#not ''tone policing.'' just asking to show a little more compassion for the human on the other side of the screen

[redlikelove]

sometimes I'll just see the tip of a drama iceberg passing for a fandom I'm not in where people just complaining about this subgroup of fans who are Doing Things Wrong and I'll go "glad I'm not there but even so maybe we just need to apply more judicious self content regulation?"

[octania]

Midnight hunter ( Dabi x Reader 18+)

This is the second chapter of Midnight stalker.

Short description: Prepare yourself for a human hunt where your fiery hunter will not stop until he gets you.

Word count: 4.8 K

Warnings: Smut, yandere, human hunt, violence, death (not Dabis nor readers), mentions of noncon (nothing much, just a mention in a dialog),NSFW. _______________________________________________________

He forced his compass to point in any direction except hers. He went to places that were too much even for his hardened soul. He drank the sweetness of a woman's body without limits, getting drunk under the touch of cheap prostitutes as much as he could. But instead of asking the paid lady of the night for sexual consolation, he greedily tried to recreate the moment he stole from you.

I didn't fucking steal nothing, it’s mine. You are mine.

The last truth of his thoughts was pierced with the spear of condemnation. In those moments when the Pandora's box wanted to send the truth to the surface of his soul, in those moments he was the most dangerous. He turned into a raging beast that could destroy anything in front of them. Unfortunately, several prostitutes were harmed because of his struggles. After hearing the words of truth in his head, the reaction of the body came immediately afterwards. His palms bathed in a blue flame, burning the skin of the unfortunate woman's face, who had been trying to meet his needs until then. A tense kiss, thirstily absorbing the erotic dance of her tongue, squeezing her eyelids like yours, the only thing he had differently was that he ordered the prostitutes to sit on his lap. To put their legs around him as he held them by the waist and pressed them to his chest. He had to take his imagination to the next level, give it the illusion of consent. He wanted to imagine how you kissed him willingly, how you needed his lips desperately, how you needed to feed on his presence how he fed on yours. And after that he was poisoned. He left the room, leaving the painful screams of those he had inadvertently damaged with his flames behind him.

Dabi hated the smell of smoke. Ironically for someone who is almost always surrounded by that scent, but something in him aroused disgust at that smell. Especially the smell of burning skin. It reminded him of the misfortune that had befallen him, aroused in him things that were to blame for the person he was today. He knew the horrors of that scent, how severe and vicious its punishment was. Those who are punished in this way never forget it. He ran his fingers over his chin, rubbing his damaged skin. The wound may have healed, but the scar will remain forever. He didn't need a new scar. Especially not the kind that never heals, it only seemingly retreats, settles into the dark place of the human subconscious and lurks its weakest moment.

 "Tsc ... I should have finished you ..." he threw a glass of whiskey into the wall of the room. The glass shattered into thousands of pieces, while the liquid left a large stain on the white wall. The moment he pressed his lips to yours, his Pandora's box shattered in the same way, leaving feelings in his chest. He thought that by kissing you he would silence his desires and satisfy his obsessions, but he only deepened them. Hell, now he's trying to patch up the damage with others, how pathetic it can be. He clenched his fists as a blue flame wrapped around them. Dabi could not suffer humiliation, he could not let it go unpunished. He made a mistake, but now it is about time to fix it. He got out of bed just as he got up the first night he contracted this plague, pulled his black T-shirt over his taut shoulders, and headed for the exit.

It has been almost two months since the unfortunate event. Your quiet life turned into a nightmare in one night and you had no idea why. After tasting the lips of a dangerous stranger and daring to turn around even though he ordered you not to, you didn’t think the gates of hell would open shortly after. The pair of blue eyes in which the storm was pouring belonged to a very famous villain, a person you had only seen on the news, newspapers or arrest warrants until then. You never thought you would see him in front of your eyes, let alone taste him with your mouth. There was a void in your head, a war drum in your chest. Nothing that happened that night seemed real. You played that scene back in your head again and again so many times, but you still could hardly believe yourself. Impossible, it wasn't him. It was him. It was just him and no one else could sit in his place. Anyone normal would be imbued with panic and fear, running away without thinking after catching a glimmer of freedom after that attack, but not you. You stood frozen under the street lamp, staring into the corner where he had disappeared. You don’t even know how you got home after that, it all seemed like a crazy dream. Until the next morning, when everything became more than real. Two police cars were in front of your house at dawn. In addition to the two detectives, there were four police officers and they were accompanied by two heroes. Before you could speak, one of the two detectives pulled a photo out of his pocket. Your friend. You could feel the tingles of horror travel through your body. Fear permeated you before you even heard what had happened.

Your hands were shaking as you held the second photo the detectives gave you. You sat in your living room in your favorite armchair, which this time could not provide you with comfort. You stared at the image of a burning corpse, whose face, despite the disgusting wounds, showed an expression of pure horror and agony. You were the last person he was with, the last contact, so the cops and heroes rushed to your doorstep, not even knowing you had an encounter with the man who was guilty of murdering this young man. At first, you didn’t want to tell the truth. You lied, you kept quiet about the way you actually met. But the quirk of one of the heroes has distracted you from your lie. His quirk was a living lie detector and he read you like an open book. After the truth came out, there was silence. Initially, no one could explain the event you went through, but it didn’t take them long to come to their professional conclusion. He must have wanted to enjoy his morbid act, to leave someone close to suffer for the victim. A few moments later they explained to you how things would develop further, you would be placed under protection. Two heroes and three policemen will be constantly on duty in front of your home, in case the villain returns to finish what he started. You knew they were secretly hoping so, that this was a trap, and you were a living bait.

The days passed, weeks followed, but no trace of the villain. After the first month had passed, two police officers and one hero remained, now, after two months, only one hero remained. No matter how they eliminated the surplus people, caution still had to be on a high level. Because of that, you could not carelessly go where you wanted, just perform your duties, and even then you would be accompanied by a hero. You hated this situation, you could no longer be a prisoner in your own home, you had to stretch your legs somewhere more than just walking to the store. You walked resolutely from your room to the living room where the hero was on duty. He looked at you lazily, and you already had a pleading expression on your face.

 "I want to take a walk, I can't be locked up anymore." you protested, but still in a polite tone. He didn't scold you or acted rudely. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

"I know, I'm sorry ... but I still think it would be better not to go out on the streets, especially not at this time of night." - He gazed at your furry friend who in these two months has grown almost twice the original size when you found him.

 "We don't even have to go to the streets! Not far from here is a forest, we can go there! Please, I'm really not able to spend my days like this anymore, and the forest road is in one of the safest neighborhoods and you know it yourself! ”- you were persistent, determined, you knew that he was soft and that he would give in with a good enough reason. You could see how your words were valid. You knew he couldn't sit on your living room couch anymore, he'd been doing it for the last two months, and you could only imagine how tiring it was to do it to a person who had dedicated his life to action, to fighting villains.

"I'm not sure ..." you interrupted him before he could finish.

"Please! A short walk and nothing more! Not even the dog can jump just around the yard anymore! ”- the hero looked down at the playful puppy and you knew that was the last thing he needed to break. The little furry creature waved its tail, caressing his leg.

"Okay, but not for long and nowhere far. " he said, getting up from the couch.

Come, step into the night doll.

You made a mistake, you made a big mistake. You dared to tell , you dared to make a victim of yourself and seek protection from them. Why? Why doll? The only victim here is him, all of this is your fault, it's your fault because he's here. You did this, and he let you live for a small fee, just one kiss. Instead of feeling privileged and blessed for being let off the hook so cheaply and enjoying your last moments after you poisoned him, you dared to call on the greatest scum of this world to protect you.

 Do you like the taste doll? Do you like the taste of the rotten flesh? You do… don't you? Because you took a bite of my heart, and that is shit is rotten to the core. Feast  on that rot while you can and I hope you like burnt meat as much as rotten because you will soon be surrounded by it.

 He clenched his jaw as he followed your shadows as you imperceptibly tried to sneak up to the car. You chose the wrong evening for a walk. Was the taste of his lips so repulsive to you? The more he thought about it, the stronger the killer instinct was. Even though he came here with the intent to kill you, he felt betrayed. He retreated back into the shadows and hurried down to the previous street  where he saw a parked motorbike. He was skilled at picking locks, and hot-wiring a vehicle was no different. He also had a good  taste, his eye could not miss the kawasaki ninja ZZR 1400, a beautiful assembly of metal and engine. He ran his hands over the leather seat before sitting on it and held the balance of the heavy black beast with ease. It fused with him in a second, as the engine purred as it started. As expected, your car passed in front of him. He saw your happy face under the nightlights in the passenger seat. You won't be smiling for long.

He was cautious and went unnoticed. He followed you with no problem, even a little bit impressively. When he saw the car lights turn from the marked road  to a muddy path between the tall trunks of the forest, he couldn't help but smile sinisterly. He left the motorbike at the very beginning of the forest, covered between dense bushes. His step was lighter than that of a cat. He didn’t break a single twig, make a single sound that would reveal he was there. The two electric blue eyes gleamed like wild beasts in the moonlight. He saw you, he heard you, he could smell you. He licked his lips to recall your taste. Your lips looked delicious even in the dark. You looked almost unreal under the auspices of the stars and the shining moon, with your spirits lifted by the fact you were surrounded by nature once again. How your hair fluttered in the warm night breeze as thin strands fell across your forehead. He saw the scene in slow motion. For a moment the anger disappeared from his face, he allowed himself to watch you calmly. Calmly until the venom of pain and loneliness flowed through his veins again, the only things he could feel except wrath. That was exactly the reason why you were a thorn in his eye. You aroused pain and a feeling of loneliness. He needed you, he needed your touch, he needed your voice in his ear, your breath on his face, your fingers on his skin. Could you see him as anything but a villain? Would the same kindness shine in your eyes and would you extend your hand with the same measure of tenderness when you were rescuing an abandoned puppy from that dark street? Would you recognize what he really is, and he doesn't even see it in himself anymore ... He had to know.

You happily threw a stick to your puppy playing fetch, running along with him. You excitedly followed the dance of fireflies among the tall grass along the path. You paused for a moment, taking a deep breath with a desire to absorb as much of this forest air and its scent as possible.

"See? I told you it is beautiful and it certainly beats being locked up. ”- you said without opening your eyes. You were sure that the hero was enjoying this night out too. Even as you drove in the car you saw the relief on his face when he realized he could finally escape from your house.

"And that there is no one else here." you added, taking another breath. Instead of the smell of trees, the sour smell filled your nostrils. This smells like ..

"Oh..but there is." - the voice that answered did not belong to the hero who brought you here. That voice ... Blood froze in your veins and your eyes suddenly opened in panic as you turned at lightning speed. A grayish cloud between the suppressed trees and the tall grass. Like fog, the smoke remained in the air like a floating ball. You covered your mouth with your hands as it approached your nostrils. You thought you were going to throw up. This was the smell ... the smell of burning flesh. You could barely contain a scream in your throat when you saw a person stepping out from behind a tree, dragging something behind him.

"You ..." - you stammered when you saw the person who was to blame for your accident. The person you had on your lips just two months ago, the same night after he set your friend on fire.

"Tch, tch ... you can recognize me only because you disobeyed me and gazed at me when I told you not to ... naughty doll." - he said, throwing a burnt corpse in front of you. You screamed when you saw the same horror on its face that you saw in the pictures of your dead friend, but this was now the man who pleased you and took you here at your request. He's dead now. You instinctively took a few steps back as your knees were shaking.

“Was it worth it, huh? Disobeying me? Do you see what happens when someone stands in my way, doll? ”-he asked, rubbing the fingers of his left hand. The blue flame rose from his palm to his forearm, over his muscular shoulder to his neck, until he stroked his cheeks as well. You couldn't take it anymore, you started running. You made your way through the thick bushes and tall grass. The roots of the trees tangled under your feet as you tried to escape. You saw almost nothing in front of you except darkness, and your useless calls for help disappeared into the emptiness of the woods. You pushed the branches in front of you that were coming back and smashing into your body. You could feel the warm feeling that was pouring down your legs ... blood. Warm blood dripping from the scratches. None of that slowed you down. You kept running at the same speed. You thought you managed to lose him, you didn't hear anything behind you, but you didn't dare to stop. You continued deeper into the woods where there seemed to be no end.

 The blue light flashed before your eyes so intensely that it hurt. You covered your eyes with your hand, squinting in front of you. The heat made you back off and you succeeded at the last minute. The blue fire is blocking your path. Your eyes filled with tears when you realized what was happening. He's chasing you. He chases you like a beast, and he's a hunter trying to trap you. You turned and ran in the other direction. The road started going uphill. You could feel pain in your legs from the frantic climb, but it never occurred to you to give up. Even when a new wall of fire was created in front of you, you didn’t give up. You turned again, looking for any path where there was no fire. Your lungs were burning from the rapid breathing and the smell of smoke spreading through the air. The new burst of fire was too fast, it managed to reach your lower leg. You sobbed, quickly putting out the fire on your jeans. Your tears flowed harder from the pain of  burning your skin, but you knew you had to keep going. If you give up now, you will not be able to save yourself. Like the promised land, the sight in front of you almost brought a smile to your face. The crystal surface of the lake glazed under the moonlight. The water ... you forgot the pain in a second, leaning on your feet and running with all your might towards the lake. You jumped into the water without thinking. The cold flooded your body, and a sharp pain crossed your injured leg. It was quite shallow. When you surfaced, you realized that the water barely reached your chest. You looked around. The forest burned, and the blue fire cast its light high toward the dark clouds of night.

 "Smart..but it will not help you." - Dabi went through the raging fire as if it were air, reaching the water's edge. His expression was nauseating. When he watched you run, he felt a rush of adrenaline, pleasure, superiority ... feelings that he knew and gladly let them circulate through his body as he caught his prey. Human hunt, and God help those who are cursed with him as their hunter. That is a lie ... even God can't help you then. He thought it was the end, that he had finally found a solution and his salvation. Until now ... until you looked him in the eye again. The eyes that carried goodness, when he first saw you wake up and you didn't know he was there, they carried innocence ... and now ... he had to make sure what did you hid behind those mirrors of the soul before that same soul leaves your body. He stepped into the water, going all the way in till it reached his groin, getting closer to you. He touched the surface of the water with his fingers, and it obediently received his fire on its surface. It surrounded you, trapped you inside the burning circle.

"W..why .." - you stammered the most obvious question. He thought he was numb to that pointless question by now. It always sounded the same. But your voice ... your voice addressed to him now, directly to him. He paused for a moment, feeling what he had feared so much spring up in his chest. He must not waste time, he must not think too much. He was two steps ahead of you, grabbing you by the jaw.

"Oh, but why not?" -he responded, looking at your lips until then. He crossed over your lip with the tip of his index finger. He tried with all his might to make himself remember the longing, the basic need he had met so many times without difficulty. He tried to escape from the claws of feelings that were now awakening. Turns out your closeness is more fatal than he thought. Something in him pulled him closer, asking him to surrender. He didn't know what that hurricane in him was, and he reacted, as always, angrily. Why..you want to know why..I am the one here that needs to know why ..

“Why not doll? What, I am not good enough to be saved? I thought you liked picking up fucked up things on the street and mending them? So, why do you run from me then? ”- something in him broke. The rejection and fear he had not felt since he was young now took the throne over his feelings. He savagely entered your face, finally catching your eye.He didn't want to see it. He did not want to see the answer to his question, especially not in this vulnerable state. It may not have been visible through its exterior, but it was worse on the inside. In the eyes he had dreamed so much about, the eyes that radiated concern and kindness ... now only pure fear and horror poured out from them.

„Why am I not worth saving ?! Answer me! Because I am a monster!? I killed your so called, friend !? A guy who wanted to fuck you dry just so he can tell his homeboys about it ?! - he roared. What you didn’t know was that before he killed your friend and exposed him to the greatest torment, while he was still following him, he heard a conversation your friend was having over the phone.

"No, the stupid bitch didn't put out yet..yeah, I know..But that ass man. I swear if she doesn't lift that skirt next time, I will take it off myself. ”- those were the words of your so-called friend. With that, he signed his death sentence. Dabi made him pay for the crimes he intended to commit, and you had no idea. Even now you don't quite understand what he's talking about.

„You don't like murderers, only scumbags ?! They are worthy of your attention ?! Ok then, bet you will love this. ”- with one hand he grabbed the wet shirt on your chest, giving the order to his flame which ate the material in one second. Your upper body was now covered only by a bra that was intact, but not for long. Dabis finger slipped under the  thread between your breasts, the thread that connected the front of the bra cups. It tightened enough that it almost broke, making your breasts almost completely visible.

“No, please! Don't! ”- you tried to push him away with your hand, but he grabbed your wrist. He gritted his teeth angrily, looking back at you. Of course he won't do that to you, he may be a villain but he's not a monster, he's not a rapist. He let go of your bra, clenching his fist. You saw that something in him broke, you saw that the person you thought was to blame for your accident was not really the person they described him to be. This is someone who has the thorns of his exterior here for a deeper reason than pure malice.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. The person who trapped you was now alone pressed under the heavy weight of no one else but number two hero, Endeavor. He squeezed his body below the surface of the water, not giving him a chance to get air.

“You filthy scum! You thought killing heroes will go unpunished?! - Endeavor roared as he pushed Dabi deeper under the water. The thing was, Dabis flames made quite a fire, and the woods was now eaten by it, making a giant cloud of smoke. The same smoke that was seen by the locals and they called in the heroes and the police. Unfortunately, the first that spotted you two was no other then the ruthless hero Endeavor, who planned to show no mercy to the villain who killed a hero. He didn't know who the villain he kept underwater was, but he didn't care, he'd be dead in the matter of seconds.Dabi didn't fight back. All the water that was stirred was like that because of how Endeavor was pushing  Dabis body even deeper under the water. A man who had shown unbridled strength only a moment ago, now surrendered to a fatal fate. For a moment, you could make out his expression. An expression of loneliness, an expression of pain ... an expression of relief, as if this is the only thing that can save him from the horror he keeps in himself. This is not a monster.

You raised your hands toward Endeavor, releasing your quirk. It wasn't even a few seconds before the number two hero replaced the expression of anger  with astonishment and then fear. He waved frantically around, throwing his flame into the empty space. There was nothing around him, but you knew what he saw. The reason you loved the dark side so much, is because it has always been a part of you, and your quirk was one of the proofs of that. You could read man’s greatest fears, their worst nightmares, and manifest that horror in front of them. Now your power was bending number two hero like a fragile twig, forcing him to drop Dabi.He surfaced quickly, catching air, filling his lungs. He coughed out the water as he slowly opened his eyes. You. He saw you looking at him.

No ... that's not possible. Your gaze was direct but gentle now. Penetrating and compassionate ... and pointed at him. He turned and saw Endeavor still panicking trying to defend himself against something that wasn't there, and it didn't take him long to realize what had happened and what you were doing. You defended him. You saw something in him that was worth saving.

"Go, now." you said in a firm but sympathetic voice.

"Name." - he said without moving out of the water or interrupting your gaze. He couldn't turn away from the feeling you aroused in him, and he didn't want to.

„N..no..Please, just go, now! I can't hold him much longer and the others are coming! Go now, God dammit! ”- you said more briskly, more commandingly, but Dabi just knelt at the bottom of the lake, touching the water with his chin, showing you that if you don't tell him your name, your defense was in vain, and his destiny will not change, Endeavor will soon get rid of your illusion and finish the job he started, and Dabi will not fight back. The thought of the so-called number two hero taking his life again by pushing him underwater caused you to fear, a fear that was not the same as before. This fear bordered more with anxiety and the need to defend him.

"Tell me your name." he whispered, this time softly, in a deep voice, his eyes half closed. You bit your lip. You knew that after tonight, nothing would be the same anymore and these two clear blue eyes would emerge from the darkness again in search of you, but something about it woke up the part of you that you had been hiding for so long and needed immensely.

"(Y / N). My name is (Y / N). ”- a satisfied smile on Dabis face was the last thing you saw, before the blue fire flashed and blinded all prying eyes. When it disappeared, he was gone, and  heroes were around you, helping you to your feet.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Evelyn Doyle

Basics

Full Name: Evelyn Rose Doyle

Birthday: April 22, 1984

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Powers: Wielder of the Flaming Sword granting her super strength, agility and healing, the gift of Sight (the ability to see one’s true form, i.e., a human’s soul or a magic’s creatures true face), and mastery of light magic

Appearance

Ethnicity: Irish

Skin Tone: Pale with freckles

Eye Color: Dark Blue

Hair Color: Light red

Hairstyle: Long and curly, usually pulled into a braid while on a mission, but otherwise down

Makeup: Natural

Build: Curvy and stronger than she looks

Height: 5’ 6’’

Style: Light colors favoring a girl next door aesthetic

Personality

General Personality Traits: Compassionate, Loyal, Self-Sacrificing

Strengths: Empathy, Determination, Reliability

Flaws: Stubborn, Self-Doubt, Narrow Minded

Habits And Mannerisms: She often fiddles with her neckless when she’s nervous or thinking, hums to herself, hair twirler

Secrets: Lost her virginity to when she was 17 to a boy from a different school, they weren’t even dating at the time; she felt so guilty after she didn’t tell anybody for years

Regrets: Allowing herself to be controlled by so many people for most of her life

Skills/Talents: Skilled artist, she likes to sketch and paint in her spare time, talented swordsman, can read Latin and speak Irish, and has a nice clear singing voice

Likes: 60s and 70s Rock, the smell of clean laundry, clear nights full of bright stars

Dislikes: Math with anything involving letters, dirty dishes left in the sink overnight, bullies

Guilty Pleasure: Playing music over the speakers late at night and dancing in the kitchen by herself

Defining Moment: The moment she realizes wasn’t chosen by the sword to strictly uphold the will of God. She is human and as a human, she has free will. The sword may have been gifted to her by God, but it is her choices that give it meaning and purpose. The sword is hers and no demon or angel can take it from her.

Relationships

Friends: Everybody on the Waverider, but she gets on best with Amaya, Sara, and Nate

Family: Michael Doyle (younger brother), Peter Doyle (father, deceased), Rebecca Doyle (mother), Ester Kelly (grandmother, deceased)

Enemies: Legion of Doom, Demons, and basically all the other baddies the Legends face

Rivals: More of a friendly rivalry with her brother when he starts dabbling in magic

Lovers: TBA (maybe John Constantine later, jury is still out)

Relationship Status: Single

Reputation: Mom friend of any given friend group she finds herself in, which unfortunately bleeds into her romantic relationships; has a tendency to attract men who are looking for a Mom rather than a girlfriend

Miscellaneous

Current Residence: The Waverider

Collections: Hair pins from different eras and countries across the timeline; she likes the artistry

Accent: Irish

Voice: Clear and soothing

Signature Quote: “Have a little faith.”

Song: TBA

Backstory

Evelyn was born to Rebecca and Peter Doyle on the border of Northern Ireland in 1984. Her family was decidedly Catholic, and raised her that way from an early age. She was a very loving child, ready to curl up with her parents and seeking their approval, which they gladly gave.

When she was five years old, her brother Michael was born. From the second they brought him home, Evelyn understood it was her duty to be his big sister. She helped feed and change him. She helped him to walk and to talk, and did her best to look out for him. This was widely encouraged by her mother, but her father tried not to put too much pressure on her. She was still his little girl, and he wanted her to make sure she was allowed to stay that way. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last.

In 1992, her father was killed in a bombing. He wasn’t taking part in the protest, simply walking to work.

Her mother was left devastated, going essentially catatonic for a full year after. Their grandmother, Ester, came to live with them during this time. While she did look after them, and loved them dearly, it was clear her main objective was to look after her daughter.

Evelyn took over watching after Michael. She walked with him to and from school. She made breakfast and lunch boxes. She made sure he did his homework, and picked up around the house. She had a sense that she had to cause as few problems as possible for her mother and gran, and so did just that.

When her mother became more functional, their gran moved out of the house, but stuck close by. Still, her mother was never quite the same. She was often forgetful, and Evelyn was left to pick up the rest.

Michael didn’t make it easy. While he wasn’t a bad kid, and loved her like mad, he would often get in trouble at school. More than once he picked fights with bullies or would say something in class that would get him in trouble. Evelyn always covered for him, talking to the teacher, or erasing the messages the school sent before their mom listened to them.

Michael in turn, tried his best to look after his sister, usually in the form of trying to fight boys twice his size when they made on off color joke. Or nicking some candy from the corner market when she was having a bad day.

They continued like this until she was old enough to go to college. She entered wanting to get a degree in child psychology, with the idea of becoming a school consular or family therapist. However, she never got the chance. During her second year of grad school, her gran died leaving nobody to look after her mom.

She came back home with the idea that as soon as Michael was out of college and got a job she’d go back to school and finish her degree. So, she took a job in a customer service call center and helped look after her mom in the meantime.

She ended up staying there for six years as her brother tried and failed to land a secure job. He never seemed to be able to hold down a position for more than six months and would use the time in-between to run minor cons or commit petty theft. Evelyn soon became a regular face at the police station, continuously bailing him out for small time crimes. Eventually it became too much.

One night, after getting him out for breaking and entering, she let it all out, telling him how tired she is of him expecting her to hold the bag while he gets his life together. Michael didn’t take it lying down, countering that she expected him to drop everything to look after a woman who didn’t even raise them. They kept arguing until Evelyn stormed out, needing to clear her head.

Eventually she found herself at the local church, and took a place in the back to think and pray. As she did, an old man she didn’t recognized approached her. He was dressed as a priest, and Evelyn assumed he was new in town. He then asked her what she prayed for, and she explained the argument she had with her brother, and all that had led to it. The priest nodded and asked her if she resented God for putting her through these trials. She answered with confidence that God would not present her with any trial she could not overcome.

Pleased with her answer, the priest showed her to the back and to the hilt of a sword displayed beneath the crucifix. He instructed her to take the hilt. When she did, she was hit with a vision.

In the vision, an angel pulled her soul from her body and cast it into a fire, but rather than burn it shone brighter, extinguishing the flames. The angel then returned her soul, simply stating that she was satisfactory. She woke up on the floor of the church, the hilt of the sword now possessing a perfect bright blade.

The priest explained the sword was the famed Flaming Sword used to guard the garden of Eden. He said her story led him to believe she had all the qualities required of the wielder; faith, compassion, and sacrifice. The vision she had was the final test of her true self, which she had passed. He instructed her to follow the will of the sword, and said it would lead her to where she was needed most.

Armed with this new sense of purpose, Evelyn ran home and tried her best to explain to Michael what had happened.

Michael assumed she went mad and tried to get her calm enough to go to a doctor the next morning, but Evelyn refused. That night, she packed her bags left without a word.

She spent the next six months traveling from monastery to monastery gaining knowledge and instruction on how best to use the sword and the powers that came with it.

And it is in one of these monasteries, Rip Hunter finds her and asks if she would like to join him on his mission to save the future.

[northcarolinanative]

𝐍𝐨 𝐏𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝

Requested by @whats-goingon22: Good morning :)! I have a request where John B has a younger sister who works at the wreck and doesn’t always get to go on the missions because she’s working. Well, one day DCS shows up for her, with a cop on standby. And it’s a kicking and screaming match but they manage to get her in the police car. DCS woman and cop go to talk to Kiara’s dad, and she’s left in the car, freaking out, but she doesn’t know is that John b and the pogues saw the whole thing and are trying to get her out the car?

Description: Y/N is John B’s sister, and hasn’t been kept in the loop because he is worried about her getting hurt along with their treasure hunt. He fails to tell her that DCS is back to sniffing around and sticking their noses where it doesn’t belong. Y/N gets taken by Cheryl, but she can’t break herself out alone. 

A/N: I have zero ideas on how DCS works so I just pulled from the show and how they portrayed it. This one was a little different than what I am used to, but I really liked writing it. I am sorry it took me so long I just saw it at the bottom of my inbox:( I hope you like it:) As always my requests/asks/messages are open. Thank you all so much for reading my work:) 

Being a Pogue meant having a job as soon as you were able to work because that’s what it takes to stay above water. I was no exception to this, especially when my father disappeared and Uncle Teddy decided that his gambling took precedence over me and my brother, John B. The Routledge kids were what we had been called growing up, never really seeing one without the other. Though in recent weeks that has not been true. John B had lost his job working for Ward Cameron after he stole scuba tanks. We found a shipwreck on the marsh maze and John B wanted to see what contraband was on the ship. John B and our best friend JJ had come up with the idea that it was a smuggling ship. I mean they could have been right, who willingly goes out, in an open boat, in a hurricane if they are doing something legal? 

The ‘scuba mission,’ as Kie and I had coined it,  was the last one that I had been told about. The guys, especially John B, made sure that I was safe by going on missions while I was at work. After the groupers had shot at us in the marsh JB wasn’t having it. Not one bit. He said I needed to stay as far out of it as possible. The only reason that I had found out about the compass or that all of this had related back to our dad was because of Peterkin. She was trying to keep JB and me afloat and on the island. When I found out that John B had given her the compass I was pissed, to say the least. That was the last thing that we had left of our father and he handed it off the Peterkin for what? Protection? We didn’t need protection, we had been just fine for months now. 

Because of our fight, JB and I had been avoiding each other for a couple of days, not exactly speaking. I wanted John B to know that he messed up giving our father’s compass to the cops, but because of my own stubbornness, I had no idea what the group had been up to. They seemed to always been leaving early in the morning or coming in late, making it easier to avoid John B, but still left me completely in the dark. I tossed my keys in a basket, rounding the corner to the main area of the house. 

I jumped as I saw a large man to my right, he moved to stand blocking the hallway I had just moved from. I looked in front of me and there she was, Cheryl. The dreaded DCS lady. I rolled my eyes and huffed as she stood up crossing her arms across her chest.

“Cheryl look, I told you that Uncle T would be back tonight, so it’s a bad time for check-in as it’s only like what?” I look down at my wrist, pretending to read a watch. “Like 11 am.” I took a step away from the large man standing only feet from me.

“We’re here to take you, Y/N.” She stayed standing up. I scoffed and moved further into the house and toward the kitchen. “We know teddy hasn’t been here for months.” 

“What? You and Mr.Bighead here stalking me now?” I asked. I met eyes with the officer, before trying to move through the kitchen to get outta the house. 

“That was a mistake, kid.” He said before barreling into me and grabbing my arms behind my back. “You’re not getting outta here.” I heard the clink of metal and felt the cool handcuffs slide around my wrists. 

“Seriously Cheryl?” I asked, my eyes growing wide. I tried my best to move my arms trying to get myself away from the officer. “Isn’t this a little bit excessive?” She eyed the officer behind me as if to ask the same question. I pulled myself away from him as he began to answer 

“Already lost of Routledge today, we’re not gonna make it two.”

Then it sank in, they tried to get John B too. I had to get out of this. I began walking toward Cheryl. “Really? See Uncle Teddy just went to the mainland for the day to get some supplies and stuff. Ya know, we did just have Hurricane!” I exclaimed. She just shook her head. She didn’t believe me.

That’s when I decided to bolt. I ran past Cheryl bumping her shoulder hard enough to make her fall into the couch behind me. I pushed myself against the swinging door. And into the back yard. My hands being held behind my back by the cuffs proving to make it much more difficult. I heard yelling behind me as I tried to hurry down the stairs without face planting. I made it into the yard realizing I had nowhere to go through the back. My hesitation cost me my escape though. Before I knew it the officer was on my tail and lunged forward stopping me from moving ahead. I got a face full of dry dirt and dead grass.

“Seriously, kid just get in the car and things will be a lot easier for the two of us.” The officer started to pull my arms in the direction of his cop car. I, of course, was not getting in the car of my own accord. So I stood my ground, making my weight hard, trying not to move. 

Before I could realize what was happening the officer huffed and lifted me by my middle. I started kicking my legs back and forth trying to pull myself from his grip. It seemed effective. I glanced at the car seeing Cheryl standing by the open SUV door with her arms crossed. “Why are you doing this? I’m literally doing just fine here!” The cop turned and I was able to see into the woods. 

What caught my eye made me want to smile, or cry. I couldn’t tell at the moment. I saw a mop of golden hair first and then my brother standing beside him, both hunched over hiding behind a tree. JJ put his finger to his lips telling me not to say anything. Then I looked beside him, John B’s face held nothing but fear. He nodded at me, and I nodded back, silently agreeing that we would get out of this. The officer put me in the car and walked to the driver’s side. I had to think fast and quick. The Wreck, no doubts that Kie was there, and it was close enough that the boys could follow us there. 

“Cheryl this is great and all really, but Um? Now I’m all dirty and gross.” She scoffed and turned to look at me. “So this is supposed to be better? Sending me to the mainland with nothing but the dirty clothes on my back.” She looked at the officer who just rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

“Is there anyone that we can stop and talk to? Get your clothes while we do your paperwork?” She questioned. 

“You mean besides Uncle Teddy?” I scoffed, causing Cheryl to roll her eyes this time. “Yes, the Carreras, they’ve been helping me and John B a lot,” I stated. 

Cheryl looked at the officer and nodded. I guess they never need to speak. They must pull kids from their happiness often, they have it down to a science. I pulled on the metal cuffs, each minute that passed making them more uncomfortable. 

As the car rolled over the gravel of the parking lot to the Wreck. “Can you take these damn things off please?” I said shaking the metal so they could hear. “They're too tight and they hurt.” 

“Not a chance. You’ve already decided to be a flight risk.” He said. 

Before Cheryl got out of the car she asked the officer to lay off a bit. I appreciated her sliver of humanity she seemed to have left. I huffed leaning back onto my arms in the hot cop car. “So officer,” I started, my tone coming off mocking,” What’s your name?” He stayed quiet, just looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Ight. Good talk.” 

I looked out the window to see Kie. Flailing her arms in the direction of the police car. Her hair was all messed up. “Officer you need to help me. There- there was someone over there they yelled at me and they ran that way! They were super scary.” She pointed to the woods behind her. “Please!” She begged as she came closer to the car. The officer opened the door before pressing the lock button and pulling his keys from the ignition. He slowly moved out of the car and toward Kie. She kept pointing him in the direction away from the car. I looked around frantically trying to figure out how to get out of the car. A knock to the window to my right scared me causing me to jump. 

John B was hunched down just below the window. “Unlock the Door!” He whispered through the glass, the urgency clear in his voice. I reached around trying to use my hands from behind me to pull the lock pin up and unlock the door. I saw the deputy getting upset with Kie, obviously learning that she did not have anything actually wrong with her. 

Then the pin clicked up and the door was unlocked. Everything after happened so fast. I almost fell out of the car as John B pulled it open the second the lock was up. I fell into JJ, who hurried me to the side of the Wreck and into Kie’s SUV. I pulled myself into the back corner ducking my head down as the rest of the pogues followed suit. Pope taking the driver's seat. We pulled out as Cheryl came out to see the back door to the SUV open and the cop cursing himself. Both looked dumbfounded, enough to cause me to chuckle a little bit. 

Once we were safely away from the others I sat up. “So who knows how to pick a lock so I can get out of these cuffs?” I posed as Kie and Pope turned to look and see that I was in fact still in handcuffs. Kie reached up and pulled a bobby pin from her hair. 

“Turn around.” She laughed and began to work on getting the cuffs undone” 

“That was pretty badass back there Y/N,” JJ spoke from the passenger seat. 

“Maybe, but you're lucky we saved you.” John B chuckled. 

“Don’t be so cocky. I heard they got you too.” I said as Kie got the handcuffs unlocked. Holding them up victoriously. 

“Thanks for saving me though guys,” I said with a smile. 

“No pogue’s left behind,” John B said reaching around Kie to squeeze my shoulder. 

--

Masterlist 

[cecilspeaks]

163 - “Bravo”

Our moral compass has been demagnetized. Welcome to Night Vale.

Night Vale, Carlos and I went to see a new play the other night. It’s been ages since we went to the theater. I think the last show we saw was “Hamilton”, which is a Tony and Pulitzer winning hip hop musical about figure skater Scott Hamilton, who died in a duel to fellow Olympian Katarina Witt. “Hamilton” was wonderful, but live theater is so expensive. It’s a rare treat for us to get out of the house, what with the cost of tickets plus dinner, parking, a babysitter, tuxedo rentals and all that time spent watching YouTube makeup tutorials for jamming facial recognition cameras.

But my friend Charles Raynor invited us as his special guests to watch the premiere of a new play at the Night Vale Asylum, where Charles is the warden. The play was called “The Disappearance and Cover-up of Flight 18713 as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale under the Direction of Undercover Agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau.” Or, “18713/NTSB” for short. I’m used to seeing plays at the New Old Opera House or in the high school auditorium. There’s also the Black Box Theatre, which presents some of Night Vale’s most experimental drama from young performance artists. No one has seen any of these shows, or if they have, they’ve never emerged from that doorless black box, its walls perfectly smooth and faintly warm.

But this particular play was at the asylum itself. The Night Vale Asylum perches atop a craggy peak in the Sand Wastes. It’s brutalist concrete walls intermittently slashed with slivers of windows. I do not personally know anyone inside this intimidating institute, other than warden Raynor himself. And I’ll admit to being a bit nervous venturing out at night to a heavily guarded home for the criminally insane. But Carlos put me at ease by rolling his eyes. He said it was neurotypical ableism that makes us think this way. That movies and TV shows often play up harmful tropes about psychopaths and lunatics, planning daring escapes so they can return to a life of criminal misdeeds. Carlos explained that asylums are merely places where we hide away the people who most remind us of the inexplicable fragility of the human brain.

Driving out past the Scrublands under an indigo sky, the full moon low over the horizon backlighting the Night Vale Asylum atop its jagged rocky ridge, my nerves returned. I thought I heard coyotes howling in the distance, but it was the car stereo. Carlos had put on his favorite new Frank Ocean album called “Various Animals Screaming”. When we arrived, warden Raynor greeted us at the gates. Two guards wearing army style green dress uniforms flanked him. Their right breasts were laden with medals, chevrons and stripes. They each were armed with billy clubs, tasers and slingshots, and one of them was wearing an eye patch, but it was positioned in the middle of his forehead.

The warden escorted Carlos and me to our seats, which were simple wood chairs. There were only ten seats total, all in a single row along the rear wall. There was no standard stage to speak of, no curtain. The actors were all in costume in the center of the room, already in character. The other seats were already filled. Warden Raynor, Sheriff Sam, three of Sam’s secret police officers, two of Sam’s overt police officers, and an angel I had never met before, but who introduced themself to me as Erika. With a K, they added. “Nice to meet you, Erika,” I said. “You got ten bucks?” Erika asked. “Uh, sure,” I said. “What for?” “Not everyone gets to know everything,” they said. “You either got it or you don’t, man.” So I handed them ten bucks and minutes later my lower back pain, which has plagued me for the last six months, was gone. I looked back at Erika and I saw the wink at me, or I think they winked? They have ten eyes, so it could have just been an asynchronous blink. It’s hard to even tell what they’re ever looking at.

The play began with an introduction by warden Raynor, who welcomed us all to this unusual night. The first ever performance of an original play by inmates in his asylum. He introduced the writers/directors of the piece. There were three of them, each dressed in an electrical blue jumpsuit. One of them had a blister on his upper lip, another a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger. One of them had an unceasing nose bleed. I recognized them as the agents from the National Safety and Transportation Bureau in Washington, who had come to Night Vale two months ago to investigate the disappearance of Delta flight 18713. Sheriff Sam had placed these agents undercover in the asylum to try to meet with an inmate named Doug Biondi, who claimed to have pertinent information about the missing aircraft. Upon remembering this, I flipped quickly through my playbill to find the ensemble members’ names. And there on the title page was the name Doug Biondi, who was cast as airplane pilot. As the warden returned to his seat and before the house lights dimmed, I leaned over to Sheriff Sam and asked, “How is the undercover operation going, Sheriff?” Sam glared at me and said, “I’ve no idea what you mean.” “You know, with the NTSP officers here in the asylum trying to interview Doug Biondi?” I asked perhaps a little loudly for a theater. “The NTSP officers are criminally insane, Sessil,” the Sheriff said unironically and with more than a touch of scold in their tone. “That is why they are here. They are a danger to themselves and others.” I had many more questions, but before I could say anything, the lights faded to black, and I heard the first voice of the play.

“Find us,” called the voice in the dark. “Find us,” it echoed again. A faint glow coated like frost the wild-eyed faces of the inmates on stage. The frantic visages made all the more panic by deep eyeliner, rouge and lipstick. Most were dressed in common street clothes: slacks, jeans, buttoned-down shirts, mid-length pattern skirts. Two were dressed as flight attendants and one as the pilot. I could only presume a small budget, as the uniforms worn by the latter groups were largely suggested by navy blue hats and little plastic wings on their lapels. The pilot wore anachronistic aviation goggles and so it was difficult for me to see and remember the face of this actor, this inmate, Doug Biondi. But I could see his mouth, which was unusually white. The corners of his lips extending well past the width of his eyes. He had an unusual number of teeth in his harsh smile, a smile which never abated, even in his most somber of scenes.

“Weeee surviive,” said Biondi’s pilot character. “Weeeee livve. Weee cannot dieee. Noot here, noot in No..Where.” He said it not like the vague concept of “in no place”, but “No Where”, two words capitalized, like the name of a specific place. Each actor was seated in short tight rows of four, a narrow aisle in between, mimicking the floor plan of a common fuselage. At the front of the troup sat Doug Biondi, as airline pilot. “How did we get here, in No Where?” said one of the passengers. “And how shall we return?” said another. “Only,” they said in unison, “when you find ussss.” This last line they said with a quick twist of their necks towards the audience. Then the scene shifted, the chairs cleared and all of the actors stood in the profile of a Greek chorus. They explained the flight from Detroit, the view of lake Erie, they told stories of different passengers. One who had a job interview, one who was looking for an apartment, another who went to Palm Springs on vacation. They told the story of a bright light and a loud pop, and suddenly the engines were silent. The plane felt still, unmoving, and then the chorus all pantomimed the leaning, concerned gaze out airplane windows. Instead of tops of clouds or distant shapes of great lakes, though, they looked out and saw – children in a gymnasium. They heard the squeak of sneakers and the joyful cries of playful exercise. It felt like minutes, maybe a whole hour. They could not understand what they were seeing. They could not comprehend an elementary school gym six miles above southern Canada. But they were not six miles above southern Canada. They were only a few feet above the American Southwest, inside an airplane, inside an elementary school gymnasium, in a town called Night Vale. And as quickly as they had appeared there, they disappeared. Off the radar, gone from the skies, out of known existence. Throughout this chorus, the speakers filled our ears with the joyful shouts of children, the hollow metallic thumps of red rubber balls, and the collective panicked inhale of a 143 passengers and crew of a displaced plane, and then it was silent. And then it was dark.

A single green light appeared on the far wall, a dot, a blip. A radar blinking on, then off. And the voice of Doug Biondi said: “Weeeeeee are not passengers on a plane. Weeeee are actors. Weeee are inmates of the Asylum of Night Vale, but weeeee do not belong here. Weeee are people who know truths. People who know more than is allowed, and for that, weeeeeeeee are kept in cages. Weeeeeeee are fed poisoned pills and circular logic.” And at this point in the play, I felt movement in our small audience. The warden had stood up and was shouting: “This is not in the script, Doug!” But Doug spoke louder, faster. “Iiiii am not insane, I say! Only the insane would say such a thing they say. Then I am insane, I say. Yes you are, they say. I am trapped, I am framed, I spit out your poisoned pills! I reject your propagandist blather. I know what I know I say. Hold him down they say.” Warden Raynor had gone to the tech board and turned on all the lights. He shouted “code blue” into a radio receiver, and we saw half a dozen security officers in their green medal laden uniforms lurch from the corners of the room, penning the ensemble of inmates into a tight circle in the center. “Return them to their rooms,” the warden called.

But as the guards encroached, the three men from the NTSP stepped to the perimeter of the mass of inmates. They were holding little plastic wings just like those on the costumes of the actors playing flight attendants. One of the NTSP agents, the one with an unceasing nose bleed, opened the back of the wings, revealing a long sharp pin, and thrust it into the neck of a guard. Simultaneously, the other NTSP agents and several other actors did the same, and the guards fell to the ground. One of the NTSP agents, the one with a blister on his upper lip, grabbed the keys and weapons from an unconscious officer. “Dearest audience,” he said in verse. “We mean them no harm. ‘tis but a sleep, a little pharmaceutical rest for a uniformed guard who kept us confined, made life hard for us low level agents doing our jobs, trapped ‘neath the lies of a warden who robs our freedom and murders our spirit. At last we can go, approach the wall and clear it, but heed my warning: as we this coup fly, every man for himself, better run – or die.” And upon this last line, the alarm bells of the asylum rattled my ears and my nerves, shaking Carlos and me from our seats. The inmates scattered in every direction as Sheriff Sam and their officers gave chase. Carlos was nearly stepped on by one of the escapees, and as I bent to help him up, I was knocked over by two officers in full sprint.

When the commotion died down, I looked up and saw Erika still sitting calmly in their chair, and I asked: “Erika, what is happening?” Erika looked down at their playbill, and then back at me, and said: “I think it’s intermission.”

And now the weather.

[“One One Thousand” by Raina Rose rainarose.com]

After 15 minutes, Carlos and I returned to our seats hoping, but not truly believing it really was an intermission. We’ve seen immersive theater before, like “Sleep No More”, an interactive show in New York City where audience members are placed inside a huge warehouse of actors dancing out the plot to “Macbeth”, and at the end everyone is granted the ability to live out the rest of their lives without sleep. It’s expensive and not for everyone, but totally worth it if immersive theater is your thing. But this show was not that. No. “18713/NTSP” had gone wrong. Or, perhaps it had gone right. Under the strict critique of plot structure, character development, and production value, the play failed terribly. But as a piece of political or (agit prop) theater, it was a rousing success. The Sheriff’s Secret Police have placed roadblocks around the entire city, hoping to keep these supposedly dangerous inmates from leaving the area. It is bad optics, to say the least, for the entire population of the town’s asylum to escape custody.

But as Carlos and I left the theater space, we walked down the long corridors, cells and rooms open, no security detail in sight. In one of the cells, below a cot, was a journal. It was the journal of Doug Biondi. Page after page was filled with monologues, narratives and conversations from various people. People who were on a plane, people in transit between checkpoints of life, between relationships, between homes, between jobs, between vacation and work. These stories were written as verbatim dialogue, as if Doug Biandi had transcribed them himself. As if he could hear the voices of those very people. Like former air traffic controller Amelia Anna Alfaro. I wonder if Doug heard the same voices. The same passengers of the missing plane. I had my intern Seamus go down to the library and look up public records on Doug Biondi, hoping to find some connection between Doug and Amelia, but Seamus still has yet to return with that information . I even double checked my playbill looking for Amelia’s name in the cast or crew, but she was not listened here. She was likely never in the asylum.

One thing I did find, though, was a note in the back of Doug’s journal. This note seemed to be in Doug’s own voice. “They tell us we are kept here for our safety, but they keep us here for their safety. They fear what will happen when the people on that plane are found. But I think they have already been found. They should be afraid of what happens when the people on the plane find us.”

Night Vale is on lockdown, so stay home and stay safe, listeners. I do not believe any of us to be in danger from those who escaped the asylum, but I do believe us to be in danger of most everything else. Stay tuned next for a serious of audio clicks, which is definitely not federal agents tapping your radio. Don’t worry about it.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

[sparkesink]

Chapter 14:

Such Is, The American Dream

How Does One Write…

(When One Has Nothing To Write Upon?)

No Desperate Tragedy…

No Thrilling Woe.

My Rains,

(My Snout…)

Never Forced,

(Still Out.)

 The Most Difficult Task, 

(Writing Upon A Wim…)

Not Which Becomes A Light Source, 

(Discarded Amongst The Gray…)

But That Of The Smiles Which Roll Astray.

 The Memories That Stay,

Through A Drought-Full Snow…

Never…

(Really,)

Mattered…

We Always Destined…

(Take Such Blow.)

 I Had Never Imagined,

(The Difficulty…)

“Catch What You Sow…”

I Really Just Hope,

I Did Not Catch The Bow…

Allow Intellect,

(Power To Tow.)

Slow,

Sweet Ebb And Flow.

Only One Little Thing:

(Keep My Mind Low.)

 This Internet Shit Is Much Harder Than It Seems…

Seamless Integration,

Flawless Digital Frustration…

Hours Upon Hours Of Choices To Feed…

How Many Algorithm Marketing Targets Do I Need?

Constant Change,

(A Living Thing…)

Creating A Robot,

(Behind Your News Feed.)

Good Money Spent: 

(Just One Moment Of Your Time…)

Try Being More: 

Sensible, 

(Simply,) 

Speaking In Rhyme…

There Is No Easy Feet,

While Introducing Something New.

There Is No Target Audience,

(Per-say,)

In Lieu.

There Is No,

(One,)

Industry We Fall Within.

Shall We Write Code?

(Leaving Artistic Voice Shackled And Thin?)

Maybe The Camera Feel Cold?

While Contracts Come Tackled, 

(Spattered Upon Tin.)

How Can So Many Things,

All Come Shining Their Rings…

 And I’m Expected To Succeed…

(You Don’t Know:)

Not A Single Itch Of This Presentation…

Is Procured By Any Other…

(Than Me.)

One Little Girl,

Four Personalities…

All Separate In Their Beautiful Talents.

How Could Anyone Know…

(She Performs The Full Trapeze.)

Not A Building,

No Projects… 

(Between Groups…)

Just Me;

(Here,)

Trying Not To Cry.

Pushing A Project: 

(I Never Got To Practice.)

I Didn’t Go To College For Computer Science…

A Whole Degree Dedicated:

(The Science Of Marketing…)

I Didn’t Ask For This Work…

As It Laid It’s Beautiful Head Upon My Chest.

 I Was Given This Burden,

To Think And Create…

To Reach The Stars:

Give Them All Back… 

(Sensibly Late.)

 Heaven Forbid,

We Use Our Word,

To Speak…

(To Talk.)

Create Conversation,

(Substituting Reaction To Mock.)

 We Are Forced Language Of Societal Choosing,

From The Moment We Enter This World.

Here,

(Upon This Earth…)

Within This Reality,

At This Exact Moment In Time:

We Grow,

We Forget How To Talk…

We Let All Of The Bullshit Hide,

(Who We Really Are Inside.)

 That Happy Child,

Giggling With Your Mother…

She Raspberries Your Little Baby Belly.

She Kisses Your Forehead:

Promising Beauty Within Life.

Unconditional Love, 

(Regardless Societal Strife.)

Though, 

(At Some Moment…)

For Some:

Brief…

A Loss At Happenstance…

(A Loss Of Seconds To Breathe.)

For Others:

An Extensive Span Of Trauma And Fear,

Acceptance Washed,

(Blatantly Clear.)

 Do You Understand Fear?

Months Turned Years,

Consistent Fears:

Fear To Open The Front Door,

Fear Of Anything,

(Aside The Shore.)

I Broke Myself.

I Ignored Myself.

I Allowed Others To Abuse Me,

(Shamed The Woman I Could Be.)

I Feel Sick, 

Consistently At War:

I’ve Fought My Whole Life,

(My Truth Resides Within My Lore.)

 Do You Think I’m Privileged?

(I’ve Been Given A Hand Up?)

Could You Realize It All Came At A Price?

Do You Understand Manipulative Narcissistic Strife?

It Flows As The Waves Within The Sea,

(Maybe This Is Why It Consistently Captivates Me.)

 Though I Have Only Begun To Live This New Life:

One Of Health,

Truth,

Integrity,

(And Dignity…)

All Those Dark Memories:

Transparently Vibrant Through Stained Glass.

I’ve Been On This Emotional Ride Since Birth,

I Am Their Narcissistic Supply,

(Second Class.)

“My Worth”:

Highs And Lows,

“You’re Impressively Bland,”

“You’re Intelligently Stupid,”

“You’re Non Like The Rest,

As Soon As She Breaks,

Make Haste:

Take Her To The Test!”

Round And Round,

I Tumble Through Sea Foam,

An Eternity Caught,

(A Weightless Tomb.) 

 Little “B”,

So Soft And Sweet Was She.

She Crawled Beneath Her Bunk Bed,

Just A Moment To Breathe.

Forced To Obey,

Shunned If She Don’t Stay.

She Just Did Not Want To Play, 

(With That Little Girl,)

A Girl Who’s Cousin Fondled Her, 

(Post Six Years From A Six Year Old Twirl.)

She Moved Each Toy,

All Those Soiled Clothes,

She Placed Herself Perfectly…

Between The Mattress And The Floor.

She Only Six At The Time…

She Didn’t Understand, 

(Emotional Manipulative War.)

She Didn’t Understand, 

She Deserved Her Respect,

Her Heart Under-defined: 

(“Sore”.)

 She Hid Under That Bed,

Gasping For Breath;

Rocking Back And Forth,

Both Hands Entangled Her Head.

She Sat There Crying,

Though Silent She Must Be…

For If Anyone Found Her,

(Emotional Scrutiny.)

 She Learned To Sob Silently:

(No One Let’s The Girl Just Be.)

She Tucked Her Tears Within A Sock,

Bit Her Lip And Listened,

Counting The Clock…

Curious How Long She Could Disappear,

Before They Even Noticed,

“She’s Not Here.”

 One Hour,

Two?

(None Hadn’t A Clue…) 

Till Finally Her Mother Came Ringing Through…

She Heard Her Panic,

Thirty Minutes Gone By…

Is It Fucked Up,

She Enjoyed It?

(Hearing Mom Cry.)

 They Called The Police,

Worried She Had Been Taken;

She Finally Wiggled, 

(Mountains Of Emotion Shaken,)

Out Of Her Room,

(Snot Encasing The Entirety Of Her Face,)

Why Couldn’t You Understand,

(She Isn’t At Home In This Place.)

She Was Escorted To The Side Walk,

Directly Affront Her Claim.

She Sat Silent As The Officer Explain,

“You Cannot Hide From Your Parents,

This Is Bad.”

 So What If She Is Sad?

So What If She Has No Name,

So What If She Is Human,

So What She Lives In Shame?

She Is Six,

(Just Her Parents Property.)

Never Hit,

Welted Below The Belt…

(Emotionally Scarred.)

 Never Bled,

(Controlled,)

“The Person She Is… 

(Must Be Discard.”)

 “She Is Not Allowed To Be,

(The One She Is Meant To See,)

She Only Allowed To Be,

(The One I Want To See!)”

 Her Desires Shot,

Her Goals,

‘Just Silly Dreams…’

(Even Early Graduation Wasn’t Satisfactory To Thee.)

Her Dean’s List Scholars,

Scholarships At Sixteen…

“She Could Have Done Better,

Had She Only Listened To Me…

Had She Only Let Me Direct Her Life,

(Listened As A Sheep,)

Maybe She Would Be Normal,

Maybe She Wouldn’t Be… 

(A Fucking Head Case,)

Maybe She Would Finally Sleep.

She Could Live And Become ‘Normal’,

If She Would Only Just ‘Play The Game’…

Since She Refuse,

We Mock Her In Exasperating Blame.”

 Forward To Twenty-one Years,

(Now Enthralled Within Devine Game:)

A Rabbit Called,

His Eye Yellow Amongst A Brunette Mane.

He Scurried Diligently Amongst My Toes,

Furry Innocence Disregard Hidden Foes.

I Offered Him My Guidance,

A Compass Found,

(Hanging Amongst The Fir…)

 The Rabbit Shook His Tale In Great Exuberance,

My Third Eye Cringed Within Prominent Clairvoyance.

I Had Been Wandering For Days Amongst These Trees,

(I Hadn’t Expected To Find Creatures Such As These.)

The Rabbit Was First,

He Spoke Aloud,

(Whispered,)

Follow Me, 

(I’ll Show You Around.)

 All This Time Rummaging From Within The Trees,

Consistently Trudging Muck,

(Seeping Between The Leaves.)

 He Turned Timid,

Around And Around,

Figure-eights Between Each Tree:

Before A Days Pass,

He Guided Me,

Beyond The Forest Entrance, 

(Amass.)

 I Forfeited Precious Time Progressing,

(Before Encountering You!)

“I’m Back Where I Fucking Started!

You Beady Eyed Fool!”

 The Rabbit Appeared Different, 

(His Eye Gold Sprouting Orange:)

“Don’t You Get It?

I’m Not Here To Help You.

You Should Have Taken Interest, 

(Within Prior Warn.)

Enjoy Trudging Back,

Dusk Covers Within Mist Until Morn.”

 Then Out Of The Muck,

This Yellow-eyed Rabbit Disappear.

Leaning In Close With One Ear…

“FUCK!”

Kicking The Mud,

My Heart Sweltered Within My Chest,

My Knees Buckled,

(Demanded Rest.)

 One Should Never Follow The Rabbit:

(Fuck That Rabbit.)

Forgive My Language,

I Was Never One To Censor…

(I Should Have Procured A Sponsor.)

 Here,

Returned Upon The Beginning.

(Happy Anniversary To Me;)

3/14,

Another Beginning To Be.

I Suppose We Shall Try Again:

Follow My Heart,

Close What That Yellow Eyed Rabbit Left Tart,

Sever A Clean Part.

 Keep The Soul,

Sponge The Rest.

Remain Hopeful,

(This Is Not A Final Test.)

 I Suppose,

(To Me,)

It Seems Unbearable:

To Pull Myself From The Muck,

A Constant Reminder, 

Slivers Of Luck,

(Fuck.)

Purchased Clothing To Tuck,

To Be Taken Into Success,

Without A Harvey Weinstein Conclusion…

(Business Fueled By Your Sucking Skills;)

I Digress.

 No One Ever Talks About Modification Discrimination:

A Projected Judgmental Temptation,

Toward Self Expression.

Sighted Within The Way The Eyes Glaze,

Creases, 

(Between The Sinus,) 

Laze.

 Projecting Yourself As A Business Cog:

“Don’t Quit Your Job.”

 Bouncing Baby Blue,

Upon One Hip Or Two?

Can You Meet Next Wednesday?

Let Us Print Money For Few,

Don’t Mind The Toddler Fingers,

Find Purpose For My Mouth, 

(En Lieu.)

 Don’t Mind The Baby Babble,

(Mommy Wears Twenty Hats, Too.)

What Shall It Be Today?

Manning Landscape Stats?

Emotional Abuse? 

(Milk Toppled By Stray Cats.)

Mommy And Me,

Climbing Counters, 

(Refuse To Leave Be.)

Business Woman Performance:

A Joke,

(Scuffing Down Toke,)

Gaining Courage To Speak… 

(To Other Folk.)

 When Does This Feel Good?

When Does Satisfaction Creep My Soul?

(As I’m Told It Should.)

 Such An Interesting Observation;

(In Which I Stand Alone.)

Expressing My Soul… 

To Feel Sensation:

(A Cold And Lonely Tone.)

Choosing Printing Paper,

Juggling A Tired Toddler,

I Hold Her For Hours While Yawns Taper…

Which Ink Can Finally Coddle Her?

Could I Choose To Become A Cloud?

I Would Never Become “To Loud”.

I Would Never Drag Myself Through Sharpened Glass,

No Results Within My Mass.

I Could Be Beautifully Gazed Upon For All To See,

(While Remaining Far-away…)

Intact,

(With My Dignity.)

Removing Myself From Toxicity,

(Festering Within Such Simplicity.)

 I Dream Upon Days,

(Lost In Daze,)

With Him…

Fizzled Out Of Adolescent Faze.

Fingers,

(Twirling My Hair Up Within Them.)

Coffee In Bed,

Date Nights In Red,

Laughing,

Exuding Such Needed Encouragement Said.

“Good Morning Beautiful,”

Every Morning.

A Hazel Eye That Never Projects A Bore…

A Look That Never Dies,

Such Relationship, 

(Containing Exclusive Polite Lies.)

 Weekends In Adventure,

Dreamer Talk Of Tenure,

Clouds Positioned To Lend An Ear…

Speaking Of Peace And Beauty,

Without A Reminder Of The Muck…

Gaining Momentum…

(Circling Near.)

 Appreciation Of The Highs,

Consideration Of The Lows,

(An Anchor Lent Each Time It Shows.)

Walks Along The Beach,

Ability To Intellectually Teach…

A Woman, 

(Who Is Anything But What She Wants To Be.)

A Smart Ass,

(Behind An Extended Vocabulary.)

Something Equivalent,

(Capable In Loving What Cannot Become Seen.)

 Am I Lost?

Naïve?

Exclusive Denial Of What My Soul Is Screaming?

My Tower Leaning,

My Foundation Feening…

(Freely Poured Concrete…)

In Which Will Not Crack Under Pressure.

A Sentiment Of Force Capable To Hold,

(A Collapsing Infrastructure,)

Containing Such Vast Weight,

(Others Incapable Of Supportive Toll.)

A Crumbling “Eighth World Wonder,”

Supporting It’s Self Under Continuous Richter…

Acknowledging Important Features,

Cracking Off Remaining Seizures… 

(Demolishing Pertinent Structures…)

Praying To A One-way Conversation…

(Within Myself.)

 I Am Sick Of Being Sick.

Left Alone,

(Head Filled With Ideas Of “Home.”)

 Just Let This Pressure,

(Excruciating Weight From Within My Chest,) 

Dissipate…

Allow “Sensibly Late” To Mark Date…

I’ve Only Ever Desired Peace,

(Within Myself.)

 Countless Influential People Project The Same Bore:

“Follow Your Dreams, Determination Hangs Sore…”

When Does A Lifetime Of Unfortunate Events End?

When Will I Be Given Time To Mend?

What Is Time But A Linear Bend?

If There Is No Beginning…

(Subsequently,)

There Is No End.

 All Versions,

Within All Realities,

Upon All Timelines:

(Alive And Vibrant,) 

Simultaneously Thrive.

 Amongst A Paradox,

(Created Within Such A Reality, 

Accepted Through Current Consciousness…)

Somewhere, 

Along Some Timeline,

Within Such Reality,

Procured Through Such A Paradox…

In Which I Have Made This Work Worth Something.

 At This Very Moment,

In A Linear Timeline,

Upon A Parallel Paradox;

I Have Succeeded.

 The String Of Unfortunate Events Severed…

The Curse Lifted From My Ora.

I’m Left Staring Within This Same Pacific Ocean,

(Washed Away With The Sand.)

 What Does This All Mean?

(Why Me?)

Why Have I Been Chosen To Endure This Strife?

Why Must A Devine Test Be Inflicted Upon This Life?

Why Am I Here?

(A Breeze Guided Me Near.)

Why Hasn’t This Happenstance Become Clear?

When Will This Trepidation Recede?

Will I Remain Humble If Encased Within Greed?

Eight Years Of Sorrow And Woe,

(Why Does This Fucking Novel Breed Such Daunting Tow?)

 WHY AM I HERE?

WHY CAN I NOT SEE CLEAR?

AM I FACED TO ACEND WITHIN THE MIRROR?

WHY AM I FUCKING HERE?!?

 What’s This Ship Got To Do With Anything?

Why These Sands?

Why This Bay?

It Felt So Natural,

(Before We Came To Stay…)

The Cosmos Were Ringing,

Guiding Me Amongst This Shore,

Now Enthralled In Silence,

Saturated Within Thirty Days,

(Blood And Pain,) 

Payment For This Lore.

 I Peer Amongst These Ruins,

(Sunken Deep Within Our Sands…)

What Does This Old Ship Have To Do With Anything?

What Am I Doing?

 I Moved My Family,

Upon Premonition And Happenstance:

Guided Transition With Ease…

I Just Cannot Find My Purpose… 

(Amongst These Seas.)

 It’s As Though I Should Just Call It;

(Wave My White Flag And Surrender.)

Live Within Death:

Pull My Life Together,

(Ascender.)

 I Cannot Seem To Convince,

Which I Am Meant

A Fruit Gathered, 

(From Purposeful Quince.)

 Am I Writing In The Wrong Direction?

(I Cannot Seem To Find My Way.)

What Could I Become?

In Such Case Of Succession?

 This Lore Is All I’ve Ever Known…

My Key To Contentment Unknown.

How Could I Continue This Dream?

(My Work Greatly Unseen.)

 I Came Here Upon This Day,

To Wave Goodbye To My Bay.

To Kiss My Waves One Final Day:

I Kiss The Earth Which This Tattered Ship Lay.

I Cannot Continue This Silly Nonsense,

I Must Learn To Become Practical;

Build A Wall Around My Heart,

Coated Kevlar Tactical.

 The Coroner Always Gets His Way,

(Impractical To Believe I Could Stay…)

 Something Happened:

(I Have Black Chunks Re-written Within My Memory…)

A Night Called An Instance…

A Body Arrested Through Our Back Gate…

I Couldn’t Recall The Melody…

A Tiny Girl,

Standing In Our Backyard So Late.

 I Saw The Police Escort Him,

(From Back Through To Front,)

Why Was I There?

Did I Come Out To Confront?

I Was Told Our Chow Chow Bit Him…

(That Couldn’t Become Correct?)

For Had This Been Truth,

My Jazmine Girl Would’ve Become Laid To Rest…

 Were We Victim To Common Burglary?

Or Maybe…

I A Victim Of Something Grotesque. 

Why Are All Other Moments, 

(Surrounding This,) 

A Blackened Mess?

 Just One Slide,

Seared Within My Psyche…

Just One Man,

Blood Dripping Down One Pant Upon A Lichee.

Two Officers Restraining Each Hand…

Walking Through My Back Gate;

My Mother Weeping Amongst The Blue And Red,

Authoritative Lights: 

(Illuminating A Common Cul-de-sac…)

Why Was I In Back?

How Did I Get There?

Where Is The Archive;

(These Memories In Which I Lack?)

 This Chapter Is Shit, Any-who.

Written From Within The Desperation:

An Unemployed Failure,

Female,

Tattooed, 

(And Equally Discriminated.)

 I Don’t Think Many Realize,

I Manage Traffic Analytics…

Do You Know What It Is Like?

Working Diligently Upon A Project;

Simultaneously,

Nineteen Months Only One…

One Single Human Came To Visit.

 Do You Know What It Is Like?

Explaining Brilliance: 

To Pinheads In Suits Of Murk?

Endless Determination,

Anxiety Loaded,

(Maximum Pulsation.)

 What Would The Common Human See?

If Only To Look Past This Cover,

Do My Tattoos Cause Anxiety To Flee?

Could It Be?

For What Purpose Could You Possibly Leave?

Pretending To Understand,

When I Prove Fact:

(You’ve Never Even Ventured One Page Through This Land,)

Though, 

You’ve Graciously Provided Patronize,

(Enveloping Strength In Which You Lack.)

 Such A Shame,

A Vortex Cannot Become Undeveloped, 

(Once Given Life To Breathe…)

This Story Cannot Become Untold,

(Reaction To Mature To Leave.)

 Could You Evaporate Within The Fog?

Lending An Ear Amongst This Slimy Log?

 Maybe It’s Just Ahead Of It’s Time…

Maybe,

(One Day…)

My Words Will Not Become Overlooked…

Maybe You’ll Investigate;

(A Thorough Understanding Of This Song.)

 I Make Others Feel Uncomfortable?

(Speaking My Truth Is Unavoidable…)

How Can You Possibly Judge?

(There Has Been No Company Enthralled Within My Work.)

This Story Lay Stagnant:

Tattered Memories Of A Warrior Lurk.

 Then Again,

Who Ever Cared About The Survivor?

Veterans Homeless,

Left Within Insanity Amongst The Street…

A Jungle Few Understand,

Portraying Images Of War,

Within Survival Upon Distant Land.

Have You Been Without Shelter?

Do You Understand The Terror?

Sleeping In A Tent,

Praying For A Lucky Start…

Sleeping In The Back Of A Festiva,

(Two Lovers Between Two Dogs Is An Art.)

 Have You Ever Woken Up On a Stranger’s Floor?

Thanking The Sun For Another Day Of Lore…

Have You Experienced A Soul Saturated In Blood Stains?

(Those Chosen For Greatness Are Greatly Maimed.)

Do You Understand What It Could Feel Like?

The Pain Of Hunger Outweighs Pain Of Plasma Donations,

Joining Medical Research Studies,

Finances Supplied Only A Few Brief Moments To Breathe…

And You Look At ME?

 “Don’t Quit Your Day Job…”

 I Should Petition The Gods In Which I Dedicated My Soul,

But Then…

That Would Become Wrath…

And In Doing So I Endure Disown, 

From This Pursuit Of Becoming “Whole”.

 I Ponder Amongst My Thoughts:

How Dare You?

Patronizing Something,

(You Never Even Gave A Chance.)

A Research Experiment In Sloth And Judgment:

Could One Become So Busy?

Not Even A Seconds Chance?

Before Discarded? 

(Lousy?)

 There Will Become A Day,

Where Those Whom Shunned,

Come Flowing In Throughout Our Bay…

They Will Pretend To Believe In Divine Things,

(I Know They Only Bare Steel Woven Strings…)

 I Shall Look You Within The Eye,

Plant My Courage As I Say,

“Please, Walk On By.

Your Money Is No Good Here,

For I Had Plans You Could Have Received…

Instead?

You Left Me,

Here To Bleed.

I Cauterized My Wounds,

I Had No Assistance From Greed-written Fools.

 There Will Become A Day:

One Glorious,

Relieving Day…

In Which I Will Have Gained This Courage,

Take My Stand,

Show Off This Pearl-Glass Spine,

The One Abandoned Upon Needful Time.

 I Will Build This Myself,

I Will Become Relentless…

I Will Show The Judged:

I Cannot Be Rendered Senseless.

 You Cannot Break Me:

I Am The Mother Reaper.

 “What Exactly Are You Doing?”

There She Was:

Vivian,

(In The Flesh,)

Sitting Amongst That Moss Covered Log,

(Before Me.)

 “Didn’t I Explain?

Blatantly Clear?

Your Swimming Within Muck…

It Will Devour You,

You Foolish Buck.

No One Wants To Drown Within Your Quicksand,

Where Is Your Land?

You Sit Around Here,

Swimming In Mud And Blood…

He’s Fucking Waiting For You!

Get Your Ass Up!”

 She Held No Consequence, 

(A Royal Demeanor:)

I Stop To Acknowledge My Current Surroundings,

Listen To Logic…

Internalize Her…

 “How Are You Here?

I Mean, How Are You Within This Chapter?

I Am Alone Here,

Left To Retrospect…

A Blackened Cell Within A Writing Table…

Expected To Secure A Sable Label.”

 “You’re Past That, My Love…

You’re Swimming In Muck.”

 My Eyes Jaunt Aside, 

Then To Beneath…

My Skin Consumed In The Sticky Black Tar…

The Skulled Outlines,

Consuming Me Full…

They Paralyze Your Senses…

Construct False Locations…

 “Don’t You Get It?

You’ve Never Left This Lost Forest.”

 “For Which Do You Mean I Never Left?”

I Already Pulled Myself Up Out Of The Muck,

Stuck,

Undeniable Quicksand…”

 “The Faster You Pull The Quicker They Tuck…

You Must Be Cunning,

Haven’t You Learned Anything?

You Have No Receipt For Luck.

You Must Will It Off,

It Shall Cling To Your Soul If Not.”

Returning Her Casual Ignorance With Scowling Stare:

“That’s All Your Advice?

‘Will It Off’ While You Just Fucking Sit There?”

 “Yeah, You’re Being Weak.

Should I Spell It Out For You?”

 She, Sitting Upon Her Log:

Joint Cherried Upon One Hand.

She, Lounged:

Weight Shifted Left To Mock,

Legs Crossed Amongst The Dew.

Stiff Fingers Find Smoke Inhalation:

Kissing Fingerprints Along Each Solemn Drag…

 “You Saw The Rabbit?”

 She Leans In Close,

(Three Inches From My Thigh…)

Whispers:

“It Hurts To Climb High?”

 “No,

How Are You Here?

This Breaks All The Rules…

I’m Not Near…

It’s A Black Coated Fear,

This Chapter Is Within Me,

I Cannot Be Within This Lost Forest…

This Is Not Real…”

 Within Blinking Seconds:

The Scenery Flicker…

A Dark Interrogation Room,

One Light With That Writing Table Central:

Drowning In Blacked,

Living Tar…

The Mud-blood Creatures Sleeking Upon My Mind…

 Gasping For Breath;

One Eye Opened From Between This Slim Kind,

Vivian Kissing Her Joint…

Watching Me Suffer…

The Slime Covers My Mind,

Desperate,

Desperation,

Within That One Table Cell…

 She Whispers:

“It’s Coming…

That Dream…

It’s Your’s To Capture, 

Doll-face…

 You Want Your Salvation?

Your Dreams Turn Reality?

Disregard Temptation?

Just Get Up,

Find Your Way Through This Lost Forest…

The Galaxies Owe You Reciprocated Payment,

You Already Succeeded…

Just Wake Up!”

 Devoured Within Blackened Tar,

Jade Sit Within The Corner Of My Cell,

(Right Far.)

Sobbing Amongst Herself…

 “I Have A Forest To Navigate,

I Cannot Save Her Here…”

 An Unseen Sensation,

A Delicate Hand,

Index And Thumb Clenching My Conch…

Ripping My Ear, 

Out From Within The Clear.

 “Find Your Will To Walk,

My Subtle Naive Friend…

You Better Prepare:

The Land Beyond This Is A Living Jungle,

The Circus Will Lead Your Final Test…

 It’s Coming For You,

All Those Passionate Desires: 

Pleads For The Best…

Living Light,

Past The Circus…

 Glorious Wonders You Could Never Imagine,

Endless Salvation…

Gifted To Those Suffering Temptation:

You Must Finish,

You’re Meant For This.”

“I Don’t Know If I Am:

My Shoulders Can’t Take Anymore Weight…”

 “You Silly Fool,”

Vivian Snarking From Between Strings Of Muck,

(Spiderwebbing My Appearance:)

“Remove The Toxic Parasite Upon Your Luck!”

 Sure Enough, 

I Straighten My Spine,

Stand Within The Blood,

(Two Vertebrae A Time…)

His Smile Grin Beyond This Blackened Muck…

The Corner,

Disguised In Luck…

His Sweet Face Shift,

Those Green Bifocals Lift…

 “You Have No Power Over Me!

Return To Where You Came, Be!”

 Within Astonishing Grace,

I Remove His Toxic Control,

Willing Him The Size Of A Rabbit Face.

I Gently Place Him Back Within The Muck…

 “You Cannot Control Me,”

I Kiss His Forehead In Empathetic Laze,

“I Cannot Continue As Your Puppet,

Tethered To Abusive Greedy Strings, Ablaze.”

 This Little Toy Man,

In This Little Toy Boat…

Evaporated, 

Taken Amongst The Creatures, 

(Within The Quicksand: Despair.)

 Dripping In Toxic Goo,

I Straighten My Spine,

Now Three Vertebrae A Time…

 “Ahh, Now You Understand…

The Brave Of Heart,

The Relentless Conquer This Land…

Here, 

Wipe Yourself Off,

Inhale This Toke,

Find Relaxing Enjoyment Within Your Cough.”

Vivian Lent Me A Silk Handkerchief, 

(From Within Her Brassiere.)

 “Now Listen Here,

I’ve Willed Paths Within This Forest:

Three Guarded By Rabbit,

One Left Free And Clear.

Just Follow Your Heart,

You’re Intelligent Around Here:

Wait For Your Moment…

It’s Coming Near.”

 She Evaporated Within This Forest Mist,

A Fine, 

Black, 

Shear, 

Delicate,

Smoke Dissipated Before My Iris.

The Handkerchief Now Sizable, 

(Equal To That Of A Blanket Towel.)

 I Remove The Blood From Amongst My Skin,

Watching The Remanence Dance Amongst The Fabric:

Alive In Devaluation,

Desperation,

(Despair.)

 I Look Back Amongst The Muck,

One Final Time:

The Corner’s Greed-Colored Bifocals Sink,

Accompanied With A Porcelain Grin…

I Sat In Grief,

(Watching Them Slip Beyond The Blood, Water Thin…)

 “I’m Sorry,

I Am The Mother Reaper…

You Cannot Break Me:

I Must Live Beyond This Mud, 

Tasting Of Tin.” 

 Grief Stricken Relief.

[mooleche]

A Tale of Ink and Venom

A/N - All I gotta say is I’m so sorry to mobile users for this lmao This is a long chapter so I’m posting it at 4AM to try and save people from it’s length.

If you’d like to be tagged for the upcoming chapters lemme know!

Also another big thank you to @leo-writer for reading beforehand. I super, super appreciate it and appreciate YOU!

Chapter Two: Heart to Heart

“No no no, I’m so late!”

I shot out of my room like a bat out of hell, a jumble of keys in one hand and helmet in the other as I took to the morning bustle of the college sidewalks. Outside the scenery was a mixture of many things; remnants of winter slush that spring was finally beginning squash with a faint warm breeze. Not to mention the familiar scent of Brooklynn streets containing the disappointing waft of piss and alcohol it was so well known for. Or maybe I had just grown used to it in the year I had been here. 

I stopped abruptly at a covered up bundle and ripped the cover off hastily to reveal a shiny black Vespa beneath and beamed. Her name was Queen of the Night, Queenie for short, and what she lacked in speed she made up for in aesthetic. She was the last thing my parents had gifted me before I had started college. A way for them to feel at ease about me being on my own, or so they said. I think they just didn’t want me to use door dash on every little thing I needed at all hours of the night. Regardless, she was my pride, my joy, and I was finally able to ride her again after the harsh winter months had kept us separated for so long. 

My thoughts wandered as I got my belongings situated to head to work. About Bambi’s words, the news article, but also the strange group text Bambi’s sister had sent out as I had left:

‘There’s a big bad out. Stay safe.’ 

I wish I could say that wasn’t a normal occurrence for her, but Benni Banks had a knack of sending things just ominous enough to make you extremely suspicious of whatever she was saying. The only thing more suspicious was when she would walk with a startling pace out of our dorm with laptop in arms saying ‘This is fine, this is absolutely fine ’ on repeat. If you knew Benni like we did that usually meant one of her cockamamie hacking attempts had backfired and things were certainly not fine. Despite this, we loved her, even down to the cryptic warnings she sent us while submitting to her insomnia sleeping habits that left us more curious than cautious.

A villain like that could have meant anything. Hell, we had just seen Lizardman take on the town before he stopped on his own accord. A malfunction with the machine he used to keep himself human, or something to that degree. And not a single hero came to help during that situation. I slumped forward at a red light and sighed. Despite New York being a hot zone for superheroes and villains alike, it was apparent that the villains were just becoming too much for them to handle. But that was something I couldn’t begin to think about, because I had arrived to work and there were more pressing matters at hand.

Like how I was about to be reamed for being 20 minutes late.

I stopped in front of an ordinary-looking business building not far off from the campus itself and removed my helmet. My hair fell in loose lazy curls around my face as the braid I had made was all but destroyed. Flecks of blue and black melded over my face as I tried to hastily tie it back into its original style, but failed miserably. Giving up I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets, listening to the leather of my gloves squeak with discomfort before fishing out a flashy looking access card for the entrance. On one hand, I didn't know why I or anyone else needed one of these. Most of the sections inside of the building were offices doing god knows what. On the other hand, the lower levels were a different story entirely. I waited 3 seconds for the light to flash green before I stepped in, immediately greeted by a security guard I knew simply as Barry who nodded curtly to me as I took to the steps nearby. 

“A little late today, Miss Knight,” I heard him chuckle, fading away as I entered the basement. This was where all of the action happened, a steady hum of electronics and murmurs of people lost in conversations of studies they were working on. Some made brief pleasantries with me as I zipped through the small groups of lab coats huddling to discuss, while others seemed to eye me with disapproval. 

They didn’t matter though. The only person that mattered currently stood hunched over one of many counters in his lab as I watched from the glass window that separated us. I pressed my face against the glass to try to get his attention but he ignored me, making my nerves rise as I stepped within the sliding doors and opened my mouth to apologize.

“You’re late, Knight,” 

I closed my mouth and puffed my cheeks out. He always had a knack of catching me off guard. 

His name was Professor H. D. Renato, a man who I suspect would not reveal his initials to anyone until he was on his death bed. Even then that was being generous. He was a man of science and cleanliness, and the two coincided together nicely in his lab that he kept in pristine shape. It was ordinary for the most part. No colorful beakers, no boiling concoctions of evil ooze to take over the world with. Just a man with incredible dreads hunched over his desk studying something intensely. 

I don’t know how our strange relationship came to be, especially when our first encounter involved him walking in on me attempting to delete student debts with my powers. I was lucky enough at the time that despite the criminal act I was committing he was intrigued by my mutation and wanted to work with me on the promise that I never try a stunt like that again. I was even luckier that I had somehow gotten a job out of it instead of making a call to my parents from the Deans office explaining how I got kicked out of college for trying to show up Robin Hood.

He now turned as if sensing me studying him and folded his arms, dark eyes studying me back with amusement.

“What’s your excuse this time then?”

“Would you believe traffic?”

“I would not,”

“How about saving kids from a burning building?”

“Try again,”

“Fine,” I rolled my eyes, setting my bag down on one of the empty tables taking up the majority of the room. “I got side-tracked talking to the girls,” I admitted before joining him behind his desk to get a glimpse of what his attention had been so caught up on. “Seems I’m not the only one distracted today though, huh?”

“You know me, I always have to see what fresh hell is destroying Brooklynn,” he muttered before turning the laptop to me. “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“Oh, no. Benni mentioned it before I got here but...” I whispered as I joined him in looking at the screen. The shots of whoever, or whatever it was were blurry. Though, it wasn’t hard to see the giant black humanoid looking creature completely demolishing a group of police vehicles like they were children's toys before the reporter I had seen so many times appeared on the screen. She had the same tense face on as always. Not that I could blame her, I’d look the same way if I were placed in a somewhat dangerous situation like this. And yet, she spoke in a strangely calm tone to give what little information she had on the matter:

" ...suspect is assumed to be a high-level threat that was one of few said to be lost in the recent events of the Ice Box criminal transfer after destruction hit- "

"Hang on, that was months ago. They still haven't found the convicts that escaped?" I asked in surprise. He shook his head in response.

"Apparently not. The majority were assumed dead at the scene of the crime but…” he motioned to the screen again as we watched another brief blurry clip of the creature climb onto one of the surrounding buildings as heavily armored police got involved.

I whistled in response.

“I really don’t think you should go out on deliveries today, Nina…” he admitted after a short pause as he turned to me, folding his arms like he always did when faced with a tough subject. I could only roll my eyes in response.

“Don’t think I’m capable of holding my own?”

“Really? You’re asking me this in a ‘Hangover Hoodie’?”

“Huh?” I asked with a confused frown but realized all too quickly what he was talking about. In my hurry to leave this morning I had shoved a blind hand into my wardrobe and picked out whatever hoodie I could find. Renato now stared at me with disappointed disapproval and sighed. It was no wonder his peers looked at me how they did now.

“I have always had the utmost faith in you, it’s your health I’m concerned about. You know this,”

“How could I forget when that’s all anyone ever talks about?” I answered shortly, watching his expression quickly fade to guilt. I knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, after all, it wasn’t his fault that my body was the frail shell of what it used to be. Like I said, I tried the vigilante lifestyle once. It hit me harder than what I was ready for and now I paid the price. 

The result left me unable to use my powers without intense strain on my body, and a group of family and friends treating me like I was made of glass as a result.

He hovered his hand over my shoulder before reluctantly pulling back. Renato might have been a genius but his social cues were lacking in the compassion department. Or any social department in general for that matter. Instead, he did what he did every time there was an awkward situation and began furiously cleaning his glasses that had been sitting neatly on top of his head. 

“I just...you know I worry. And with your parent's trusting me-”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them. But also, I’m almost 24, dude. Avoir une certaine foi,” I added with an innocent smile. He was not so taken with it

“You know I don’t speak French,”

“Have some faith,”

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to be the one to deliver the news if something happens,” he responded shortly, striking my own guilt in response. Renato, despite his eagerness to take me under his wing, was still a cautious man. So cautious in fact that he had contacted my parents before solidifying his offer to work with me. They weren’t bad people, probably the farthest thing from that, they were just so overprotective. I couldn’t blame them after the chaotic introduction into parenthood I had given them, especially after being the first mutant in our family. There was just a point where it was too much.

There was a heavy silence between us as we both struggled to find something to say before he sighed and directed my gaze to the packages resting beside the counter.

“Alright, I’m trusting you with this, Nina. You’re lucky we have such a backlog to get through otherwise-”

“Otherwise you wouldn’t allow this, yes I know,” I called as I carefully scooped the boxes up and inspected them curiously as if the blank outer packaging would reveal their secrets.

They did not.

“Be careful with those. I put fragile on there for a reason,” he added as he tapped the large black font with a stern look. As part of his side job he was always cooking up interesting concoctions for his clients, considered the mutant savant by many because of how serious he was to learn how to help us function in everyday society. I had never seen a regular human so dedicated to helping our cause and I wasn’t about to make him regret hiring me to help with it. 

Especially when it meant one day he could help me be myself again.

I scoffed at his words and tiptoed carefully to the exit to avoid more of his harping while I could. “I got it, I got it. Shoot me the addresses?”

“Already in your phone, make sure you get all of the signatures this time, Knight.”

“Yes, dad,” I mocked before shuffling out of the lab, careful to avoid any collisions with anyone out in the hall. Barry held the door open for me like he did every time I came up packed to the gills with boxes and we shared our usual polite nod to one another. 

Ten frustrating minutes of getting everything bundled up tight on Queenie and I was finally off to do the real work of the day. 

-

Being a courier was a fairly easy job. Renato excelled in helping mutants with noticeable mutations by creating temporary serums and little do-dads to aid in his search of making us feel more welcomed in society. Since the clients themselves didn’t usually want to be seen by people other than their kind it was often a quick in and out job. The hardest part was getting to them. Renato may have been science savvy but where he excelled in knowledge he lacked in direction, and it made me ever so thankful for GPS as I rounded the same corner I had been through multiple times in the last 15 minutes.

Thank god these weren’t timed deliveries.

Most of the stops weren’t an issue, usually consisting of an out of the ordinary mutant that just needed some basic supplies. My favorite was a man with red skin and facial hair that rivaled Jack Sparrows. He was charming and straight to the point, and yet his tips were always more than accommodating. His name started with an A but the scribbled signature never revealed the rest.

Others however were... strange. Some left specific instructions in order for me to get confirmation signatures; knock two times on the door to wait for someone to knock back, more than a few required me to face the other way so I couldn’t see them but when I looked back the papers were signed, sometimes tip attached, sometimes other odds and ends. I once received a large quill-like spike as a tip for my efforts. It still sat on my desk to this day.

Before I knew it my final client had come and I rode lazily in the familiar streets of Brooklyn to find the location. His was always my favorite to go to, settled in a small suburb area with people that always seemed to be out and enjoying life without a care in the world. I parked in a vacant area up the street and started towards a cozy-looking home that had seen better days. Not that it was in bad shape, it was just old and in need of some serious case of TLC that its owner was unable to give.

I stopped at the sun stained red door and rang the buzzer once.

No response.

Twice.

Nothing.

“Mr. Lee?” I called, pressing my ear against the door to hear if he was making his way to answer. I was greeted with silence.

I began a hail mary of mashing the buzzer in a last desperate attempt until a soft chuckle interrupted me and I turned. An older man in dark shades sat at a bench nearby and waved to me, beckoning me towards him and I followed.

"Hey! Buongiorno!" he called merrily from his peaceful-looking seat and I laughed softly.

"That's Italian, Mr. Lee. But bonus points for trying,"

"Ah, can't win 'em all I suppose." he chuckled before patting the seat next to him and I obliged, holding his delivery patiently in hand before he smiled warmly and stared forward. 

"Relax a little, something on your mind, kiddo? You seem tense!"

Mr. Lee always had a knack for sensing these types of things. He was one of Renato's oldest clients, and he wasn't even a mutant. Renato just enjoyed this old man's zest for life so much that he helped him with simple tasks and now the occasional french tutoring on the side that I gave him during my trips.

"Ah, no. I mean, kind of..." 

"Go on then, I've got some time," he chuckled as he nudged me playfully.

I sighed sheepishly in response. I couldn’t exactly tell him my life story. He knew bits and pieces of it, but I was still on the fence about revealing my mutation. Instead, I tried to word it rather poorly, tugging at my gloved hands as I struggled to find proper words.

“I just...I want to be something more, y’know? I worked so hard for this...thing when I was younger and now I’m just this...this burnout of a courier wasting away at college!” I started, unable to control the flood of commentary that was spilling out. “I wanted to be like...like Spiderman! Or the Avengers! Something! I have a gift, my friends tell me every day that I have the means to overcome this... this fear of breaking myself again but I know deep down my body can’t take it...that I can’t be this person they think I can be. And now everyone’s just waiting for me to break again like I’m glass! I hate it!”

There was a heavy silence and I snapped out of my stupor, now standing with hands held over my head in what was once frustration. I didn’t even know where all of it had come from. Like I said, Mr. Lee had a strange gift.

I shot them down sheepishly and took to sitting back to a quiet Mr. Lee who’s bushy white mustache seemed to wiggle with thought.

“I’m sorry…” I quietly apologized before he turned to me, brows wrinkling under his shades with a frown plastered on his face.

“Don’t you ever apologize for expressing yourself,” he ordered gently, resting a hand on my shoulder with a small squeeze. “Life is never completely without its challenges. But that’s what keeps it interesting.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! Listen, kid. I think you should do what your heart is telling you to do, 'cause deep down it knows that you'll do the right thing.”

“You think so?" 

“I know so. I've been in the industry long enough to know a hero when I see one." he chuckled, a warm encouraging smile spreading across his face now. “You can't force these feelings out, kid. It’s got to come from inside of you,” he said while poking his chest proudly. 

"Inside me..." I whispered, looking down at my hands in wonder. I knew what he meant, but what could someone like me feel when I wanted to do these things but couldn't? I knew in my heart of hearts what I wanted.

But would that be enough?

Before I could ponder more he stood and stretched his back, resting his weight on his cane. “Give it some thought, you’ve got time,”

“You’re leaving?”

“You’re not?” he teased before he pointed up to the sky and beamed. “I got a date with the universe soon, kiddo. Can’t keep her waiting.”

“Uh-huh…” was all I could muster as I stood and extended my hand out to him. I didn’t know if he was trying to be funny about his days being numbered or if he genuinely was expecting to travel the universe. Events in Brooklynn made it hard to shoot down either idea and Mr. Lee had a look so believable that for a second I actually believed him. “Well, if I don’t see you for a while...J'espère que tu trouveras ton aventure parmi les étoiles.” 

“Oh?”

“It means ‘I hope you find your adventure among the stars,’”

“Ah! Mer...mer...merci!” he stammered before taking my hand in his and beaming at me, a feeling of pride radiating off of him at his accomplishment. 

“You hang in there, kid. Your own adventure is going to find you soon enough! Remember,” he added, pointing to his chest once more before pointing to me. I nodded and smiled like some solemn promise had just been made between us and in some strange way, it had.

We said our goodbyes shortly after, a broken ‘au revoir’ from Mr. Lee as he sauntered into his home with delivery in hand while I took to Queenie with a little less weight on my shoulders. I was well over the time allotted for the drop-off, but I knew Renato would understand. It was why I always kept his deliveries for last after all, to have deep conversations that always kicked me back on track to the path I truly wanted to be on.

The path that would set things in motion not even an hour later.

[2lovekorea-blog]

Broken Dolls

TITLE: Broken Dolls

BY: @2lovekorea-blog

WORDCOUNT: 1,610

10-Minute Screenplay Format

Warnings: Cussing. Threats. Talk of Prostitution.

****ORIGINAL WORK****

SETTING:

We are in a crappy diner away from the rest of the patrons.

CASTING NOTE:

BROKEN DOLLS has two main characters and a waitress. It can involve more people for background but is not necessary because the main characters are in a more secluded part of the diner.

CHARACTERS:

DEBRA MILLER………………………………………… 30s. She is very plain looking. No make up and hair partially put back. She is dressed professionally.

TIFFANY “ANTOINETTE” ALVAREZ… Early 20s. Very pretty. Seems older than she is. She is wearing make up and her hair is down. She is dressed professionally.

TIME: late evening, Present

SETTING:

DEBRA and TIFFANY are having a conversation at a booth in the diner.

**********************************************************************************************

OPENING

(DEBRA sits in a booth waiting. She looks very professional. She has a legal pad and a pen out. She taps her pen as she waits. She also has a large-ish purse next to her in the seat. TIFFANY finally walks in. TIFFANY and DEBRA see each other as DEBRA sweetly waves to TIFFANY with a smile. TIFFANY approaches the booth and DEBRA gets up to greet her.)

DEBRA

(Big smile)

Hi Tiffany. I’m glad you could make it.

(They shake hands)

TIFFANY

(TIFFANY smiles)

No problem. I’m so sorry, what was your name again?

DEBRA

Debra.

(DEBRA smiles as she says her name.)

TIFFANY

Oh, yes, that’s right.

DEBRA

Have a seat. You hungry? You want anything to eat? Maybe something to drink? It’s on me.

(DEBRA smiles)

TIFFANY

Oh, no. It’s ok. I’m good.

DEBRA

Alright then, lets get started. Could you state your name?

(DEBRA has her pen and paper ready to go.)

TIFFANY

Tiffany Alvarez.

DEBRA

How old are you?

TIFFANY

23.

DEBRA

What is your current profession?

TIFFANY

I’m a receptionist at Taemin Law.

DEBRA

Do you like it?

TIFFANY

Being a receptionist?

DEBRA

Yeah, being a receptionist?

TIFFANY

Oh, yeah. I love it.

DEBRA

I bet. (Beat) It seems better than your last job?

TIFFANY

What do you mean?

(DEBRA grabs some photos out of her purse and tosses them on the table. TIFFANY sees what the photos are of and quickly pulls them toward her flipping through them.)

How did you get these?

DEBRA

Well, Antoinette…

TIFFANY

(Interrupts in hushed tones)

I don’t go by that name anymore!

(Starts trying to leave)

DEBRA

Does Steve know that name?

(TIFFANY stops)

TIFFANY

What…

DEBRA

I said, does Steve know that name? What about sweet little ol’ Mrs. Kincaid from apartment 150? Does she know what you used to do for a living?

(TIFFANY sits)

TIFFANY

How do you…

DEBRA

Know that? (Beat) I’ve kind-a made it my job to know, Tiff-an-y.

TIFFANY

And why would you make that your job?

DEBRA

I have my reasons.

TIFFANY

What do you want?

DEBRA

I don’t want something, I neeeed something from you.

TIFFANY

What is it?

WAITRESS

(The WAITRESS walks over to their table with a notepad and a pen. She stops next to TIFFANY’S side of the booth.)

Yay! You’re friend made it.

(WAITRESS smiles)

Now, what can I get started for you ladies?

DEBRA

I’d like a turkey club, please.

(DEBRA smiles.)

And my friend Tiffany here, or do you prefer Antoinette? Eh, it’s ok. She would like a stack of pancakes a mile high.

(DEBRA smiles big.)

WAITRESS

Alright. I’ll get that started for you guys.

(WAITRESS walks away)

DEBRA

Look, Tiffany, I just need some information from you. That’s all. And you won’t have to worry about the safety of your handsome boyfriend Steve or Mrs. Kincaid.

TIFFANY

If this is about Taemin Law, they don’t let me see the case files.

DEBRA

I don’t care about Taemin Law. This is about your hooking days. I’m interested in an old friend of yours, Sophia and a former ‘John’ she was involved with. (Beat) I wanna know where they are.

TIFFANY

I left that life behind and everyone that was in it.

DEBRA

Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany.

(DEBRA pulls out her phone.)

If you are going to lie to me your only going to make things harder for yourself.

(DEBRA starts playing with her phone coyly.)

TIFFANY

I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I don’t know where they are and I don’t care.

DEBRA

Well, you better start caring. Because if you don’t, something bad could happen.

TIFFANY

I’m no stranger to bad things.

DEBRA

I know. But I thought you were making a change and trying to be more caring, more … open? (Beat) I guess you just don’t really care about Steve or that old lady.

TIFFANY

(Through her teeth)

How am I suppose to get you information I don’t have?

DEBRA

I don’t know. Figure it out.

(The WAITRESS rushes back to their booth.)

WAITRESS

Oh, my gosh, ladies. I am so sorry. I didn't even bother asking if you would’ve liked anything to drink. What can I get for you?

DEBRA

I’d just like some water. Antoinette, what would you like?

(Tiffany doesn’t answer, she just stares at the table)

WAITRESS

Order any type of drink you want, it’ll be on the house.

(Tiffany still doesn’t answer. She just stares at the table. She is very stiff and still.)

DEBRA

(The WAITRESS looks to DEBRA.)

She’s having a bad day. Her boyfriend was in an accident.

WAITRESS

That’s terrible. I am so sorry. I hope he’ll be ok.

(WAITRESS looks to DEBRA and says quietly)

I’ll bring two waters.

(WAITRESS leaves.)

DEBRA

You better pull yourself together…

TIFFANY

(TIFFANY interrupts)

Or what? Something bad will happen.

DEBRA

You think you’re funny.

(DEBRA pulls up a video from her phone and shows it to TIFFANY.)

This is live!

TIFFANY

Don’t you fucking hurt her. She doesn’t know anything.

DEBRA

Relax. We’re just keeping an eye on her. Nothing will happen to your sweet old lady as long as you cooperate.

WAITRESS

(WAITRESS enters with two glasses of water.)

Here you are ladies. Please let me know if you’d like anything other than water to drink. The drinks will be on the house, ok?

DEBRA

Thank you.

(The WAITRESS rushes off. DEBRA gets up from her side of the booth and goes over to TIFFANY’S side and sits down.)

Tiffany, I’m gonna need you to cheer up. Can you do that for me?

TIFFANY

Why are you doing this? What is so important about Sophia and that dude?

DEBRA

(DEBRA puts an arm around TIFFANY and squeezes her tight.)

Nothing, much. (Beat) Just they ruined my life.

(DEBRA squeezes TIFFANY harder and digs her fingernails into TIFFANY’S arm)

TIFFANY

Ouch! You’re hurting me.

DEBRA

(DEBRA softens her grib.)

Sorry. I just get filled with a certain type of rage when I think about them.

TIFFANY

Why??? What did they do to you?

DEBRA

Like I said, they ruined my life.

TIFFANY

What? How would they have ruined your life?

DEBRA

Because you filthy whores do nothing but fuck with other women’s men and spread disease. You guys are fucking disgusting! Do you guys really like sex that damn much that you’ll just do it with anyone that walks by?

TIFFANY

(Offended)

You think we sell our bodies because we like sex that much?! Are you kidding me? You have no idea what I had to go through on the streets. You don’t know what it’s like to do what I did! How dare you fucking judge us! You don’t even think of us as human do you? Or worthy of your time and compassion. Do you know what it’s like to be raped, and robbed, and then beaten by your fucking pimp, because you lost the money you spent hours earning? No, you fucking don’t! Do you know what it’s like to never be taken seriously by cops, especially when you need their fucking help? Or to be further victimized by those mother fuckers who have taken an oath to serve and protect?!

DEBRA

You’re right Tiffany, I have no idea. Plus, why would the cops waste their resources on the fleas of society. One of you could get knocked off, three more would pop up. You guys are like an infestation. It’s fucking sick.

TIFFANY

I’m going to assume here that Sophia must have ran off with your guy. His name was Dave right? (Beat) You are fucking stupid if you really thought he ever gave a fucking shit about you. (Beat) You wanna know what he would say about you? (Beat) He would say.

(Giggles to herself)

He would say, “that bitch can’t suck cock for shit!” and he’d also say that when he would fuck you, you would just lay there like a dead fish.

DEBRA

(DEBRA grabs the butter knife off the table and jabs the blunt end into TIFFANY’S ribs. TIFFANY lets out a yelp.)

You don’t know what you’re talking about. What the fuck do you know?! You’re just some fucking slut!

TIFFANY

(TIFFANY is now grabbing her side and trying to breathe without it hurting.)

You are going to be in so much shit.

DEBRA

And why’s that?

TIFFANY

(TIFFANY trying to breathe through the pain.)

Because my cousin is in the FBI.

DEBRA

Bullshit!

TIFFANY

I’m surprised you didn’t know that since you’ve been following me around. (Beat) You’re right about the police not wanting to waste resources on us “filthy prostitutes.” But luckily for me my cousin has a soft spot for helping out those ‘fleas.’ (Beat) You fucked up. I texted him while you were talking to the waitress. He knows where I’m at and if I go missing, he will definitely find you.

[brenaldo]

Floyd’s Choice

George Floyd.

I don’t know him.

I’ve only seen the videos, photos, memes, and all the subsequent coverage of the protests and anger erupting across the nation in the wake of his tragic death at the knee of a police officer.

Watching heavily armed, wannabe white Rambos less than a month before march into the Michigan state capitol building (with zero resistance from law enforcement), painted a stark contrast to the harsh truth of yet another black American’s death by police in Minnesota: 

The ongoing loss of black lives is the inevitable counterpart to the willful and systemic tolerance of inequality in America.

The divisive and tone deaf response from our President to both incidents is not only revolting, it’s stirring revolution.

While Trump is a man who can’t get enough of stamping his name on anything in the hopes he’ll someday be remembered, his is a name best soon forgotten.

The name to remember is George Floyd.

The name sticks out to me personally because growing up a family friend was named Floyd. He left an enduring, indelible impact on my life. His name always comes to mind when I have a difficult decision to make. 

George Floyd’s name should do the same for all of us.

Let me explain via my personal experience, and how it holds a lesson for what we as a nation need to do now.

When my father grew up in South Side Chicago, neighborhoods near his home were effectively grouped by Catholic parish (Polish, Irish, Italian, etc.). 

In those days, it was common for what we would consider child abuse today to be generally tolerated. For instance, stories of being beaten with a broom was considered a funny anecdote.

The storyteller can still derive a survivor’s humor from this particular story, but it’s part of a larger narrative of perseverance, learning, and continual evolution as a human being.

When it came time for my Dad to rear children of his own in Portland, all he knew was that corporal punishment was the key to keeping little rule-breakers in line, particularly the boys.

The snap of a leather belt still brings me a terrifying chill, and conjures images of looking back at my bare bottom just as my Dad’s massive hand came smacking down with full force (it felt that way from my vantage point, anyway). 

A pulsing red handprint on my backside was all the evidence required to not question the velocity.

The part I couldn’t see was the simultaneous compassion and pain my father felt while striking us, either with his bare hand or an instrument of torture. He was doing what he knew of parental discipline, and he hated himself for it.

My Dad expressed his torment and internal conflict to his friend Floyd, and was offered advice that offered him a perfect solution to his troubles: instead of spankings, dole out push-ups and sit-ups.

The advice worked: to tremendous, immediate effect.

My brother and I were no longer afraid of a whipping, instead we would self inflict pain through a multitude of reps tied to how severe a house edict was broken.

As we grew older and stronger, we would challenge the system and do more reps than asked, or simply try to break a new record, hoping to diminish the power held over us by refusing to show pain.

The pain was still there, so when I’d object to my Dad’s methods he would remind me of the broom, the belt, and the choice he’d made to change. then followed with the words, ‘when you have kids of your own you can raise them with your own rules.’ 

He then would add what his own father always told him:

‘You can take the good things you learn from me, and leave the bad.’

Now raising two young men of my own, I hear those words in my head nearly every day.

Floyd taught my Dad he had a choice, and that choice was passed to me. My father chose to leave behind the pain of physical abuse as a primary parenting tool, and instead implemented something with a more positive and educational approach.

When my boys were small, a light swat on the butt seemed natural to give them an abrupt physical cue that they were out of line.

As they grew out of diapers, when I spanked them I could feel their tiny buns unprotected from even the slightest padding. I flinched at my actions and made a conscious decision: no more.

I considered taking the push-up path, but then thought about how much I still avoid them due to the negative connotation of exercise as punishment. I knew I didn’t ever need to inflict physical pain on them, directly or indirectly.

Today in my house I don’t rule by the fist, rather by choice. 

My boys know where the boundaries are, and understand their actions have consequences. It’s amazing how quickly the removal of phone and video game privileges quells any unrest. 

Better yet, remind kids that their bedroom doors just slammed in anger are only on loan, then remove as needed to restore order. It works, trust me.

I’d been presented with a choice just as my father had been, and in one generation we removed physical harm as the family standard by following Floyd’s guidance to a different, gentler approach.

By the way, our family friend Floyd is black. And Floyd’s choice now applies to all of us.

If we’re willing to seek counsel and listen, we will learn from our black friends and family. 

How we we evolve as a society will be determined by how we choose to pass on the lessons of inequality and unjust brutality.

As the world mourns George Floyd, consider the choices we make.

[multifandom-hoes]

Everything’s Going to be Fine

Member: JiMin // BTS

Main Plot: They have to get the money before their family can suffer.

A/N: @kawaii-hedgehog look at me coming back with another one of your plots, ey, ey?

Words: 2.3k

/ SeokJin // YoonGi // HoSeok // NamJoon // JiMin // TaeHyung // JeongGuk /

When she came to be the first thing that she noticed was the horrible throb at the back of her head. The second was the fact that it was not her eyes fault for being unable to see around her, but some kind of clothing that was thrown over her head.

She felt panic rise at the pit of her stomach, then, her eyes watering at the implications of her tied wrists and blindfolded eyes. However, what was even more terrifying was the throb that now spread all over her skull, pounding at her temples as if with a hammer, trying to crack her bones.

She sobbed, and heard shuffling of feet from somewhere, which made her sob even more, shoulders trembling and voice shaking as she spoke, “Help me…” she begged, and then begged some more, but there was no answer from the person whose feet were shuffling.

It dawned on her then; was this the person who kept her tied up and blinded? She shook her head then, the pain leaving her limp in the uncomfortable chair with a yelp escaping her mouth. She was in so much pain. “Don’t move too much, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” The person finally spoke, the voice light but manly, sweet but grave. It was such a contradiction on itself that she fell quiet, unable to produce a retort.

The steps came closer, and soon the cloth over her head was lifted, yet she was still blinded, this time from the light of the room. As soon as her eyes settled to a bearable level where she could look up without her eyes running wet from her sockets, she recoiled at the man in front of her.

His hair was a rusty brown mess atop his head, brows etched close to each other on his smooth forehead, strong and manly. Eyes were made of steel, she said to self, so dull yet powerful, yet still coloured a pretty molten-caramel brown. Lips, so big and fluffy, were gnawed on by the set of pearly white teeth. He was perfect, but so very stern.

She shook her head, and instead looked up at him with determination. She wanted to speak, but nothing coherent came to mind. Her wrists still struggled against her restraints, but her mind was purely empty. “Who… Am I?” the previous ache in her skull had now faded into a dull throb, and she swung her body back into the chair’s backrest. “Who… Are you?”

His eyes trembled, going from one side of her face to the other, his face paled, ever so slightly, but a weird expression soon settled over his features. “I’m… Park JiMin. Remember me?” he spoke quietly, as if timidly, testing out the waters.

“Who?” she spoke, her head titling.

The man, Park JiMin, took a step closer and towards her, resting his- what she realized to be- small but warm hands over her shoulders, staring right into the depth of her eyes. “Your boyfriend.” He had said, a distressed look over his otherwise dull face.

“Boy… Friend?”

It has been close to a month now, her living in his cozy apartment for a cheap rental price, eating close to nothing but noodles day in and day out, seeing her supposed boyfriend only scarcely as he was working, saying it was for her sake and then sending her that little smile full of nothing but pain.

Her heart was reaching out to him, and yet she still trembled when night-time fell and she was left alone in the unknown apartment with not an ounce of her memories back.

She knew nothing of herself, of JiMin, and of life. Like a little na��ve child simply relying on the broken man by the name of Park JiMin. She wasn’t sure whether she was going to be able to continue such a lifestyle.

Often times she wondered whether her boyfriend would have an easier time without her; whether she should run away and leave him be to his own devices, seeing as he spent little to no time with her anyway. He won’t miss me, she often thought, soothing her pained heart.

As she woke up with that cloth over her eyes, she knew nothing of JiMin, but during this month spent with him, cooking for him whatever he had in his fridge, she felt out to him, like a mother to her child- to the point where she truly believed she learned to love him all over again, as she did before she lost her memories.

Leaving him was not an option, not then, not now. She learned to love his presence and little smiles that truly reached his eyes- though those were rare.

His body was flexible, toned and with great proportions, he reminded himself as a cocky grin adorned his face once again, the light shining down on him and hiding the faces of his spectators. The sweat glittered from his body like a bead of prettiest jewels, muscles flexing with each twist of his naked limbs.

You’re a dancer, JiMin, he calmed his racing heart, and this is your audience. Though his job had not been a particularly nice option for a talented man such as him, it paid well and he had needed the money to pay off a part of his debts to a group of boys that took him in. He needed it.

He wasn’t forced to take on this… Occupation, either. It was all his own free will. Needless to say, his dignity was shredded and his self-esteem had disappeared, but at least his debt had been paid. And yet he continued working in that God forsaken place. Selling his body for a little bit of dirty money.

He was tied there, bound by chains heavier than life- it was his personal hell that he so willingly decided to enter- had he known previously that the underworld doesn’t let go of its victims, he would off had laid his own head before entering the place. It was too late for that now.

So, he dragged his tired body home, his head empty, lip busted from some old geezer punching him square in the face for `seducing his wife`. Fuck them all to hell, anyway.

Opening the doors, he fell to his knees, head clutched in his hands as the sleek of warm tears slid down his bruised face. A string of broken curses escaped his lips and he slammed his forehead into the carpeted ground, unable to find rest or even bring himself enough pain to forget about himself.

“JiMin?” a female voice asked, the emotion within being fear and concern. He lifted his eyes up, then, and saw her- his tickets into the clean world without so much as selling himself. Her- his saviour. “Is everything okay?” she took a step closer, then another, and another, and she stood in front of him, her hand on his spine, rubbing up and down, trying to soothe him while her own voice shook with distress.

He still did not have a notion as to why he said he was her boyfriend. Even up till now. But in a way, he was glad he said that. She was spared of the torture from his gang and he got himself a personal maid. No, don’t say that, he scolded himself, looking at her beautiful form through his wet lashes. “Why are you still up?” his groggy voice asked, not an ounce of amusement as he saw her tired eyes.

“Why are you crying?” she whispered back, her hands continuing to rub his back as if consoling a lost puppy. Though he was quick to admit her warmth felt good, he also felt like an absolute trash.

Here she was, a woman whom he abducted in exchange for money, lost her memory because of the hit to the skull that he inflicted, showing him nothing more but good will and compassion. Meanwhile he took it in and fed her lies. Nothing more but cruel, cold lies. He felt like crying all over again.

She laid beside him, singing songs from her childhood, or at least she thought they were, trying to soothe his sobbing, patting at JiMin’s puffy cheeks swollen by his tears. He told her why he cried, alas while yelling and laughing like a mad-man, and she swore she nearly burst out crying and wailing herself. He sold his body daily while she was asleep, comfortable in his apartment to which he paid with his own body.

Her eyes were red as she hugged him then, his body thrashing against her own as she took all of it in, slowly leading him to the bedroom and mingling her hands into his hair.

Though wrecked by emotion of anger and demise, the man fell asleep in her arms, and she was left alone to mend her own heart in his stead. That early morning was a cruel one, wrecking her not only emotionally, but also psychologically, her head pounding in pain as memory after memory was returning in a bright flash of pain.

Park JiMin was no boyfriend of her, and the songs she sung him were indeed of her childhood, previously sang by her mother. She was kidnapped, most likely for ransom, though she also knew it would off have been useless- her father was a strict man, and she was certain there was no love in his heart.

He fed her lies over and over again, and she believed them like the naïve heroine that she was- a stupid, little, lost girl.

Struggling out of the unfamiliar man’s iron grip over her waist, she paddled to the kitchen, leaning over the window sill and staring at the rising sun while the tears spilled from her eyes. So, what am I going to do now? She asked of herself, quietly dabbing at her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

Sure, JiMin had been a savage thug and a nobody to her- normally, she should off have been calling the police right about now, but he was the man who provided her a roof and food, so from this point, she should be kissing his feet.

What about what her heart told her to do, though? Because certainly that little ball of sunshine, note the sarcasm, did not want her to leave and instead stay with the broken man, help him feel human again, get his dignity back- get his life back.

She would stay, if not for him then for her own selfish little heart.

“My memories are back, you know?” she spoke silently after he woke up, casting her eyes down so to avoid the startled glance he gave her. “I know you’re not my boyfriend- nothing close to it, just a thug.”

“So what, you gonna leave me now?” he spoke casually, or at least tried to, digging into his bowl of something that was supposed to serve as late breakfast.

“Would you let me? Wouldn’t be afraid of me going to the police and telling on you and your little gang of criminals?” she challenged him back, her eyes narrowing as she took a seat opposite of him.

His spoon clattered and he leaned back in his seat before saying, “If you’d so desperately want to escape, you’d long have called the police- while I was sleeping, if you want precision.”

“You’re right…” she muttered, nodding her head slowly.

“So? What’re you going to do now that you have your memories?” his eyes narrowed, spoon forgotten as he spoke. “Go back home to your daddy? Just to your information, but we ambushed you for exchange in money. As you know, there was no word from him since.”

“So you kept me with you and hoped that I won’t regain my memories and have a happy life with you instead?” she tried, voice soft but eyes sharp, trying to grasp any emotion on his shard face.

He sputtered then, eyes wide and mouth agape. “What?”

“You said so yourself, no? You took me for ransom. There was not a word from my father. You could off have let me go a month ago, but yet here I am. Lied to that you were my boyfriend. Obviously, you tried to do something, yet I’m not sure what.”

He kept quiet for a while, staring at her attentively, before shaking his head as if deciding whatever he was about to say was not worth the effort and instead starting to eat his breakfast all over again.

“So can I stay?” in answer he nodded his head absent-mindedly to which she smiled big. “But, we’re not a couple- friends. And as your loyal friend I want to start a campaign- stop JiMin from going through pain. Meaning, we will now go out, or after you eat breakfast, and look for a job, or two actually. You will quit your current place, and if you don’t I will go there and start world war three if necessary. I mean it, so be serious.”

She pretended that everything was fine, that the man in front of her was really only a friend of hers, that her heart did not ache from the thought of her father abandoning her. That she did not shake from the fact that the man she learned to love had actually kidnapped her. She pretended to be strong, but really, she was far from it.

So therefore, she decided to abandon her memories completely. Start her life anew. Everything was going to be fine for her. Everything was going to be fine for JiMin. They were going to be fine. They’re going to be normal.

[mauricedharris]

Note: Translated from the Hebrew. All names have been changed.

Officer 1: Let the record note that we’re beginning this interview at 05:44 local time and we are recording this conversation. We have a few questions for you, Rabbi Schechter. Where were you between 19:00 and 20:00 on the evening of June 5, 2018?

Rabbi: At the Beach Plaza Hotel near Haifa.

Officer 1: And what were you doing there?

Rabbi: Officiating a wedding between two Jews.

Officer 1: Who said you could do that?

Rabbi: Well, I’ve been doing it for 35 years.

Officer 2: Answer the question!

Officer 1: No, it’s okay, Rafi. He’s cooperating. Rabbi, can I get you anything? Cigarette? Coffee? Bamba?

Rabbi: No thank you.

Officer 1: Are you sure? There’s nothing like Bamba–

Officer 2: Stop coddling him, Shmulik. Rabbi, why did you do it!? Tell us now or it won’t go easy for you!!

Rabbi: The wedding?

Officer 2: The unauthorized wedding! Shmuel, this mamzer is f—–ng with us! Let me have a couple minutes alone with him.

Rabbi: Oh my God! What?!  

Officer 1: No, no  – it’s okay, Rafi. Rabbi, here’s what we need from you. We need to know why you did the wedding, and who you work for.

Rabbi: I’m confused. It’s all in the wedding program.

Officer 1: Still, it’s better if we hear it from you.

Rabbi: Okay. I married a Jewish woman and a Jewish man according to Jewish law, in keeping with the practices and beliefs of my movement of Judaism.

Officer 2: That’s a nice little rehearsed speech. You say you work for your movement. And just what kind of organization is that?!

Rabbi: It’s the Conservative movement. Masorti here in Israel.

Officer 2: Oh, really? And what’s the big idea behind this so-called “movement”?

Rabbi: It’s based on the idea that halakhah is a living system of meaning, which still is binding upon Jews, and which can and should be flexible enough to adapt to changing times, especially in light of new knowledge. It’s really a return to centuries of halakhic Judaism functioning in a more fluid and inquisitive way, before Orthodoxy made the system too rigid – from our point of view at least

Officer 2: What kind of a twisted, sick, subversive notion is that?! I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth!

Officer 1: Stay focused, Rafi. Rabbi, this is Israel. You’re entitled to your skewed, marginal, crazy beliefs – you’re even allowed to call them a form of Judaism —

Rabbi: — Marginal? Our movement has hundreds of congregations around the world, a seminary in Jerusalem, and my synagogue has been here since the ‘50s —

Officer 2: –don’t interrupt him!

Rabbi: Sorry.

Officer 1: As I was saying, you’re free to believe what you want. But why did you marry these two people that the real rabbis in this country say can’t get married?

Rabbi: I’m a real rabbi.

Officer 2: We’ll see about that.

Officer 1: Why did you do it?!

Rabbi: Because the couple had an issue that prevented an Orthodox rabbi from marrying them, but a Conservative rabbi could do it. They understood that the State wouldn’t recognize their ceremony with me, that they’d also have to leave the country to get a civil wedding and then come back. This happens all the time in Israel. They go to Cyprus, or even Canada or the States, get married, and —

Officer 1: Rafi, make a note. This illegal wedding scheme is international. We’ll have to notify the FM and Mossad… I can’t believe it. Cyprus. It figures.

Officer 2: Noted. Suspect claims he is part of widespread international wedding corruption network that has infiltrated Israel deeply.

Rabbi: No, no, I didn’t say that. I want a lawyer.

Officer 1: Okay, Rabbi, hold on, no need for that yet. We’re just gathering information right now. Now, is there any other reason why you did this wedding?

Rabbi: You mean other than my Jewish religious beliefs?

Officer 2: Watch your mouth!

Officer 1: Relax, Rafi. What do you mean by that, rabbi? Or could it be what we see printed here?!

The record notes that Officer 1 placed a copy of the daily, Yisrael Ha-yom, on the interview table, opened to an article about the Conservative movement and the halakhic issue of mamzerut.

Rabbi: What is this? What are you showing me?

Officer 1: It says here that one of the parties of this wedding is a mamzer, but you were going to do the wedding anyway!

Rabbi: What? Oh, I heard that rumor. Not true. There was no mamzerut issue with this couple.

Officer 1: But it says right here in print that the so-called Conservative movement has long established a halakhic ruling that mamzerut is inoperative! What do you say to that, sir?

Rabbi: Yes, that’s true, but that decision was made many years ago and doesn’t apply to this–

Officer 2: And who exactly made this decision?!?

Rabbi: The Rabbinical Assembly’s Committee on Jewish Law and Standards.

Officer 2: Now it comes out! Shmuel. Write that down. It could be a front organization.

Rabbi: What?!

Officer 1: Just write it down, Rafi. Now rabbi — do you mind if I smoke?

Rabbi: Well, actually–

Officer 1: –there’s just one thing that’s bothering me, that I’d like for you to clear up. What exactly is your religious faction’s problem with this whole mamzerut business, anyway, eh?

Officer 2: No, Shmuel, don’t give him a platform to spew his beliefs! It’s what he wants!

Rabbi: What does that have to do with this case?

Officer 1: We’re asking the questions here!

Rabbi: Okay… Well, pardon me for asking, but are you familiar with the halakhic category of mamzerut?

The record notes that both officers conferred briefly, and then resumed the questioning.

Officer 1: Maybe we are and maybe we aren’t. What do you say it means, Mister “Rabbi”?

Rabbi: It’s an ancient halakhic interpretation that says that if a Jew happens to be the offspring of certain kinds of prohibited sexual unions, then that person is not eligible to get married to anyone except a very limited pool of people.

Officer 1: Ever?

Rabbi: Yes, ever.

Officer 2: That’s ridiculous! He lies, Shmulik!

Rabbi: No it’s the truth. A mamzer, according to the Orthodox, can’t get married to most of the other Jews in the community.

Officer 2: Oh, really? And who can they marry?

Rabbi: Well, another mamzer, or a convert. Technically, they could marry a Jewish slave.

Officer 1: So you’re marrying Israeli citizens to bastards, converts, and slaves?

Rabbi: What? No, wait… there’s so much wrong with what you just said. They’re not bastards–

Officer 2: But some of them are slaves, eh?! Where are these slaves? Where do you keep them, you son of a b—–!

Officer 1: Control yourself, Rafi!

Rabbi: What?! There are no slaves! Hold on a moment.

Officer 1: Is this a human trafficking thing?

Officer 2:  My God!

The record notes that at 05:54 one Adina Abramovitz, an attorney representing the suspect, entered the interrogation room.

Abramovitz: That’s enough, boys. I’m sure you’ve already asked my client more than enough questions without me here. From now on, I’ll be deciding which questions the rabbi will answer.

Officer 1: Okay, okay. Your fancy lawyer is here, we get it. Look, this is what we want to know. Were there any other reasons you chose to break the law?

Abramovitz: Allegedly break the law.

Officer 1: Okay, allegedly.

Rabbi: Bottom line, I know about the law, but it’s rarely enforced and it makes little sense. So many rabbis – even Orthodox ones – do these private weddings that aren’t official in the eyes of the Rabbanut. Afterwards, these couples can leave the country, get married, and come back and have the State recognize their marriage. This is just a chance for them to have a private, personal ceremony in accordance with their religious beliefs. So that’s why I do it. Because I believe the only Jewish state on earth should respect the different movements of Judaism, and I have compassion for Jews who are adversely affected by some of the rules of the Rabbanut.

Officer 2: Compassion, eh? So you marry them out of the goodness of your heart? You just meet them, maybe at some wedding hall, or maybe off the Tayelet in Tel Aviv, or maybe on an overlook in Haifa with the beautiful city and the sea in view behind the huppah —

Officer 1: That’s what my daughter wants, but there’s nowhere for the guests to park in Haifa–

Officer 2: Shut up you tembel!

Officer 1: Sorry, carry on.

Officer 2: So you expect us to believe that you do these weddings because you’re just a kind fellow?

Abramovitz: I don’t like your tone. What are you driving at?

Officer 2: Or maybe you were paid off by someone? Tell us the truth!

Rabbi: Of course I was paid.

Officer 2: Aha!

Abramovitz: Rabbi, stop talking.

Rabbi: No, this is silly. The couples always pay the rabbi for the wedding ceremonies.

Officer 1: Okay, I think we’ve heard enough for now. Rafi, phone Haggai’s office. Tell him we’re dealing with a pay-for-mamzer-marriage scam that has penetrated the entire country, from Mt. Hermon to Eilat. Tell him it involves the Cypriots, possibly the Canadians and Americans, and that there may be slaves involved too. This is going to blow up in the media fast, so we should find assistance for the rest of our caseload. Rabbi, you’re going to have to come with us.

Abramovitz: Why? He’s not a flight risk.

Officer 2: No, but he might try to marry another Jewish couple.

Officer 1: Khas v’khalilah!

Abramovitz: You’ll have to get a court order if you want to keep him here.

The record notes that at this time the rabbi reached for a blue cloth pouch that he had with him at the time he was apprehended, and which the officers apparently allowed him to bring with him and place on the table.

Officer 2: Shmulik, get down, he’s reaching for that suspicious package!

Rabbi: It’s my tefillin – I need to davven shakharit.

Officer 2: Save yourselves!

The record notes that Officer 2 threw his body on the table, covering the cloth pouch with his abdomen, apparently expecting it to explode.

==End of leaked portion of transcript.==

    Leaked Transcript of Israeli Police Interview of Conservative Rabbi Note: Translated from the Hebrew. All names have been changed. Officer 1: Let the record note that we’re beginning this interview at 05:44 local time and we are recording this conversation.

[mogdaze-blog]

Pat’s People - Short Story

They used to say that video killed the radio star, and maybe, at the time, they were right - but as network television gets more vapid and flavourless by the day, things have (mercifully) started heading in reverse. Audio isn’t just in right now, it’s well on its way to being bigger, better, and more ambitious than ever before - all thanks to spending a little time on the back-bench, dusting itself off and pulling itself back together.

It’s a true Lazarus story if there ever was one. Back from the dead, and living large once more.

That’s how I make my living: radio, on a little indie station in Rochester, New York. We go out to a few hundred-thousand listeners every day, and make a modest taking from sponsors and advertising, as well as what little extra we can scrape from our listeners. In the morning, I read the daily news report; in the evening, I DJ eighties classics well into the cold, firm embrace of the night. That’s fun and all, and it keeps the lights on, but my real passion is the show I’ve hosted every Saturday, without fail, for the last eight years.

It’s called “Pat’s People”. Every week, we have a different guest in from the local area, someone with an interesting story that only they could tell. Most important of all is that they’re all real people - I won’t say “average”, because if I’ve learned anything from my years of hosting the show, it’s that average doesn’t exist. Can’t exist. Perhaps a better way of putting it is that you wouldn’t find anybody with any hint of celebrity on Pat’s People, just folks who you might meet on the street and not even look twice at. Tones and topics could change on a dime: some Saturdays, it was human interest and innocent fluff, others it was appeals from cancer patients, or tragic stories of loss from grieving parents and weeping siblings. It ran the gamut of human experience, a whole palette of the weird, melancholy, or wonderful.

When you turned on the radio, or downloaded our podcasts from the archive, you never fully knew what to expect. But, as I’d been told in the collection of fan mail I’d accrued over the years, that sense of mystery was part of the appeal.

My producer, Carly, arranged the meetings, so I could share the listener’s sense of genuine surprise. The perfect interview is a discourse - it’s organic, unplanned, and spontaneous, a connection between two people playing out live for the audience. If you try to structure it too much, you’ll strangle it, and you can’t expect the listener to be interested in the verbal equivalent of a corpse.

Over time, though, I’d gotten better at predicting what my guests were here for at just a glance. I could tell the ones who were the eccentrics - with tales of strange encounters, wild exploits, and rambling yet interesting anecdotes - and the ones who were being weighed down by tragedy. But, as I sat in the cramped, overheated recording booth the team had taken to calling “The Sweat Locker” and stared out through the plexiglass at my latest guest, waiting for his cue, I didn’t know what to think.

Though it sounds like a contradiction in terms, the man sitting in the waiting area was freakishly normal. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty, with neat hair swept sideways on top and cropped close to his skull on the sides. His features somewhere between smooth and angular, his expression somewhere between joy and despair. His clothes were modest even by a Mormon’s standards: a plain white button-down shirt, and black slacks. He looked like he’d just walked off of some assembly line before they had a chance to add the detail. That little extra something that would make him seem more…human.

“Hello, everyone,” I spoke clearly into the mic, swallowing my misgivings about the guest, “and welcome to another instalment of Pat’s People, with me, Patricia Lee. It’s great to have you all back, and I hope everyone’s having a good week. We’ve got another interesting guest for you folks today.”

I nodded at the man through the glass, and he got up, walking carefully over to the door and entering the room. He sat on the stool across from me, with his hands on his knees, smiling.

“Would you like to introduce yourself to the listeners?” I asked him, gesturing towards his mic.

He leaned forward - leaving a long, uncomfortable pause - before saying, “I’m Bill. Bill Hensley.”

“Shaken, not stirred,” I said with a smile, though he didn’t seem to get the joke, “great to have you with us, Bill. Tell us a little about yourself.”

He looked vaguely uncomfortable, like he hadn’t expected to have to answer anything about himself. Despite the fact he wasn’t wearing any kind of tie, his shirt was buttoned all the way up to the throat - I briefly considered whether it was cutting off some of the oxygen to his brain.

“I’m a Rochester native, born and bred, and I work as a computer technician,” he said, a little stiffly, “but today’s story isn’t about me, Pat. Truth be told, I’m not all that interesting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Bill!” I said with a laugh, “so, what’s today’s story about, then?”

Bill, for his overall awkward and uncomfortable demeanour, had a beautiful, clear speaking voice. He sounded like he’d had elocution lessons at some point in his life, maybe recovering from a speech impediment. It was one of the few guests I’d had who sounded almost made for radio.

“It’s about my dear wife, Gillian,” he said, with a voice that seemed to walk up to sorrow and knock on its front door, before turning around and walking off, “she went missing a few weeks ago and hasn’t been found. Police don’t know what to do anymore, and neither do I, so I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again.”

“God, that’s terrible,” I said, “what happened?”

He sighed in that same tone of almost sadness, and continued.

“Things were going so well - we were on our honeymoon, having the time of our lives, still madly in love,” he said, “we’d bought a house together and had just moved in. She seemed so happy, so content with the arrangement. But, I think, looking back, she was acting a little strange towards the end.”

The End. Said with depressing finality.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Gillian would often seem frightened, even skittish. Really, it was all in her head, I’m sure, but she got this crazy idea in her head that there were people plotting against her,” he said, “she must have had problems, I think. Sickness of the mind. What else would make her think up a fantasy like that?”

“Perhaps she was unhappy.” I offered, feeling the need to defend the character of a woman I’d never met, just because she wasn’t here to defend it herself.

“No,” he replied, firm, “she was very happy, we all knew that. And if she wasn’t, she was hiding it extremely well.”

“We, Bill? Who’s we?”

“Myself and the kids,” he said, without taking a breath, “if she was unhappy, her own husband and kids would know about it, surely? There had to have been something deeper, some delusion, some secret madness.”

Bill was going off on a tangent, descending further down the rabbit hole of a subject he only seemed to have a minimal understanding of. I had to wrench him back into the story.

“So what happened next, then?” I asked, “after you noticed she was paranoid. Did you go to get help?”

He shook his head, looking not quite ashamed, but somewhere in the neighbourhood of it. Bill never seemed to fully express a single emotion, his face couldn’t quite manage it, like he was badly designed.

“No, I only realised all this in hindsight, I thought she was just being strange - you can’t trust a person in the grip of some grand delusion,” he said, “we were carrying on as normal. I went to work, she stayed home, doing the things that she did - housework mostly, I presume. I was so wrapped up in my work that I didn’t notice she was teetering on the edge. One night, I came back from work - I was installing security software for a small accounting company in town - when I saw that she was nowhere to be seen. The front and back door were locked, as usual, but she opened a window. Must have climbed out, and just run off.”

On paper, I should have been filled with sympathy for him. He was a local family man whose wife had disappeared without a trace - desperate, on the end of his working-class tether. But I didn’t like Bill Hensley - maybe it was the strange, jilted sentences he spoke in, like it was all rehearsed, a ploy for the misplaced compassion of the naïve. Maybe the problem was on my end - I didn’t like the way he looked, that half-finished, shop-window-mannequin vibe he had going. I just bit my bottom lip, and let him continue.

“The police looked into it and I filed a missing person’s report, but nothing came of it. This was weeks ago now, and I’m getting worried I might never see our Gillian again. That frightens me, Pat, it really does,” he said, “but I’m a long-time listener of your show, and I knew if anyone could help drum up public support for a search, it’d be you.”

“Well, I’m flattered, Bill, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure Gillian gets home safely,” I said, trying to smile politely in a way that I figured would placate him, “I can talk to my producer, and get a photo of Gillian and some of your contact details in the show notes.”

Bill smiled. A broad, real smile. First I’d seen from him all day.

“I think that’ll help tremendously, Pat,” he said, “it’s such a relief to have you on our side.”

“Please,” I said, “tell us a little about Gillian, as a person. About some of the time you spent together.”

The rest of the interview panned out as you’d expect. The romance Bill painted between himself and Gillian didn’t sound unique in any regard - think movie nights, fancy dinners, trips to romantic hotspots - but it made for easy, inoffensive listening to fill out the rest of my time slot. I couldn’t imagine what Gillian, or anyone else, would see in Bill - other than maybe that calm, soft-spoken voice.

When the interview was up, Bill left the studio without saying so much as a word to me. Rude bastard. I wrote it off as just a man under an immense amount of stress, and tried to push the whole experience from my mind. I hoped that Gillian would be found, alive and well, but I wouldn’t envy her for having to go back to Bill.

***

When you host a show like Pat’s People, some of the guests are gonna stay with you, almost inevitably. Kids dying from incurable diseases, soldiers who’d lost everything - even most of their bodies - in the midst of war, and even sometimes a personality so vibrant it buys them a ticket to a permanent residency in some locker in the back of your brain. Bill was none of those things - he’d left my mind the second I drove away from the studio, and I didn’t think a thing about it until that night, when I was sitting in bed and watching TV.

My cell phone rattled on the bedside table. I wasn’t used to getting calls at this hour from anyone, so it startled me. I paused the Netflix series I was about half way through binging, and answered the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked.

Suddenly, my mind flashed back to the interview with Bill. My body gave an involuntary shudder as I considered the possibility it’d be him on the other end, breathing into the receiver. Deep, husky.

“You Patricia Lee?” Asked a female voice.

First relief, then confusion.

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“I’m Gillian Hensley,” she said, her voice hard as granite and rough as sandpaper, “you spoke to Bill.”

My mind erupted into a miasma of questions - the most prescient being where she was, what she was doing, and how the hell she got my number. A supposedly missing person was, as far as I knew, calling me out of the blue. It had to mean something, and in the moment I definitely didn’t make the mistake of assuming it was gonna be something good.

“Your husband,” I replied, “yeah, he was on the show.”

“Two things,” she said, “first, that freak is not my husband. And second, you’re in a lot of danger right now, Pat, so you better listen closely to me. I can’t imagine we’ll ever meet, so just consider this a personal courtesy.”

This probably should have shaken me more than it did, but years on the job had rendered my bullshit detector overactive. This could have been anyone on the other end of the phone - some crank who’d heard the broadcast and felt like having a bit of fun with me. It’d probably surface on YouTube within a week.

“Sure, whatever,” I said, “give Bill my best when you see him next.”

My thumb was en route to terminate the call, but Gillian cut in.

“Listen, you can believe whatever you want to believe, but if you hang up on me right now, mine might be the last voice you ever hear.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a warning. Whatever room you’re in, lock the door. They’re probably on their way already.”

I’m not gonna lie, I was spooked. Gillian didn’t sound like some teenager or stupid internet prankster on the precipice of a giggle fit. Even if she was totally delusional, like Bill said, her conviction in that delusion was steely and absolute. I slowly got up from my bed, crept over to the bedroom door, and locked myself in. All this time, the phone never left my ear.

“What the hell’s happening, Gillian?” I asked, some of the panic crawling into my voice.

“If I tell you,” she said, “you’re gonna think I’m crazy, unless I show you something first. I’m gonna need you to search for the following archived audio files: Mid-Morning Meet-Up with Joe Bugliosi, episode three-eighty-six. NY Living with Marco Sanchez, episode four-thirty-two. Words on The Street, with Zoe Linwood, episode one-eighty-five. You got all that?”

The names were all vaguely familiar to me: they were other radio chat shows, like mine, scattered across the general New York area. Gillian spoke so authoritatively I felt almost powerless to resist her orders, so I searched up those three episodes on iTunes and downloaded them. I didn’t know what to expect, until I hit play on Mid-Morning Meet-Up.

“Welcome, guys, this is Mid-Morning Meet-Up, and I’m your host: Joe Bugliosi. What a beautiful morning it is here in Brooklyn - sunny, with clear skies are far as the eye can see.”

All inane banter and banal chitchat. A morning radio staple.

“What is this shit?” I said, “are you just screwing me around here, Gillian, if that is your real name?”

“Keep listening.” She said.

I sighed, and turned my attention back to the tablet, now spitting Mid-Morning Meet-Up in the dead of night.

“Before we move on with the show, we’ve got kind of a public service announcement from a local man in a pretty dire situation. Could you tell me your name please, sir?”

“Dexter Hensley.” He said.

“And what would you like to tell the folks out there in radio-land, Dex?”

“It’s about my dear wife, Gillian.” He said.

Dread suddenly laid across me like a weight blanket. Heavy, suffocating.

“She went missing a few weeks ago and hasn’t been found. Police don’t know what to do anymore, and neither do I, so I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again.” He said, his voice so calm, so perfectly rehearsed.

It wasn’t Bill, that much was clear. He may have been calm and soft-spoken, but I could say without an iota of doubt that Bill and Dexter Hensley were totally different people - who were somehow saying the exact same thing.

“What the fuck?” I said.

“Play the next one.” Gillian replied.

NY Living with Marco Sanchez. I sat through the dull, formulaic intro - peppered with the same niceties about the weather - until the interview began. Marco was speaking to a woman, who gave her name as Sophie Hensley.

“It’s about my dear wife, Gillian,” she said, her voice different but the timing and cadence as identical was the words she was parroting, “she went missing a few weeks ago and hasn’t been found. Police don’t know what to do anymore, and neither do I, so I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again.”

“And the last one.” Gillian chimed in.

Words on The Street, with Zoe Linwood. Another man this time. Marcus Hensley, supposedly.

“It’s about my dear wife, Gillian…”

I closed the case on the tablet, realising now that my skin was drenched in sweat. It felt like reality was collapsing around me - the tale of Bill and Gillian Hensley was a horror story in a romance novel’s dust jacket, and I was caught in the middle of it. The epicentre of the earthquake in the middle of shit-city.

“They call themselves The Children of The Abyss, or some crazy shit like that,” she said, “they’re a goddamn doomsday cult. They had me all cooped up in their compound, thought I was gonna help them usher in something, but I didn’t want any part of that. I got out, and now they’re all looking for me.”

“But they…”

“Don’t talk, just listen,” she said, “chances are, they might not want to hurt you. They’ll only do it if they think it’ll get to me, which is why - for your sake - I’m about to hang up. Sleep with one eye open, Patricia, they’re everywhere.”

“Gillian, please–”

True to her word, she hung up on me, leaving me feeling like a scorned date that she’d abandoned in the jaws of a doomsday cult. I was left with a few seconds of tense, uncomfortable silence.

Sadly, that didn’t last for long either.

“Patricia…”

The voice was sickeningly familiar, but where it was coming from was a mystery. My soul almost left my body with the scream when I saw a pair of long, pale hands emerging from underneath my bed.

“You should have kept her on the line, Patricia,” he said, “knowing is half the battle.”

Bill had been hiding underneath my bed, for god know’s how long. He contorted his way out from below, brushing dust bunnies from his hair and cracking his neck back into place. Only now did I realise just how tall he was. He didn’t just stoop, he towered - and my fear made him even bigger than he was.

“Oh my god…” I said, barely able to breathe as I backed away from him.

“My god ate your god,” he said, still with that same indifferent voice, “all that’s left is us. Tell me everything that Gillian told you, Patricia, and we can keep it clean.”

He was edging closer and closer, until my back was up against the door.

“Get the fuck out of my house, Bill!” I shouted at him, hoping he’d be deterred.

Before I even had time to react, one of his hands was around my throat, squeezing.

“It’ll snap like a twig if I want it to, Patricia. If you don’t play fairly, then I’ll take off your head, like a doll’s.”

I lashed out, punching him in the face. I felt his nose crunch under my knuckles as twin sprays of blood flowed off of his top lip and down his formerly white shirt. He didn’t move, just let it happen, and gripped my throat even tighter. He didn’t seem to even feel the pain.

“I see. So you’ve made your choice,” he said, calm as ever, “you’re about to go missing too, Patricia.”

My vision started to go foggy. I knew that if he kept this up any longer, and go unconscious, and be dead a few minutes afterwards. Fuelled by adrenaline and mortal terror, I rocked my body in a final, spasming convulsion, and Bill’s grip loosened from around my throat.

I seized my chance, throwing my weight into him and knocking him off of his feet. He toppled backwards onto my bedroom floor, perhaps still in shock from my sudden show of strength. While he collected himself, I unlocked my bedroom door and made a run for it into the hallway.

When I saw the two people standing there, waiting for me, I stopped in my tracks. One was a man, tall and broad, with a bald, snakelike head. The other was a woman with short, blond hair and a face like a plectrum. They both grinned, wide-eyed with anticipation for violence. They wore the same black slacks and white shirt combo as Bill. This, I assumed, was Dexter and Sophie.

“It’s futile to try to run, Patricia,” Dexter said, “best you just come with us.”

“Joe tried to run, and Marco, and Zoe,” Sophie said, in step with Dexter, “they’re not with us anymore.”

“Just behave, Patricia.” Said Bill, his pretty voice rising like a spectre behind me.

I was on the second floor, with Bill behind me, and Dexter and Sophie blocking up the stairway. If any of them got their hands on me, it was game over. Kaput. So if I wanted to survive, that left me with one option.

Before any of the cultists could grab for me, I lunged forward and vaulted over the banister. The trio on the second floor seemed almost too surprised to do anything, as I hit the bottom flight of stairs with an uncomfortable tumble. I winced in pain, spraining one of my ankles, and limped towards the front door as my pursuers came rumbling down the stairs towards me. I grabbed my car keys from the hook near the entrance, and sprinted out into the night, with Bill, Sophie, and Dexter hot on my heels.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” I repeated, the cold night air stealing my breath from me on the final mad dash towards the car. If they caught me before I got there, I was a goner, no doubt about it.

“Patricia!” Bill called from the hallway, “you can’t run from us, Patricia! We’ve got a god on our side!”

But I had a distance advantage on mine. As they were clearing the threshold, I was jumping into the driver’s seat and stabbing the keys frantically into the ignition. When I pulled away and started driving, the bastards were practically on top of me, baying for my blood. I laughed in sick, nervous relief as they faded into nothing in my rear view mirror, and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

The plan was to drive to the local police precinct and just spill it all. I was already going over my statement in my head, performing mental rehearsals, when I felt a hand grip my shoulder from the back seat.

“Can’t escape from us that easily, Patricia,” a voice from the darkness hissed, “you belong to us.”

Marcus.

I panicked and shrieked in fear, throwing off the steering. I slammed down the breaks and braced for impact, as the hood curled around the base of a street lamp and Marcus was flung forwards into the windshield. There was a loud cracking sound that was either the glass, his head, or both, and his body went limp. I’d never been so glad in my life that I practiced proper seatbelt safety.

I didn’t have the time or the focus to check if Marcus was dead, I just opened the door and bolted off into the night, screaming and crying, wracked by fear - and yet, still very much alive. That was something I could still be thankful for.

***

That night, I never did make it to the police station. Instead, I found the nearest Best Western and hunkered down for the night, hoping everything would make more sense in the morning. Truth is, as much as I willed it to be a dream, the reality was that I’d been attacked by those freaks in my own home. When I woke up, I at least had the solace of knowing it was finally over.

When I went to check out in the morning, someone in the lobby had the radio on, tuned to a station I wasn’t familiar with. It was another morning chat show, full of the same anodyne babble about the weather and local traffic. I was approaching the counter, when the show was introducing a guest.

He gave the name Bill Lee, and I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, as my skin broke out into masses of gooseflesh.

“Why are you here, Bill?” Asked the host.

“It’s about my dear wife, Patricia…”

[itsiotrecords-blog]

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Women are complicated, loving creatures, meant to be treasured and adored.  But we aren’t perfect beings, and the limits of our patience can (and often are) tested beyond what is practical or considered. We are only human, after all, and as such, we have triggers that can send us into a tailspin of annoyance, resentment, and good ol’ fashioned rage. A lot of these hot buttons come in the form of off-hand phrases that, on their own, might be innocuous, but in the context of gender politics, can be very dangerous. For anyone who has ever spent even a little time with a woman, this list might seem somewhat familiar. In fact, when I was doing the research for this article, all the women polled unilaterally agreed on the top five phrases on the list. We hear these things over and over, so I’m doing everyone a public service by consolidating them all into one place. I’ve compiled a list of the top 15 things you should never, ever say to woman, and the (mostly) logical reasons why it’s such a bad idea. Scrub these from your vocabulary now, and you can thank me later.

#1 “Is that what you’re wearing?” Although this question might be completely innocent, it has the potential to ignite a firestorm of anger, self-doubt and recrimination the likes of which you have never seen before. You might actually want to know if she’s wearing that, and you might have asked in a neutral tone without malice or ill-intent, but you might not get a reciprocal reaction. What she heard was criticism, judgment and control. Some women are keenly aware of their appearance and are methodical about deciding what to wear. So, when she walks out, after having spent all that time and energy figuring out what to wear, and you throw shade (even if it’s unintentional) you’ve just undermined all the work it took to make this happen. Just don’t do it. Unless she has toilet paper stuck to her shoe or her skirt is tucked into her underwear, never, under any circumstances, criticize what she has on. What to say instead: “I really like what you’re wearing.”

#2 “I don’t care.” This is the ultimate form of rejection. When a woman feels comfortable enough to share something with you, whether it’s about her new promotion at work or the fight she’s in with her mom, it means she trusts you. Telling her you don’t care about the things she does is pretty much telling her you don’t really care about her either. In a different context, telling a woman you don’t care when faced with some sort of choice is not only annoying, but mildly disrespectful. Have an opinion about where you want to eat, what movie you want to see, which party to attend. It shows you care enough about what’s happening to get invested. When you can’t even muster a short list, it means you don’t really give a crap. What to say instead: “Tell me more about what happened.” or “Let’s brainstorm together.”

#3 “Where’s my _____?” Just because you have a badass, capable superwoman in your life, doesn’t mean she’s been granted the powers of clairvoyance and omnipotency. She does not know where your keys/wallet/socks/cell phone is and nor is it her job to find them. Asking the woman in your life to keep up with all her own stuff, plus your stuff, (plus your kids’ stuff, if you have them) is just plain dumb, and reinforces some pretty antiquated gender norms. This can become particularly annoying when said superwoman is busy with her own things, and you interrupt her to ask her to sort out your things. It may seem like a small thing to you, but you can bet she’s probably rolling her eyes when you aren’t looking. Sure, she might actually know where your things are, but you’re a grown human with eyes and deduction skills, too. Right? What to say instead: “Do you have time to help me look for my ____?”

#4 “How much do you weigh?” Unless you are her doctor, then this is never, ever acceptable. No matter how confident, strong, beautiful, and self-assured a woman is, asking her about her numbers (age, weight, sex partners) is just bad business. And it’s not always because a woman is insecure about how much she weighs. It’s mostly because there is so much cultural pressure attached to these numbers, especially weight. It’s scary to say them out loud without fear of being judged. Your girlfriend could weigh 200 pounds and be the most beautiful woman on the planet, but all the cultural associations with it might not really match how she feels about her own weight. It’s best to concentrate on how she makes you feel and how beautiful her spirit is, rather than some arbitrary number on a scale. What to say instead: “You look amazing.”

#5 “I don’t mean to be rude, but….” Anytime anybody prefaces a statement with this, it means they are probably about to say something rude. Forget about whether or not to say this to a woman, just don’t say this to anyone, generally. Just because you say you don’t mean to be rude, doesn’t absolve you from the rudeness of the words that will inevitably follow this statement. It’s not a thing. You are being rude, so don’t insult me by saying you don’t mean it. Don’t be a dick. If you have to say something that is hard to hear, do it with kindness and compassion. These six words will put someone on the defensive, and will likely cause a fight. If things need to be said, say them, but don’t hide behind this as a way to say whatever you like. It’s not cool. What to say instead: Nothing. Just say nothing.

#6 “You’re acting just like your mother.” This is a landmine waiting to be stepped on and blow you into pieces. Mother-daughter relationships are notoriously fraught with complicated female politics that people who are neither a mother or a daughter will ever understand. The dynamic is so loaded with baggage and history, that it’s not a safe space through which to tread. You just don’t know what you’re getting into when you compare a lady to her mother. If the lady in your life is exhibiting signs that remind you of her mother, it’s not really your place to point them out, like, ever. Telling a woman she is just like her mother could explode all over you and suck you into a world of repercussions the likes of which you may never be able to climb out from under. Even if her mother is a damn delight, don’t go there. What to say instead: “I brought you some tacos.”

#7 “How many people have you slept with?” You just can’t ask women about their sex number. Similar to all the icky stuff surrounding their weight, a woman’s number of partners is something very personal. And truthfully, it has very little to do with who she is as a person. We still have a long way to go, as a society, to be as accepting about women’s numbers as we are about men’s, so think before you try to get too much into her sexual past. It’s also a slippery slope right into slut shaming that will leave a mark on her for the rest of your relationship. Think about what would happen if she reveals her number and your reaction is disappointing or upsetting. This judgment could damage the current relationship and make her unlikely to share things with you in the future. What to say instead: “How many times have you been in love?”

#8 “Are you really going to eat all of that?” Yes. I am going to eat all of that, and the last thing I need is you policing what I put into my body. You don’t get to weigh in on what or how we eat. It’s just not any of your business, and when you make it your business, you immediately transform into a controlling, sexist pig. Unless I’m about to eat something I’m allergic to and could possibly die, and you’re merely trying to save my life, do not comment on what I eat. This kind of behavior is fat-shaming in disguise and is destructive and incendiary to a woman. We face an insane amount of pressure from a lot of different places, so when we sit down with a loved one to enjoy a meal, and that loved one makes us feel bad about what we’re doing, it’s not good. In fact, if your wife reaches across the table to punch you in the face, you deserve it. What to say instead: “That looks so good. You really know how to order.”

#9 “You wouldn’t understand.” SO. INSULTING. You’re pretty much saying that the woman is dumb and couldn’t possibly understand something so complicated with her silly little lady brain. But in truth, she can understand, maybe better than you, and to say she couldn’t is both condescending and ignorant. Telling a woman that she wouldn’t “get it” is not only extremely rude, but it’s also completely exclusionary. If the implication here is that she couldn’t possibly understand something because she’s not a man, then there are other ways you can approach this without insinuating that she’s just too stupid to even fathom what you’re saying. Nobody wants to feel like they’re left out of something, so don’t assume she won’t understand. Explain it to her. Make her understand, because she probably really wants to. What to say instead: “I’d really love to talk to you about these things.”

#10 “I don’t like your friends.” Danger. Abort mission. Get out of this conversation while your head is still attached to your body. You will not win an argument over this, you will not convince her of your side, and you will absolutely create an awkwardness from which you might not recover. Saying anything negative about her friends (or her sister, or her mother, for that matter) is dangerous territory. Even if she’s in a fight with them, and she’s saying terrible things about them, you are never, under any circumstances, to offer a negative opinion about them. I’ll concede that this is little illogical. But these friends were probably around before you, might be around after you, and have a lot of influence in her life. You don’t want to poison the well with them. She’ll resent you, they’ll hold it against you, and you’ll wind up being the asshole in a “them vs. you” situation. What to say instead: “I really admire how close you are to your girlfriends.”

#11 “You look tired.” You might as well say, “you look like shit.” It’s essentially the same thing. Telling a woman she looks tired is redundant (because she probably is really tired) and reinforces everything she’s probably feeling about herself in that moment. Maybe she had a long day at work, or the children were particularly high maintenance that day, or she stayed up all night studying, but you don’t say it out loud. No matter the reason, she deserves to be rewarded for her extra efforts, not criticized about the toll they’re taking. In scenarios where you find yourself wanting to comment on how a woman looks or her general appearance, always default to a compliment. No woman has ever started a fight after her significant other uttered, “you are so beautiful.” What to say instead: “Enjoy this glass of wine I poured for you.”

#12 “You’re overanalyzing this.” This starts the countdown to the top four most dangerous and micro-aggressive things you can say to a woman. When you tell a woman to stop “overthinking” something, or that she’s “overanalyzing” it, you’re dismissing her emotions and her process of working through them. Men and women calculate their feelings very differently, and neither one is right or wrong, but this statement comes close to saying she’s doing it wrong. Perhaps it’s the addition of the prefix, “over” that is adding the extra level of condescension, but saying this is the equivalent to saying that she’s doing her feelings wrong. Which is ridiculous, because we are all having our own experiences, and you can’t really tell us how to have them. They belong to us. So, if we need to think and rethink and then think some more about something, then that’s what we need to do, and it’s okay. We get to do it the way we want. What to say instead: “Let’s talk more about it.”

#13 “Is it that time of the month?” Don’t you dare, EVER, blame anything on our periods. It’s a low-blow and wildly unfair. It’s a biological process that we have little to no control over, although we struggle to have agency over it every month. Yes, it makes us a little more weepy at sad movies, or a little more apt to order an extra egg roll, but it does not mean we’re “overreacting” when you’re being an asshole. Assuming a woman’s human emotions are merely a function of her menstrual cycle is the most insulting and denigrating assumptions you can make about woman. It undermines the authenticity of her feelings, lumping them into an “irrational reaction” category, thus invalidating them about legitimate things. Periods are a physiological process, that don’t turn us into aliens or hijack our personalities, so it’s never safe to blame our periods. What to say instead: “Sure, I’ll watch The Notebook with you again.”

#14 “You’re acting crazy.” Sigh. This is the worst. The absolute worst. Chances are she’s not acting crazy, but rather, getting emotional in a way that is uncomfortable for you to watch, or in a way that you don’t know how to handle. Unless your girl has been officially diagnosed by a medical professional (and, actually, even if she has) this is not a smart tactic. For most women, hearing this is a trigger. As in, “Oh yea… I’ll show you crazy,” because they probably don’t perceive their own behavior as anything but in-bounds. Now, I’m not saying women don’t lose control and have meltdowns— we all know that’s not true— but I am suggesting that it’s not a good idea to label these episodes as “crazy.” It’s like gasoline on a fire that will inevitably consume you and burn your life down. What to say instead: “What can I do to make you feel better?”

#15 “Calm down.” No one in the history of the spoken language has ever actually calmed down after being told to “calm down.” It’s a terrible strategy for diffusing volatile situations, yet people continue to invoke it when a woman is upset. Yes, it would probably benefit her, in that moment, to find a little zen, but that’s not where her head is. Whatever she’s doing or saying  is what she needs to be doing or saying, and you don’t get a say in that reaction. Saying “calm down” is the verbal version of a pat on the head and makes it seem like she needs handling. Nobody likes to feel “handled” and by stepping into the role of “handler,” you’re invoking hundreds of years of patriarchy that suggest women aren’t fit to manage their own emotions. It’s a sticky trap that is impossible to get out of. What to say instead: “Will you explain to me why you’re so upset?”

Source: TheRichest