should I go? To whom I should talk to?

TLDR, my friends, which almost all of them are male , can't accept my ramblings. Most of them simply give "logical" answer, like how men should, without understanding the underlying problems. The psychology part. The feeling part. Is my logical capacity is too low that I need to ask for others logical answer to my own life? HELL NO. Like I told you from the beginning of this post, I do think logically. And I am fucking bored with it, because no matter how hard I toughen myself up, no matter how delicate my problem solving skills, LOGIC can't solve it. Still not understand what I meant? Huft. It's easy. Every logical answer that most of my friends gave me is something that I ALREADY think about/consider/act upon it. It's not a new or brilliant answer that I looking for.

In the end, I have no one. I do have one/two women that probably can solve my problems, but they've been listening to my problems all these times, that it is simply sickening for me to keep asking for their help.

"Why not solving it yourself?" Some of you may ask.

Next time you are in a deep shit, even if that shit is your own mind, you may fuck yourself. Or you know, you may just kill those psychiatrist and therapist , or blow up psychology department in uni. The next time you meet someone with certain psychological disorder or mental problems, why don't give them a fucking AAA robot that can solve their problems with 100% accuracy. Or maybe, you are weak in science and start to spewing God this and that, you know what? You may be right. Try to ruqyah all of mental patients in mental hospital, give me shoutout if they are "cured". Better quit reading this post rather than trying to give your "number one answer to everything" answer to me. You are not my friend. You are not even on my level, you are low and don't even have rights to see me. Begone.

2. With whom you want to share your pain and happiness?

-> Is it obvious? Human. People that can connect with me not only on logical level , but also understand my feelings. Men and women are all the same. As long as you are not gay.

DISCLAIMER - Skip if you don't want to see me reasoning with SJW feminist gay activist liberals

"Wait! Why gay? You hate LGBT?" Even if my head is full of desire for freedom and happiness, I still can't tolerate LGBTQ++ or whatever that shit is. I do share values with both liberalism and conservatism (in this case, Islam and eastern culture). In short, I trust my own judgement and I don't want to put myself under liberalism/conservatism. I need to be higher than that.

3. Why you can't share with no one?

-> It sounds impossible. No one? For real? I can simply talk to strangers and explain to them all of my life and problems, can I?

If you look back to question number one, you already know the answer. But I do have additional things, that I want to... Add.

It's because even if I do have people to share, people/I might not have enough time. I am busy. Fifth year student in a top 5 campus in Indonesia. Then, even if somehow two/more unique individuals managed to find time to talk, do they actually care?

Several weeks/months ago I have another episode of depression. I share with one of my friend. A woman, as expected. Because man don't have time for these shits. That woman is actually a good woman. But sadly, she is bad in terms of talking on a deep, understanding level. Except when she talk about her love interest. When I shared with her about my personal problems, she seems "fine" until I slip a little detail about her crush, then the whole topic shift to satisfy her desire. It's okay, it is understandable. But at that moment, when I truly need help and in a 100% serious mode, she simply change the whole topic, disregarding the previous conversation completely, not even bothered to talk about it again until I decided to tease her about it. In the end, it will hurts more if the person that I try to trust with my vulnerabilities is simply a wrong, don't-give-a-damn person. In fact, being fake itself is already disgusting.

Yes. I need someone who actually care. Care doesn't mean they instantly become a mother figure. Let's put another example. Back when I was with Nita, she did care. She looked for me when I am missing, she noticed something different in me, she listened attentively. Oh you think I haven't moved on huh? In high school , I spend much of my time with no girlfriend. But I do have friends who missed me when I am gone. Or even if they too are busy with their life, when I am back, they are curious with me.

Now? I no longer have those attention. No warm welcome I always got (not always but yeah) when I entered the class like I used to be in highschool. No more stupid random calls. Indeed, today it's not that bad. But for some reason, I crave for human emotions. Sadness, happiness, love,hate, etc. My life is not like hell now, but it's like a calm water. Nothing happened. Nothing. Nihil.

4. When is all of these happened?

-> By the time problems hit me + the 8th semester (now I am on my tenth). It hits really hard due to my procrastinate habit plus loneliness that happened since I no longer have classes.

If you notice, actually I knew the problems within me. In the last paragraph, I mention "procrastinate". So yeah, stop thinking "Ah now you already understand the problem, why don't you act!". I am too genius. I simply want to talk.

5. Where...

-> err actually I dont know how should I analyze it with "where". So skip this W.

6. How you deal with this, until now?

-> With all of my previous answers, I decided to share it via social media. I KNOW it is spam for some people, I KNOW it is uncomfortable for some, I KNOW it is weird and shameful for me,but what choice do I have? I also plan to do charity stuffs, because I find happiness in other people happiness. Hopefully I am not BS-ing.

It's either I talk/write, or I die of suicide. You think there is another way? Remember, that I ask you readers to put away parents and God, since I believe it is something that I alone should think about, and I am not in the mood to listen/read any kind of suggestion that "use" those things.

But if for some reason you do think there is another way, give me a comment or shoutout.

Meanwhile I know most of you do not know me deeply. I put this introduction at the last paragraph, as a sign of gratitude for your patience and willingness to read this post.

My name is Liu Nado. I am a student in Mechanical and Biosystem Agricultural Engineering department in IPB, Indonesia. I am 22 years old. Male, straight, combination of both Chinese and Lampungnese. Probably ugly, but probably I am smarter than the average human. 170cm tall, 70 kg weight. I am INTP-T, based on 16personalities.com

Thank you for reading my posts. I hope we can be friends. Even if not, if you know someone who are in these situations like mine, please. I beg you. Do not leave them alone. All they need is a place to share. A person to understand.

Oh yeah... I haven't tell you about the problems right? I don't want to make people bored with long wall of text, so I will write about it tomorrow/next time. In the next posts, I will explain to you the trigger of these unnecessary dramatic depression stuff. It might not be the biggest problem I got, but it is the one that push the correct button within me. A "self-destruction" button.

Of course, all of those cocky attitude of mine is just for a joke.

#curhat share depression

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tsukasa-and-hikaru · 7 years

Text

((A quick SubaTsuka fanfic I wrote at dinner, under the cut. Post MMSF1 fluff.))

A quiet and muggy atmosphere seemed to settle all over Dream Island. Tsukasa gripped his Wave Scanner tightly, staring intently at the blinking vertical line in the message box. He had tried to sum up his emotions in a quick three word message, an “i love you”, but that left too much to the imagination. He’d had to delete paragraphs of rambling text that was clearly trying too hard to be casual. It was nearing his fifth attempt to compose a love letter of sorts that could stand on it’s own and get across everything he wanted to say.

“hey subaru, i just wanted to get something off my chest ive been meaning to tell you for a while”

Tsukasa stared for a moment, before Hikaru spoke up. “Are you gonna go through with it? If you aren’t willing to go through with sending it, then there’s no point in writing it.”

“im sorry im not able to tell you in person, but i dont know when i’ll have the courage to tell you again”

Pausing, Tsukasa looked over it again. Everything seemed okay so far. “I’m going to tell him, Hikaru. I have to tell him.”

“i dont know how you feel about me, i know we havent been on the best terms since hikaru and i betrayed you”

Tsukasa flinched, there had to be a way to say that less explicitly. “It’s true, though.” Hikaru chimed in. Tsukasa erased that part and tried again.

“i dont know how you feel about me. i know we havent spoke much since you came back from space, but i wasnt lying back then about wanting to stay friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Hikaru teased, to Tsukasa’s embarrassment. “You wanna be friends with him, right? Friends that happen to bang sometimes?” Tsukasa felt his face grow warm, and tried to ignore him and focus on the text.

“but for a while now ive realized that ive been misunderstanding my own emotions, and i dont want you to feel pressured to reciprocate, but”

Tsukasa hesitated. Almost done. Just spell it out, then hit send. Nothing more.

“im in love with you, subaru”

His thumb hesitated over the “Send” button. Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Maybe..

Tsukasa blinked, and looked down. He had sent it. What..? “You can’t back out now, Tsu.” Hikaru said, grinning.

“N-no..” Tsukasa felt a chill run up his spine, and his stomach turned. “Hikaru, I wasn’t ready! What if he ignores us from now on?!” Tears were forming against his will, and he threw his wave scanner onto his bed.

Tsukasa sat in silence for a few minutes before slowly picking his wave scanner back up and checking his notifications. The ‘sent’ message next to his text was replaced with ‘seen’. He felt as if his heart stopped. “Oh my god.” He whispered, a hand over his mouth.

He watched the three dots along the bottom of the screen, signifying that Subaru was replying. “Oh god, oh god. You shouldn’t have sent it. Oh my god, he’s gonna hate us.”

“Stop asking for me. I’m right here.” Gemini replied, though Tsukasa wasn’t in the mood to deal with his awful humor.

This continued for over twenty minutes, with occasionally the three dots popping back up, then disappearing again at random intervals. This had to be the worst kind of torture imaginable, Tsukasa confirmed. His stomach was twisted into a knot, and he felt his heart rate increase every time he got a notification, only for it to be a spam email or news alert.

He didn’t know how he’d done it, but apparently, he had nodded off during his waiting period, and slept through the night. The moment he awoke, he immediately realized his mistake. It was morning, a half hour before class started, and Subaru..

Tsukasa checked his wave scanner, but to his horror, it only showed ‘no battery’ on a black screen. “No..” He bit his lip, he didn’t know what to do, he had to see if Subaru had responded. He plugged in the scanner, but the light that usually indicated it was charging didn’t turn on. The damn cord had frayed.

“Agh.. I don’t have time for this! Gemini, i’m going to school!” He slung his bag over his shoulder and crammed his MP3 player into his pocket before hurrying out, leaving the FMian behind.

He sprinted to the nearest bus stop, barely managing to catch the bus to get to school on time. He began to get lost in thought during the ride, with the weight of both potential romance and Hikaru’s constant teasing on his mind. When the bus reached the stop, he hurried off, nerves frayed. He checked his MP3 player.. 12 minutes until homeroom. He felt some relief at not being late on top of it all, though he hadn’t yet found the one reason he even bothered coming to school.

“Ah-! Tsukasa!” Of course. Tsukasa tensed up instinctively and turned around, only to see Subaru jogging toward him. He felt himself blush, and steeled himself. “Showtime.” Hikaru mumbled, no longer joking.

“Subaru… Um..” Tsukasa began, but Subaru held a hand up to stop him.

“I’m sorry for whatever I said.” Subaru spoke, looking away, anxiously. Tsukasa could only stare, confused. Seeing this, Subaru elaborated. “You never replied back, so I panicked.. I didn’t know if I said something wrong.”

Tsukasa stared another moment before snapping out of it. “No, I.. I fell asleep waiting for your reply. And my wave scanner died overnight.” He laughed nervously, and looked down. “But.. Um.. What did you think? I.. Didn’t see your reply. So…”

Subaru’s eyes widened, and Tsukasa noted that he must have been walking with Luna and her ‘friends’, since they were slowly approaching now, watching the two curiously. “You didn’t? Oh, well..” Subaru reached over, grabbing Tsukasa’s hand and smiling. “I feel the same way, Tsukasa.” He noted a faint blush on Subaru’s face and grinned, still in disbelief.

“R-Really? I.. I’m glad..” He replied weakly, now suddenly too embarrassed to speak. Subaru laughed gently and tugged Tsukasa along. “Let’s head to class.. You wanna come to my place after school?”

Unable to speak at the sudden offer, Tsukasa nodded quickly, squeezing Subaru’s hand gently and smiling. Hikaru was making some sort of lewd joke about the two, but somehow, it was easier to ignore him now.

#mmsf #ryuusei no rockman #futaba tsukasa #hoshikawa subaru

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wellimhavinga3outof10day · 7 years

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Lost Lullabies - Chapter Thirteen

Description: Mickey Milkovich, former child star turned action movie star, runs into his old co-star, Ian Gallagher, out on the street in the middle of a winter night. When Mickey takes him in, he doesn’t realize that Ian has the power to completely turn his new life upside down.

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Read on AO3

Mickey had his phone out and his agent dialed before he was two steps off the set. He waited impatiently through the ringing, very aware of the fact that Ian was following him. Voicemail.

“Pick the fuck up,” Mickey snapped. He waited a grand total of two seconds before he added, “Get the director fired or get me the fuck off this set.” He hung up.

A few steps later, Ian’s hand came down on his shoulder. Mickey whirled on him quick enough the Ian’s hand fell, that his touch didn’t have the chance to calm him down. “What are you fucking following me for?” Mickey said.

Ian held up his hands. “Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Okay? You wanna know if I’m okay?” Mickey almost laughed, but settled for shaking his head instead. “That director just fucking outed me to the entire cast of extras without blinking a goddamn eye.”

“He didn’t say—”

“It doesn’t matter what he said. What he said was enough. Extras can’t keep their fucking mouths shut and the rumours will be flying by morning and it’s worse now because you followed me.”

“What?”

“What do you think they think we’re doing, Ian? The director just gave us two options.”

Ian licked his lips and lowered his eyes to the ground. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“You never do.” Mickey stormed off before he had a chance to feel bad about that. He tried to call his agent again and still got voicemail. Then he called his publicist and, giving as little information as possible, told her to get ready for a scandal to hit soon.

He barged into his dressing room and slammed the door behind himself. He stopped in front of the mirror. He didn’t think he had fucking puppy dog eyes. Several times in his career he’d been told he was incapable of looking at someone like he loved them. More than once, someone had joked about getting him a facial expression double for the romantic scenes in his movies. Who knew the secret to fixing that problem was putting Ian Gallagher in front of him?

Mickey sighed. He screwed up his face in the mirror and then did his best to put on a completely neutral expression. He ran though his old exercises from acting class – happiness, anger, sadness – and then shook his head fast. Looking himself in the eyes, he thought, think of Ian. He didn’t notice his expression change one bit.

It had been longer than five minutes, but the asshole deserved to wait after what he’d said to him. Mickey checked his phone to find a text from his publicist – what kind of scandal – and he replied, a gay one. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and walked back to the set slow, ignoring everyone who shot him furtive glances on the way.

Ian was already back on set, hands in his pockets, walking in circles as he whispered his lines under his breath. Mickey stopped a few feet away to look at him. He arranged his face in a calm manner, breathed until he was sure he had everything back in control, and then walked up to his mark. Ian stopped pacing to look up at him, his green eyes soft, questioning. Mickey almost broke his resolve on the spot. Almost.

“We shooting or what?” Mickey said.

The director gave a shrug that seemed to imply ready when you are and Mickey looked to Ian with his best expression of disdain. Ian jumped on his mark. The director called action. They got through three lines of dialogue, then five, then seven, and Mickey had to resist the urge to shoot the director a snotty glare. Instead he focused on Ian’s nose, gave the impression of looking into his eyes without actually doing it.

Three minutes in, the director called cut. Mickey guessed he couldn’t have asked for a fucking miracle.

“Now you look like you hate each other,” the director said.

“We’re having an argument,” Mickey said.

“But you’re still friends. Can you do friends for me, Milkovich?”

Mickey wanted to punch the guy’s smug face in. He glanced over his shoulder at Ian, who shrugged, and then gave the director his nastiest smile. “Sure. We can do friends. After all, we’re friends, right, Ian?”

Ian said nothing, just looked down at his shoes.

Mickey rolled his eyes and stepped back onto his mark. He was going to have to give Ian a lesson in growing a fucking backbone, but that could wait until the scene was finished. They had to get through the thing three times perfectly for all the camera angles before they could move onto the next section and, at this rate, they’d be there until two in the morning. Maybe having a co-star who wasn’t as bratty as him would actually prove to be an advantage.

They went through half the scene again and then again and again. Every time the director let them go just a little bit further and Mickey wondered if that meant they were improving or if the director was just a dick. He preferred to think it was the former.

He messed up his first line somewhere around the ninety minute mark. When he did, he asked for another five minute break and the director gave it to him, begrudgingly. He didn’t storm off set. Instead, he sat down in one of the empty chairs and pulled out his phone. Three texts from his publicist asking him to explain and a long paragraph from his agent about how this was the original director from their series, a man Mickey had worked with for many years, and he was important to the shoot. The company had gone through a lot of trouble to get him back. Mickey replied, it’s him or me.

Two minutes later he got a text from his publicist again that said, more likely we’ll have a scandal about you being a diva. Mickey didn’t deign that worthy of a reply. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, took a breath, and went back to his mark. Looking at the ceiling, he ran through his lines in his head to make sure he had them down. Ian came back to set a minute later, sipping a coffee. He handed it off to the first PA who asked for it.

“You okay?” Ian asked.

“Peachy.”

“I just meant...” Ian shrugged. “Are we okay?”

“Were we ever okay, Ian?”

Ian opened his mouth to reply, but the director called them to attention. Mickey felt his heart drop a little further in his stomach, weighed down by his own nastiness. He couldn’t help it. Seeing Ian again was hard. Harder than he had expected it to be. And, yeah, he’d done his best to forgive the guy and move on – after all, he could’ve gotten out of it if he had really wanted to – but having those green eyes in front of him again just made him feel like a teenager with a bad crush.

They got through the whole scene on that run and the director praised them for finally, finally hitting the right note between friendship, anger, and platonic love. Mickey flipped him off. Then they had to do it again without messing up. And again.

It was noon by the time they finished and broke for lunch. Mickey almost let Ian walk away from him. He should have let Ian walk away from him. Instead, he clapped him on the shoulder and headed the same way. “Good job,” he said.

Ian met his eyes with a small smile. “That took forever.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not our fault the director’s a jackass.” Mickey meant to leave it at that, but Ian was still looking at him, and he rambled on. “Plus, you’ve got your lines down, which is more than I can say for most people I’ve worked with. And you can still fucking act after all these years, so kudos.” Ian still stared. Mickey cursed. “Whaddya want me to say?”

Ian shook his head. “Nothing. You’ve just been so hot and cold on me all day.”

Mickey didn’t have anything to say to that, so he occupied himself playing with the hem of his t-shirt. He knew if he pulled the threads out the costume department would throw a shit fit, so he only let his nail catch against the threads for a moment before pulling back.

“I get that I kind of forced you into this and that you’re pissed you’re here and the director’s a dick and it’s kind of my fault, but...” Ian trailed off. Mickey risked a look at him. Ian smiled. “Think we can do it? Be friends like he asked?”

Mickey thought about it. On one hand, all he really wanted was a good excuse to hang out with Ian as much as possible. On the other, friends was the last thing he wanted to be with Ian. He pulled on a thread too hard and broke it, cursed under his breath. He could feel Ian’s eyes on him, the question in the air, and knew he wasn’t doing a great job at hiding what he was thinking. Some benefit to being an actor.

He met Ian’s eyes finally and said, “You left my life at fifteen, came back at twenty-four just to fuck it up, disappeared some more, and somehow wound up putting me on the set of a movie I hate? Does that sound like a recipe for friendship to you?”

Ian’s eyes fell.

Mickey wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him tight. “Fucking kidding with you, Gallagher.” He pushed him away, but not before getting in a good noogie. “Jesus, you’re easy.”

“You haven’t managed to get in my pants yet.”

Mickey laughed, tried to hit him but Ian dodged. Real happiness bubbled over him to see Ian smile, laugh. They walked to lunch together making bad jokes and ripping the script to shreds. At one point, Ian said, “If they really can’t stop us from eye-fucking, they could just make our characters gay.” Mickey laughed so hard he almost fell over in his chair.

They went on to the next scene and the next and the next. The director had found a spray bottle somewhere and now spritzed them whenever they looked like they wanted to fuck. The only thing that held Mickey back from murdering the guy on the spot was the goofy smile on Ian’s face whenever he was dripping with water.

Mickey was careful with his expression, careful to keep his eyes off of Ian’s. If they were going to be friends, like Ian wanted, then he had to get control of himself. It wasn’t like Ian was God’s gift to gay men or anything. He was just a guy with a serious drug problem, a hint of alcoholism, a screwed up family, and a smile that could light up the fucking sun.

Mickey found himself laughing more often than not when Ian tripped over a line or forgot what he was going to say. He’d be lying if he didn’t throw in an eyebrow raise here or there to crack him up, if he said he didn’t like seeing Ian flustered in front of the cameras. The director grumbled something about the blooper reel being “gay as fuck” but Mickey ignored him as he got water sprayed in his face.

They got back in rhythm. By the end of the day, their last scene took them an hour to film. It was only seven by the time Mickey had packed up his stuff and was heading out the front door. Ian caught up to him on the way, a smile and a yawn on his lips at the same time.

“You headed back to Fiona’s?” Mickey asked.

“Nah, they’ve got me in a hotel closer to here.”

“A hotel?” Mickey wrinkled his nose. He nudged Ian with his elbow. “Fuck that. Come back to my place.”

“A comfy five-star hotel bed or your couch?” Ian clicked his tongue. “Hard choice, but I’m going to go with the hotel.”

“Wow. Respect the couch, Ian. It’s older than you are.”

Ian laughed. “It feels like it.”

Mickey shoved him and stepped towards the car waiting for him. “You got a ride to this hotel?”

“Bus.”

“Come with me.” Mickey didn’t wait for a response, just started walking. But like earlier, he knew Ian was following him. They slid into the car together and Ian gave the driver the name of his hotel before resting back on the seat. Mickey liked the silence between them, but he decided to ruin it anyways. “You like being an actor again?”

Ian shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

“So still not your life’s calling?”

“Never thought it was your calling either.”

“Like you said, it pays the bills.”

Ian was silent for a moment, staring out the window at the streetlights as they flashed by. “To tell you the truth, I never really had much fun on set unless I was filming with you. Don’t know if I would have kept up with it even if I hadn’t gone off the rails.”

Mickey made a noise somewhere between a ‘hmm’ and a ‘yeah.’ Then he said, “Don’t know if I would have kept up with it without Mandy. I don’t know that I’ve ever had much fun on set.”

Ian elbowed him. “Not even with me?”

Mickey smiled. “I have fun with you. But that’s not really about being on set, is it?”

“No. Guess not.”

The driver pulled up in front of Ian’s hotel and the two sat there for a moment, warm in the silence. Mickey shot Ian a look, a small grin, as he felt the awkwardness of the moment closing in. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow?” Mickey said.

Ian nodded, forced a smile. “Goodnight.”

Mickey waved him off and watched as he exited the car. He didn’t tell the driver to go until Ian was safely inside.

<<Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen>>

#gallavich #shameless #Ian Gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #mine #chapter thirteen #lost lullabies #3outof10 fanfic

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ceruleanhail · 8 years

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Letter #15: The Person You Missed Most

Dear SL,

The decision to dedicate this letter to you may be an odd one, considering that you are a PM away. Most likely you may not be reading this, or you may be but not knowing that this post is for you. The fact that I’m writing this to someone who may have a chance of reading this, is my heart slowly reaching towards sanity and truth now?

Ramblings aside, the reason why this letter was dedicated to you is due to three reasons: a) you fit the current letter challenge requirements, b) perhaps you’re one of the rare few that I don’t mind if you’d found this letter but that may be just a temporary courage and I might delete this, who knows and c) your simple question has continuously haunt me despite the fact that it’s been a while we’ve spoken:

Why do I write?

It’s a very broad question that I don’t know where or how to start, because I’d written for a multitude of different reasons: to rant, to roleplay, to fangirl/express my thoughts on something, to share my views which may hopefully bring some new insights or positive influence... Perhaps I should say, every work of mine was born for a reason, may it be a challenge from others or for self-satisfaction and self-amusement or out of desperation because there’s simply no one I could fangirl to. For example, I am writing this letter to you because a) I miss you, b) after a break, I am ready to arrange my thoughts and tackle your questions properly, and c) it’s in a “fill the gap” entry for things I couldn’t express verbally earlier today, things that I’d hoped to express here, which may form some clarity on what’s going on in the mess of my life AND perhaps provide you some answers of why I’d stop PMing you (in which I’m really, really sorry for being such a terrible friend and hope you didn’t think it’s your fault because it really, really isn’t).

So, I’ve been reflecting this “why” question on my Three Simple Pleasures: writing, reading and gaming. Why do I read? Why do I game? At this moment, I hate the current stressful lifestyle of my job, and so had hope to deconstruct myself in order to understand myself better, and in turn, be able to understand the bits and pieces that I like, and then find said bits and pieces in the current job and things that I hate. Perhaps a futile effort, but I’m working on it.

At the moment, I still can’t find the bits and pieces I like in my job. Maybe it just doesn’t exist, or maybe it’s an undiscovered gem, I don’t know. What I do know is that, I’d continue to stay because there are things to learn. I’m not talking about accounting skills, but more like personal/soft skills like time management and communicating with clients. Maybe payroll does interest me a little, but it isn’t fun whenever I screw up. And I’ve screwed up a lot in tons of different area these days...

But let’s not stray into the negativity because it’s going to be a deep, endless pool.

Instead, let’s talk about what I’d discover!

If one were to ask why I love reading, I think my answer would be a typical “Oh I love to immerse myself in different worlds!” or “it’s a productive way to kill time! to de-stress! etc.”. That is not to say my answers are a lie, but... it just isn’t what I want to express. But then again, I’m never really good at expressing myself, and always feel extremely befuddled when people claimed I am. In fact, two people have said I expressed myself extremely well for the past week, and one of them even said I speak like an academician... hearing and remembering this never failed to send me into fits of giggle. But sidetracking aside, I think I love reading because I am never confident with my way of expression, and every new things I read increase my self-expression. For example, I would have odd feelings that do not know how and what to describe... and reading people describing exactly how I felt makes me feel... less lonely and weird.

Perhaps it’s one of the reasons why I love talking to you, because you can re-word sentences that I do not have much confident on when we chatted, and turn it into something that is so natural and beautiful, like it’s normal and okay to feel that certain way, that I’m not odd at all.

But again, my reason to read is like my reason to write, meaning there are a multitude of reasons why I read. For example, I read fanfiction to scratch away the cravings that said game/book/anime had left me with, I read certain books because the synopsis resonated with something in me or because of a friend’s recommendation, and more recently, I read to either immerse myself as a form of de-stress, to find the balm that soothe some pain and troubles, or to gather some form of knowledge and courage. So, again, the answer I give is dependent to my current mood... but social awkwardness is most likely going to make me answer the same two sentences on two paragraphs above. Ah wells.

So, why do I game? This is perhaps a question I have mixed answers to, because this is still a question I ponder. The simple answer is “It’s fun”, to dig further, it’d be... actually, never mind, I realise all three of my so called Simple Pleasures carry certain similar themes, so the answer I’d give is most likely going to be similar with reading and writing. And I love a lot of different games due to many different reasons as well (ie. story and gameplay).

... But if there’s one answer that is different from the other two, it’s the... personalised experience I get when it comes to gaming? Games like Dragon Quest 9, Etrian Odyssey, Monster Hunter or Pokemon always fuel my creativity and imagination despite the silent heroes/characters. Perhaps, due to my sheltered lifestyle and my love for all things creative, being able to go on an adventure just lit this weird flame in me... >_>’

So, um...

Remember the last time we spoke, I told you that I just hate everything I’d written at that moment? That feeling was like a disease that actually managed to latch its arms on my other simple pleasures as well, except, fortunately, the other two were rescued on time, but I still need to pick up the pieces of my writing. To describe how I currently feel, it’s like I am trapped in a vortex, a vicious cycle. You see, my rationale and intuition has been warring these days (as it always does), which in turn affects my work performance and life’s views.

There are many things that I lack, which in turn makes me want to work on fixing/improving my weaknesses, and yet the content and tasks fill me with so much abhorrence that I would turn away to the things I like instead, which in turn got nothing done... So in order to punish myself, or to force myself to go against this great adversity, my rationale had decided to forego the things I like (one of which includes talking to you) in order to focus on what needs to be done...

The lack of escape, the harsh punishment I inflicted on myself, and the constant throes of failures led me to this current disastrous mess: loss of Self, confidence and direction. Oh, and P.S. I still got nothing done.

It was a moment I felt like withdrawing from the world, simply because I am ashamed of who I am. That I am undeserving of anything, everything good because I can’t even accomplish what I’d set out to do. It was the lowest of the low feeling, one that I’ve been struggling against with a mixture of success and failure. And each time I stop and breath, I can’t even see the light at the end of this tunnel.

While there is an option of climbing out of this tunnel of doom, there is also the fear of changes, of what to do next, of whether what I want would be accepted by people who are important to me. That is not to say these fears are new, but... it’s something I’d thought time and again, and perhaps what prompted me to stay and suffer.

But, well, this may be just the negativity speaking... Maybe it isn’t so bad, maybe I just need to put a little more effort to learn and whatnots... but recent mistakes may have made a dent on my confidence, which in turn led me to tons of “doubts”. Which, in turn, made me feel a little disgust at myself because am I attempting to run because I’m in a current stressful position?

I’m tired of pondering questions that have no answers. Perhaps these “doubts” are but groundless fears, or perhaps it’s trying tell me something. For the past week, I’ve spoken to others for opinions and received plenty of alternative road maps. I’ve received two advices of similar nature: work on your strength instead of fixing your weaknesses (which in turn reminds me so much of competitive Pokemon battling, because we pick Pokemon for their strength and have a mishmash of team to cover each Pokemon’s weaknesses bla bla bla).

I...

I’m sorry if you’re reading this, and I’m sorry if it worries you. I’ll honestly say, at this current moment, I’m not feeling too good, which in turn leads me to withdraw because I have this terrible habit of not wanting to burden others with my woes... and yet, ironically, what made me feel better was actually the contact with human beings, because I have an excellent friend who’s been trying to dig and pry and help, and knowing the limitations of her capability, introduce me to others who I can connect to, which in turn leads me to discover a little more about myself and help me vocalise my current thoughts.

Things should hopefully be fine. The fact that I’m writing this, with a sense of honesty, should mean that I’m on the right track unless I’d somehow change my mind when I wake up tomorrow and become ashamed of what I’d written and delete this post, hah.

I can say that, after a long time of doom and gloom, I can see a faint glimmer of hope. There are still, of course, plenty of fears and kinks to iron through... but I’d like to talk to you again someday, because I do miss chatting with you. It wasn’t a lie when I said chatting with you was a highlight of my time despite the timezone difference. So... I’ll most likely be throwing you a PM sometime this week, unless you’d somehow beat me to it.

And, perhaps, by talking to you, by slowly regaining my sense of Self, perhaps I can finally overcome those old baggages I have, which would in turn gain me some courage to do whatever I need and want from life.

Now, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? :)

#letter challenge #creativehail

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ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

[SF] Dragonsphere

A wee story I penned today in my spare time. Thought some folks here still might enjoy it. (A little over 5,000 words, so...take it on if you have some spare time!)

It's in the form of personal and mission logs. It's very rough. It might not be fully consistent or make total sense all the way through.

---xxx

Personal Log: Lt. Percival Smith, 1106776 1st May 2145

Commander...well, if you're watching this one tomorrow, then I guess I know what happened. Let me say this: I'm sorry. It wasn't the right thing to do, not between you and I. I stole the action, I stole your job, and it might not be the most important thing, but I took the glory. And now I'm dead, where it should have been you, right?

It's funny, I can't help but think about how my dumb name might go down in history. Assuming anyone is around more than a few days to appreciate it, of course. I was birthed in Vat 112, I think I told you. Most of the vats named people automatically, left it to the computer, but not 112. Someone chose to call me Percival. Being military gives me a few perks in the system, a few years ago I got the records for others birthed on the same day as me. The guy before me was called Colossus. Right after me was Mars. And I got Percival...maybe it's special to someone.

I wondered if those other guys from the vat were my family, but I've been told over and over I don't have family, and I never will. I don't have the equipment to make my own family either. But Mike, I have to tell you, I have always thought of you as family. You trusted me, never questioned me, gave me every bit of respect you gave the others. I never knew anyone else like that. And I think if you're my family, that makes Abigail...and Steven...they're my family too. Sister-in-law, nephew. And you're my brother.

So, I didn't betray your command, or sacrifice myself for my flight commander. I saved my brother, for his family. Abi and Steve need you a lot more than anyone needs me. I hope you can forgive me, and be with them. Whether it's the end or I actually managed to accomplish something, just be with them.

---xxx

Personal Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 1st May 2145

We make for the anomaly today. Command had some argument over whether it was worthwhile at all, with so little time left. Less than a week, it'll be here. Not one of my flight backed down, they more or less demanded to fly. Science team says they haven't found a single thing in years of observations. The word "intractable" gets thrown around a lot. We don't know whether it's alive, a vessel, a storm, or any damn thing really. So we have to try this.

Orders are to approach and observe, and we're carrying more scanning gear than I've ever seen on a mission. The antennae have antennae. We've been warned - if we notice so much as an unusual warmth in the cockpit, turn around and go. We just don't know what this thing is or what it can do. I've made up my mind, anyway. If the scanners aren't getting anything from outside, we launch in a probe. If it gets nothing, even at close range, then I'm ordering the flight back to base, and I'm taking my ship inside.

I fully expect that will be what I need to do. If we've been watching this thing for this long, and not gotten a hint of a clue, I don't see why the same scanners should work just because we're at the front door. I don't know if it will accomplish anything. I might vaporise on contact, or before I even make contact. I might die passing through from some horrible radiation or other. Maybe there are some badass alien guys waiting inside to cut me up. Or, maybe a signal will get out, or my ship will circle back with some telemetry aboard, or maybe I might survive. Maybe I'll make contact with someone and negotiate. Who knows?

Abi, Steve. I hope you can understand. It's my job - taking risks to keep others safe. And there's only a short while before this thing gets here...I can't bear the thought of letting it just...I don't even know what, but I have to at least try to do something about it. If it works, and I found something, then it was worthwhile. If it doesn't, please don't think it was a waste...without knowing what would happen, I just had to try. I really hope you guys are ok. Better go, don't want to be late to meet our visitor.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 1st May 2145

I've come back to CnC, though May and the children were not happy with me. Over a decade I've been an absentee parent, married to the program. I vowed to be with them at the end. I will be, but something needs to be done here, something I did not expect. May found a clue. When I came home last week, I couldn't bear to tell the children what was coming. I just said I was home, and we were going to have a holiday...relax, eat terrible food, watch movies. But that night, when I told May that we were no closer now than when I started the project a decade ago, she begged to see it, the thing that was coming for us. With only days left, I broke confidentiality and finally showed her the...thing. The Dragonsphere. She nearly fainted.

May's uncle left his lab in a total mess. He had been demented near the end, rambling. Somewhere among all his junk was an image of the Dragonsphere. May remembered it, plain as day - it had haunted her, that he had been living in such fear of this image. It took half the night, but we found the book. The notes were a crazy jumble, paragraphs scattered about the yellowed pages seemingly randomly. I grabbed the book and anything else within arm's reach, and bundled it in to the car. After breakfast, I came back here, to Command. That was yesterday. Today, my techs are poring over everything old Uncle Dean put to paper, searching for anything meaningful.

Mike Conlon is flying out today, too. I tried to stop them from sending him. It's pointless. Every scan, every probe we ever sent, simply returned nothing at all. The probes disappeared, the scans gave us nothing. Aside from the constant hum - the omnipresent signal of every conceivable type of matter emerging from the sphere - there is nothing to read. And that signal cannot be right - how could it just be generating all that matter? One of the techs said he thought it was a false signal, a mask for a vessel inside. Another thinks it's a new universe spilling out in to our own - or maybe a vessel somehow using a universe as a power source. Frankly, it could be a space unicorn for all that we can tell about it. Conlon and his pack are flying in to a black void of ignorance.

Maybe that's not strictly true...we do know one thing. I told May about the alien, too. He came to us in 2133. He's the reason I have a program to run, a seat on the council. In the few minutes he lived after crash landing, he managed to use his computer to decode our language, and told us the following: his people were dead, mere ashes left by some dread assault on their home; he escaped, and brought doom in his wake, for it had followed his route perfectly; he was profoundly sorry for dooming us, and said something about singing us a song of hope for our future. I'm no xenobiologist, but I swear, doesn't matter what the species is - I could read the terror in his eyes as he died. Amongst strangers, in a strange land, holding in his mind the last memory of an entire people, he died.

We gleaned nothing from his ship computer before the ship destroyed itself, utterly. Studying the advanced alloys and strange radiation from his ship was the best we could do, and even that yielded new materials and energy science that justified the program. When no doom appeared after 12 months, we stood down our alert. Another year went by, and then finally we saw it. We came to call it Dragonsphere for its greenish hue when viewed through the space telescopes. And now I’m faced with the fact that, somehow, twenty years ago or more, at least 8 years before the alien crash landed, May's uncle drew this thing in a notebook, and wrote cryptic nonsense all around it. What did he know?

All of this is probably for nothing anyway. With a week left, what can we achieve? If Uncle Dean's notes show us a machine with which to save ourselves, how can we build it in time? I need to go back to May and the kids. I have to keep my promise to them. I don't know what I will do for the kids. It might be best if they went to sleep and didn't wake up. But then, we might also be fine. There's just no data to make a decision, any decision. All we can say with certainty is that the Dragonsphere will be here in a week, and we don't know how to begin to prepare.

---xxx

Mission Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 2nd May 2145

Percival's ship is in tow. It came back out, he didn't. Can't slave his hi-speed drive to my ship, so we're crawling back. A couple hours more until docking.

Son of a bitch disabled my ship with an inhibitor. Must have placed it before we launched. Insubordinate, dumbass, infuriating, disrespectful. Everything I would expect from a snot-nosed little brother. And he's gone.

<pause>

Aside from the disappearance of Lieutenant Smith, we noted nothing of interest. Scans returned nothing, probes went silent. Smith pulled his little move and flew in. Twenty minutes later, his ship comes out silent.

What did it see?

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 3rd May 2145

I can hardly believe it. First Conlon hauls a ship back that has been inside - actually IN the Dragonsphere - and then Uncle Dean's notebook knocks us all for six.

Conlon's man didn't make it back. Interestingly, his seat buckle was open. What would happen, I wonder, to make that the case? I suppose he might have opened it before being atomised. Or maybe not. In any case, the ship has told us much, in a way. Everything, every byte of information, from the recording logs down to the basic instructions in the microcontrollers for this ship's systems, has been wiped. Not a single piece of information made it out. The sphere keeps its secrets close to its heart, it would seem. I can't conceive of any natural process that should have this effect. It must have been the work of an intelligence, to be so total. Any natural process should have been random, imperfect. Not this. Everything is a zero...not a single one among them.

The ship looked perfect, but on close inspection, there was all kinds of corrosion and every sort of alloy, amalgam, or compound you can think of, all in tiny amounts. The result of being exposed to all of the wild random matter coming from the sphere. So, it would seem it is not a false signal - all sorts of everything, from normal matter to anti-matter and dark matter, on all orders of complexity, is spewing forth from the sphere. One thing stood out. A signal from a nuclear decay, which as yet we cannot identify. What nucleus, which sub-atomic particles, in what arrangement, could produce this? It must be a new substance. It is so prevalent over all the other signals. Maybe it's important.

Uncle Dean's scrawls are maybe an even bigger mystery. He speaks of demons eating his body and feeding his dreams. Worms consume him in every waking moment, and in his nightmares they bring him to horrible places, dungeons that stink of death, the floors and walls slick with rotting organic matter, black from the decay of the flesh that coats them. The stories go back decades, but there is a sudden change, right around 12 years ago. The nightmares are different. They are still terrible, fearful, but there is a feeling in the background...a desire to help. An occasional image seeps through, a strange dreamscape of fantastically coloured meadow, a night sky brilliantly lit by stars and a streak of purple nebula. The air is clean and fresh, and the night is warm and welcoming. And there is a song.

Everywhere in the notebook, there are sketches and diagrams of sheet music. The timing is scattered, the notes and key vary wildly from page to page. Eventually, all sketches and narratives stop, all the random little paragraphs cease to appear. It's just page after page of sheet music, refinements and adjustments on each page. A few days before his death, Dean's music becomes almost static, tiny changes here and there, but the melody is complete, and the harmony merely shifts places. Then, suddenly, it is the last page.

What does the song mean? Do we broadcast it? Will it help us? Is it nothing more than the creation of a fragmented mind?

Note: Record a message for the kids later, they're already asleep.

---xxx

Personal Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 4th May 2145

I've never seen anything like it. Councillor Ghest rigs up the computer to the tannoy, starts playing this...music. It's haunting, lovely, but that's not what I notice. No, I notice the damn storage crates walking themselves off the shelves all around the warehouse. The alien ship was stored here in pieces, some of it in puddles, it just broke down to nothing. I yelled for everyone to get clear, and in a matter of minutes there were splinters and bits of plastic showering the workspaces. Counters were thrown aside, metal racks - very, very heavy metal racks - just cast about like chaff. From the observation room, we watched it take form. The alien's ship, unmistakeable. Missing a few parts for sure - some of the ship was taken to other places for study, I guess.

Ghest looked like he was going to drop, or scream, I don't know which. In the end he just sort of straightened up and walked out to his office. Turned off the music. Right away the ship settled on the ground, and in a few minutes it started to decompose again.

Percy would have loved this. He always had interesting taste in music.

Update: Running to infirmary, just heard, Percy's back.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 4th May 2145

May has been calling, but I can't - not after this afternoon. We still don't know anything, damn it! We know a lot more than we did, but what do we DO? Old Dean hears music in his dreams, music from someone that wants to help. The song activates the alien's vessel...the vessel of a race that was defeated by the Dragonsphere - of that much I am sure now. How can it help us if they were beaten? Do we run, use its engines? Is the song a new song, one that will make their ship better? In the absence of understanding, I have requested all samples and materials from the alien ship to be returned to us immediately. The other labs are asking if this has to do with the object in the sky. It's no secret any more, people know something is coming, and they're demanding answers.

Smith's ship is a dead end. We haven't been able to work out what this new substance might be. Time is running out, and we haven't got the apparatus to learn what we need to.

---xxx

Medical Log: Dr. Lisa Brogan 5th May 2145

I've been working on Lieutenant Smith all night, and at this point, all I can say is that he's stable. Everything seems to be working, in the organs at least, but that's more than I can say for his brain. I'm reading nothing there, no patterns that indicate thought, even at the most basic level. He is salted earth, mentally speaking. Even his autonomic function is absent - the moment he appeared in the hallway, we had to drag him here and hook him up to total life support. He doesn't sleep, he's just...there. His eyes seem to lock for a moment, and the scanners jump, almost like he has a few moments of consciousness, but then he's gone again. Honestly, I hope he doesn't know anything. His skin has been burned away at the outer layer, not lethal but very painful if you could feel it. There isn't a hair left on his body. He looks like an old man, wrinkled and pink, his lips and eyes sunken and bones showing through his skin. I'm infusing him with glucose solution, as I think a feeding tube would probably cause a bleed. His skin is like paper. It's like his body doesn't know what to do with the sugar, there's metabolism here and there, but it's not consistent.

Without a doubt, this man is dying. The other thing, very strange - as if any of this isn't strange - his vocal chords have been removed. Sometimes when he has a little "jolt", it seems like he motions to scream...but only a hoarse croak comes out.

Personal: Is this what will happen to all of us? I have a syringe ready to go. I'm not going out like that. This damned ringing in my ears is making it hard to think, I need to sleep, but the syringe will be under the pillow.

---xxx

Personal Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 5th May 2145

I don't know why they sent it back, and I don't know what is lying in that bed, but it's not Percy. I'm angry now, more than before, and it's just getting worse with this noise. They're hearing it everywhere now, even in the Lunar base. It started as a ringing, now it's like a hundred thousand voices pulsating, and it's getting worse. I want to blow this damned thing up, I want to fire every weapon we have at it, blast it out of the sky. I know it won't work, but making some very large explosions might calm me down a little. How DARE they? They took his vocal chords, they took his mind - why the hell did they send him back? Or this husk that used to be him, anyway.

I need to calm down. Ghest wants me to join his little choir. He thinks if we sing the song from this old maniac's notebook, we might be able to fly the alien ship. I've never sung a bar in my life. Not while sober, anyway. I'm going down to the lab, maybe if I sing loud enough I can block out this din from the sphere.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 5th May 2145

Something, something to do with sound. Has to be. They took Smith's vocal chords, what was that about? So he couldn't sing the song? The techs have been singing the notes and getting better at it, the ship was really starting to come together last time. We're going to need to enhance our abilities though, we don't have anyone that could learn and reproduce the song this quickly. And if we just get a singer, they won't know how to fight. I feel like we almost know what we need to do, but I can't just figure it out...and this noise! I can't think straight. It's worse outside, but only slightly...there's just no hiding from it. Horrible. Like screams in the distance, too many of them all at once.

Addendum:

Played a basic version of the song on a portable speaker, and with the techs and Conlon singing along, the ship flew together in moments. We're inside now. It's quiet in here. I didn't realise how loud the sound had gotten...my ears are really ringing, Conlon's voice is muffled when he speaks to me. The ship's computer is responding to us, but I can't make much sense of it. The symbols keep changing. One thing is constantly on display, a waveform. It looks very familiar, but I can't quite place it - I think their method of graphing is a little different from ours. I haven't slept for 48 hours, not really, but we need to keep going.

Oh...May. Kids. I have to contact them. I'm sure my techs have kept them informed.

---xxx

Medical Log: Dr. Lisa Brogan 6th May 2145

That's it, I can't treat anyone else this morning. Nothing works. Earplugs, deadening the aural nerves, nothing short of actually rendering someone deaf, which this sound doesn’t quite seem to do. It is very effective, however, at driving us CRAZY! There was a fight in the waiting area over who was next. I hear from the MPs that there is "public disorder". Code for mass panic, riots, chaos outside the gates. It'll be chaos inside the gates soon enough. I have my syringe. I won't let them drive me mad, let alone flay my skin from my body. Smith...he's alive for now, but I forgot to check on him several times already. I don't know what's going to happen, but it has to happen soon.

---xxx

Mission Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 6th May 2145

I'm 10,000 meters above the Pacific right now. The ship is responding to my commands...to my songs. Ghest has taken to calling them hymns. I don't know how it works exactly, I just think of what I need to do, imagine how that would sound in the main hymn, and improvise something. It seems to work, though it's not very precise. Ghest and I, and a couple of the techs, are working on this, but I'm thinking of Abi and Steve. Ghest seems to have completely pushed his family out of his mind. I wish I had that discipline, if only so I could focus on the job at hand. I nearly crashed us earlier when I went off key, my voice broke thinking of Steven wondering where his dad is while he's...suffering. He is suffering, right now. But so are billions of others...we have to stop this.

---xxx

Medical Log: Dr. Lisa Brogan 6th May 2145

Families of the staff are showing up at the gate. They expect me to care for them - me! I'm in as bad a condition as they are. MPs let them through. Apparently some did not make it. Humanity is at a boil. There is murder in the streets. I've opened the wards, but they're already over full. There's no food, nothing has been delivered.

Smith died earlier. He locked his eyes on me, motioned with his arms a little, then suffered enormous haemorrhages, basically everywhere. A few more hours, that's all I can do. Maybe I should get more syringes for the others. Maybe I could help them, help all of them. It's not right for them to suffer...do no harm. Do no harm.

---xxx

Station Log: Guard Captain Gerard Holt, 99827 6th May 2145

I've been through a lot, but pretty much always in a combat zone. Outside of that, outside of desperate people seeking escape, or sustenance, I've never seen people behave like this. I don't know why they think there are answers inside, or some kind of safety. The wards are full of starving people, at each other's throats. Outside the fence at least they could move around, get away from the fighting. Instead they stand their ground, and are trampled in to dust for it. Inevitably someone turns on someone else, and they all start fighting like...like dogs. It is feral. As they finish tearing each other apart, they make for the gates. And I put them down, like dogs.

I hate them for what they are doing. I'm angry too. I don't know how long it will be before I turn my gun on those inside, or on myself. How much longer can we stand this? The noise, the voices, there is no respite. I'd give anything to be back in the hell of an ordinary war...anything but this.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 6th May 2145

So close now. The alien ship swallowed up my tablet when I set it down for a moment, and then the panels started coming through in English. Damn it, why didn't I do that before? Seconds could mean the difference here. I don't know what's going on planetside. We're in orbit now. The traffic controller warned us off landing, said people were going mad. None of the space stations are responding to signals. Millions could be dead...billions, maybe. Here we are, fumbling about in an unknown craft.

Well, fumbling is a little unkind. The alien's scanners are amazing. I have identified the substance found on Smith's ship. The alien archive indicates it is metallic. Maybe some sort of hull inside the sphere is composed of this? The ship seems to be able to replicate it now that it knows the details. I think it can integrate it in to its structure. If there are life forms aboard the sphere, they must be protected against its effects...maybe this substance would help.

There's more. The alien archive contains designs for a...harness. A mind harness, I suppose you could call it. It allowed them to create what has been translated as a battle choir. Choristers singing the battle hymns to have their ships fly to the needs of the current engagement. Their greatest choristers seem to have been heroes, those who knew many hymns and could create more on the spot. I believe the ship has altered the design to work on a human, but as far as I can tell, anyone harnessed would lose much of their higher brain function to the task of singing the battle hymns. Can I truly ask Conlon to make this sacrifice? He would be the most suitable given his experience to date.

I now believe that Smith's fate was a warning. I can't explain why they skinned him or took his mind, but the vocal chords...they warned us not to sing. The waveform on the alien computer, I can make it out now. It's clearly the sound coming from the sphere that is scouring the Earth, and what is more, it is the complete opposing waveform to the song we discovered. It is suppressing the song. If anyone was to sing it outside this craft, it would collapse in to nothingness. If we had not already assembled the ship, we would have been done for.

There is the bones of a plan here. But there is much to do, and a lot to ask. And I have no idea whether it would work anyway.

---xxx

Personal Log: Cmdr. Michael Conlon, 1082125 7th May 2145

Here I am again, saying goodbye. Abi, you know. Steven, I love you, more than anything else in the universe. You're my boy, you're my hero, and I have to do anything and everything that I can to try to keep you safe. I hope you're safe right now. I remember bouncing you up and down on my foot, holding your hands while you laughed your tiny butt off. And always you wanted me to sing "Down by the Station"...I was shy, even in front of you, about singing, but you loved it so much. Now I have to sing something else, something entirely different. And I need some help singing it...but that help is going to cost a lot.

<pause>

There's no time to think about this. I have to go. I love you both. Goodbye.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 7th May 2145

It is done. The surgery looked painless, but the sight of it. His head is a different shape now, from the harness. And his eyes...they look white, blank, just a tiny pupil staring ahead. He barely acknowledges us. The techs have said very little all day, I think they've gone beyond their ability to process what is happening. Maybe I have too, but I never could shut up. Well, except when trying to think of what to say to May. That always quietened me down. I wish I could speak to her now, before the end. Earth below is a pastiche of dark patches, gigantic, raging fires and smoke, and occasional patches of electric lighting still burning bright. Every few orbits there are less patches of lighting. What is left for us to save?

Conlon, if that's still Conlon, has been sitting at the ship's console, humming in to it. There are noises coming from the hull. I think he knows what he needs to do...the scanners indicate that the substance from the sphere is integrating everywhere. I think I'll call it Conlonite. Once it is complete, we fly in to the sphere. It should only take a few minutes to reach it with the speeds this craft is capable of, not to mention how close Dragonsphere is now.

I've been thinking. I believe the sphere somehow...absorbed the species of the alien who crashed on Earth. Somehow, they were able to persist inside the sphere. Some piece of them remained, and they altered Uncle Dean's dreams to teach him the song. The sphere must have been in contact with him before that, and 12 years ago, the aliens were taken, and they changed the dream.

The song is the key, but why could they not use it themselves? Maybe they could not survive inside the sphere without the Conlonite? Or maybe it was no use before their world was absorbed. From what I've seen, the hymns work on this ship, but they had no effect whatsoever on Earth matter. What if, for the song to do anything, the sphere needed to have matter from the alien world inside? Just like their mental essence, their physical essence changed the sphere.

Anyway...no further analysis is required. There is no changing the plan now. We have this, and we have nothing else. We wait for Conlon's move.

---xxx

Personal Log: Councillor Ghest 8th May 2145

Never forget Conlon, the chorister.

Never forget Smith, the burned man.

Never forget the alien, or his people.

They were our salvation. I cannot begin to explain what I saw, what I experienced inside the Dragonsphere. It was like walking through a graveyard filled with restless souls. Many of them bestial, as I suppose most species absorbed were not intelligent. Many were cowed, afraid of a more dominant consciousness that could cause them to suffer. Overall, there was anger, hatred, an unquenchable thirst for destruction and consumption. There was an ego, too, a sort of twisted pride in the sheer power the sphere commanded. There were machines within, the limbs of this disjointed, gestalt mind. They did the sphere’s bidding, and were surely the means, if not the architects, of Smith’s demise.

I am no closer to understanding what the sphere was, or how it worked, but it was more ancient than I think we can understand. Its current state was the product of everything it had absorbed. It had become something dark, evil...and yet, it had its benevolent parts. I could sense them yearning for release, cheering us to victory even as we destroyed them. Conlon's battle hymn was devastating, the ship answering his every beat, breath and note.

I do not know how many we lost on Earth. Shortly I will set out for home, now a journey of many days where once I might have been home on the same day I left CnC. We have lost a lot, and we must rebuild. I hope to find May and the children waiting for me, but nothing I have seen since landing encourages me to believe that they are out there, safe and sound. Still, I hope. We beat long odds before.

I know Abi and Steve survived. They are here, with the chorister. He is singing an odd song to the little boy, something about trains, though he hasn't said anything else. He doesn’t look at them, he just sits nearby and keeps singing, over and over. ‘‘Down by the station, early in the morning, see the little engines all in a row…’’

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Sean Penn Wrote The Worst Novel In Human History, I Read It

Sean Penn recently released Bob Honey Who Just Do Stuff. It is, ostensibly, a novel. Sarah Silverman compared Penn to Mark Twain and E.E. Cummings. A Kirkus reviewer equated him to Kurt Vonnegut and David Foster Wallace. Salman Rushdie declared it a book that Thomas Pynchon and Hunter S. Thompson would love, possibly because he longs for the good old days when people wanted him dead. It’s telling that all these figures of comparison are incapable of disagreeing because they’re either famously reclusive or dead. Having recently read Bob Honey, I am confident in declaring it the literary equivalent of renal failure.

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To help you prepare yourselves, here are just a few of Penn’s many atrocities against the English language (he really likes alliteration):

Evading the viscount vogue of Viagratic assaults on virtual vaginas.

Criminal crumbs and corresponding celebrity crusts, bound together by dough.

This goat-backed lioness began to hoot like a bruxism bedevilled banshee.

The (Barely Existent) Plot Is Complete Nonsense

Perhaps the only thing you need to know about Penn’s book is that the brief first chapter, about three elderly people getting murdered in their retirement home, is called “Seeking Homeostasis in Inherent Hypocrisy.” Penn writes like he’s looked up every single word in his thesaurus except “dictionary.” He uses unnecessary terms, then provides 70 footnotes to explain the definition of the unnecessary terms, because he assumes that his readers aren’t at his level of intelligence. In a way, he isn’t wrong.

Here’s a typical sentence, in this case describing a woman: Effervescence lived in her every cellular expression, and she had spizzerinctum to spare. Penn thinks that if less is more, then more must be incredible. He writes novels like they’re a high school essay he’s desperate to pad.