#tarot cards with friendly drunk girls

[timbourinedrakejr]

never let me go to the club, because i WILL kiss all the homies goodnight and buy everyone food and drinks and confess my love to people i vaguely recognise from uni (i am aro).

[unbreak]

do  you  feel  safe? out  in  the  light or  is  this  the  place where  monsters  hide?      

is  that  suvanant  'suvi'  mikaelson  on  bourbon  street?  the  23  year-old  demon  who  stays  in  the  french  quarter?  i  heard  her  adoptive  parents  are  keelin  and  freya  mikaelson.  she  is  notoriously  known  for  being  benevolent  and  tenacious  but  also  introspective  and  circumspect.  which  is  probably  why  she  is  considered  the  reticent  around  town.  i  wonder  if  she  had  her  tarot  cards  reading,  yet?  either  way,  the  cards  on  the  table  will  reveal  her  fate  soon  enough.

a  baby  girl  born  to  demons.  placed  on  the  steps  of  a  church  of  all  places,  wrapped  in  a  coat  —  likely  stolen.  when  taken  inside,  the  church  caught  on  fire  amid  her  harrowing  screams.  quickly  brought  back  outside,  in  the  arms  of  a  nun.  keelin  and  freya  heard  the  baby’s  wails  —  fate,  maybe;  meant  to  be.  they  brought  her  home.  later  named  her  suvanant,  meaning  ‘good  fortune’  or  ‘blessed’  —  suvi,  for  short.  legally  adopted  and  raised  her  with  insurmountable  love  and  affection.

but  suvi  grew  up  fearful  of  herself  —  of  her  dark  power  that  can  corrupt  her.  she  wore  a  bracelet  to  suppress  all  her  powers  from  early  childhood  —  only  taking  it  off  to  practice  in  the  presence  of  a  family  member  or  family  friend  capable  of  stopping  her  were  things  to  go  wrong.  she  feared  that,  if  corrupted,  she’d  hurt  people  —  especially  those  she  loved  most  —  and  not  feel  any  remorse,  or  care  at  all.  she  watched  herself,  every  action  put  under  a  microscope  —  still  does.  wary  of  herself  and  what’s  within.  can’t  allow  herself  to  risk  and  become  a  monster.

she  tried  to  keep  people  at  a  distance  —  to  protect  herself  as  much  as  protect  them  from  her,  potentially.  but,  no  matter  how  much  she  tried,  she  could  never  turn  her  back  on  anyone,  especially  those  who  genuinely  wanted  to  be  her  friend  or  a  part  of  her  life.  despite  that,  however,  there’s  always  been  reluctance,  hesitance.  never  sure  enough  of  herself  and  her  own  motives  —  is  she  genuine  when  she’s  friendly,  when  she’s  nice  and  helpful,  when  she  loves,  or  is  it  all  a  cover  to  hide  her  horrible  self?  not  only  of  hers,  but  suspicious  of  others’  motives  as  well.

suvi  continues  to  wear  the  bracelet  —  is  rarely  without  it,  for  her  own  comfort  despite  having  a  good  grasp  on  and  control  over  most  of  her  powers.

she’s  employed  at  a  small  but  profitable  flower  shop  —  carries  a  floral  scent  with  her,  always.  volunteers  at  an  orphanage.  an  extroverted  introvert.  meticulous.  a  sleepy  drunk.  recently  found  love  for  cooking.

you’re  not  such  an  easy  target one  minute  i  know  you  then  i  don’t i  know  you  then  i  don’t      

links  —   profile.  connections.

[solardick]

Almost fell over today from a dizzy spell. I almost lost conscoousness. Ass rot, continues.

Why go to the hospital? Their just going to tell me to go fuckmyself lije everytime ive ever been. Why go to a ckinic? I wont see a foctor that soeaks my language. Why go to the dentist, gheir just going to sabotage my teeth or take advantage for money.

No one move too fast now. A testosterone ridden “You talking to me?!” Just keep walking. Talking to all of you. Conceded ass. Not caring that you’re all holding up traffic and people have to squeeze by while you just stand there. Trying to pick a fight to feed your “ego” while with your little children.

☦️

Rich with symbolism. The more i learn the more enamoured I become to russian culture. The slanted dash represents to two theives on either side of the christ man. The side slanting up is for the man who repented and the one slanting down is for the one who cursed him. And so went to hell while the other ascended to heaven.

Though with my own, here not ever taking any position. As i walk through the valley i see naught but sickness. Being an enemy doesn’t leave room. But as i walk through the fields i see naught but, presence. Beyond the man that speaks as crows. All the while being called black.

Psychological violence. By the sick side. Well known enough. The manure i sprout from.

Though do not be mistaken as by eating the crow. For they know not what they speak. Its just a clever spell to conceal the truth. As one who speaks as crows. And not one that is spoken to by them. There so much of this that it is difficult to know what is real from what is prapogandabh. As it is often soeke. To be coming from without by the very ones condemning the other. As russian’s spies is a common place heard voiced, concern of prejudice.

Never mind the world stage. Its all fallows a script. I am an enemy in strange lands. Being risen by voices that are condemned by others.

There are some interesting facts about italy and russia on the same time frame as the emergence of the tarot is questioned to be. The 14th century had a heavy traffic between the two countries which maybe may be assumed why they are all spies, while secretly shuffling a deck of cards culturally ingrained in mainf stream coach potatoism.

And it’ll probably turn out thst tarot is a Pictionary for the itslian 21 letter alphabet comprised of Russian imagery. From rhe interbredding of italian and russian royalty. A tool to aid in language learning and cultural understanding.the same method is used today for toddlers and interactive battery powered Pictionary games.

Raven came by to see me today. To say hello. I said hello back. Eye contact and everything. Though that was nice of it. If i had any grub i’d have offered it. Fun too cause i received an Odin article in my mailbox instead of at my front door.

Though, Unfortunately I’m not allowed being friendly with a girl, or trying to correct any immoral disposition towards me, without being punished. Well in most cases. Though its not like ive ever really had a converstaion with one before that wasnt old enough to be my mother. Or wasnt messing with me. Somits a touchy subject. Uhm. Eh raven. And the ones that do give off matting calls and sayign i have a boifriend. Instead i continiously get paired withother i cant communicate with or Druggies, drunks, criminals, or homo’s which 90% of them are spychologically or emotionally abusive. So i have nothing to say in person. All my communication jow is from god and its non vocal. Are they talkign to me? Ok, just nod. And agree witheverything. Let them speak for me. People have been doing that my whole life. Forcing their agendas on me. Uhm. Well, we’ll see what’s next. And lay off the negative. Even if that an impossibility. And if their messing with you don’t give back the same. Cause it’ll worst later.

Usualy the summer heat is bothersome. Not this year. Not so much. Maybe it’s because there wasn’t a winter this year. So there’s no adaptation to the consistent cold and the heat is tolerable.

Hot cold hot cold hot cold, tempering a sword. Diesnt seem like i gave room for the hermit card in my deck. Though, will have to play with positions and read through the dictionary. One finds alot of english words in russian. See if i cant find any more convenient letter card associations. Cause the tower card is obviously russian. Interreting considering it was the italians that built was is now considered the modern day Kremlin.

Though, a complete transformation in personality is required in accepting an old way of being. Which would be easy, if outside interference wasn’t forcing it’s mandate. And if old knowledge lead to the emergence of a new personality to begin with.

Image for letter З is all but made. Only that it seems to fall out of a “trump” category. And more into the triumph category. Also ideas as to the letter Э, perhaps being the world card. So far the dominating motivation is the alphabetical correspondence of primary letters. In primary, i assume the most significance to single letter words as primary significance, fallowed by prefixes secondarily and tertiary, as a sum definition of all words beginning with a letter. Since all words in a category under the dame letter have reversed meanings, reversed card definitions also fallow the same rule. The reverse or conflicting or contrasted meaning also has to be considered for the image formation.

This of course has its fallibility since not everything may be defined this way in a single image. The philosophical debate about the fallibility of human decision may be argued here.

Since the word is god. And god is the word. And god speaks through the bird. And the bird is the only other living thing on earth that can speak actual words. They make for messengers more often than not. As does all other creatures that have a heavier emotional tie to. Though, messengers comes in all form. Not all are loving beings but carried on with the supernal motions of reality. It is all too easy to include these into pictorial form. Save that it ceases to be universal and becomes geographical. Save for those that span borders.

An example of the english letter Tt and the tower. Combines the elements or notions of movement and the static immovable. As transport and transit. This implies the function of inanimate objects or animating tools, stemming to vehicles to the mode of violence and destruction. A 911 call to the motions of avionics and towering structures. The motion to transpose and it’s deffintion as a prefix. This given solely to the power of mars is erroneous. As are its definition given to it in tarot. And only works this way in accordance to the rest of the deck. Or the rest of the script. In is also highly attached to the planet mercury. The 911 towers by itself also gives prominence to mars by the power of 9 and the moon by the pictorial power of the moon card. Number 2. And two towers. Which lead to the violence of animation firearms functions agaisnt nations known for the use of A-K- 47’s. A fool card to justice as is shown to the letter A and the letter K. Though the A also being tied to the alpha-tism for domination. As well as to the apprehension of first experiences. 47 is an interrseting number also. It breaks down to number 11. And also to cyclic repetition by 2 to the number 5. And again. Brings it to the hierophant, -under one rule- and to the number 7. The chariot. 7 also brings it back to the hierophant. And the institution.

Its position in the deck shows promise to a life foundation prior to outside interference of violence. And the fear of outside threats to self. The fallowing card is the star. A feminine body in a state of reception, and peace. Restitution. This to be fallowed by emergence and a rainbow sun. The problem here that the tower card being a mercury symbol. Tied to a negative mars is, a violent outburst of communication. On my personal case this same effect. Did not result in any positive restitution of peace or an outcry of a nation to slay the evil. Instead the opposite and the reemergence of evil , fire by fire all the while preaching about number 22 and extiguishing the flames while throwing gasoline on it. So fuck you all, perverting a natural phenomenonal symbol for peace after a storm and praise russia.

A state bred and risen from several decimations, and survival by seclusion from interfering bodies of information while being demonized and staying true to them selves and their origin. Building their own individuality away from the evils of degeneration of being. Neighbouring nations that stood by and watched severe calamity befall them. Before raising even a single finger.

Cant say i like the cultural fashion style much though.

With the added fact that most of the west usies the Waite version of tarot….. yeh. Stay away from that one. Its pure evil. The marseille and Italiano versions are go toos. European versions in general. And considering my first life experience is a crisis. Falling down a full staircase as a toddler barely able to walk, probably yet stand. Suits the tower card as letter Бб. Also suits the russian reformation of the beginning 20th century. And the fallowing 26 million russian civilian casualties by facist germany then entering the America’s under the depth psychology movement. The germanic languages in general are the most susceptible. For a people that knowledgeable as to the creation of the psychology movement and that indent to social engineering, - and superior craftsmanship- not aware the battle was a lost cause to begin with is worthy of scrutiny and speculation. The argument against the “pioneers” not being of german nationality aside that fact from being German speaking by native mother tongue. And then having a then, recent popular music group called ramstein with a song on the top charts that repeats the words “you are mine” or, “I have you.” While spitting flames….

Alchemy, the art of deconstruction and reconstruction based on the law of equivalent exchange. The law of equivalent exchange is synonymous as putting in the time and effort to the creation of thought forms and knowledge.

Though when it comes to art supplies. German engineering is the way to go. Love those Faber Castel polychromous crayons. Even if they are pricy. But, wont be able to get back into that until after all the manipualtion goes away and rots in a ditch to be eating by fucken dung beetles. Would ahve wuit smoking years ago save for the consistent stress and sabotages by these neo nazist cockroaches.

“Classical” esoterists formation of the tarot to Egyptian origins.

The art of prostituting humanity as slavery. While the russian substitute the word as an apology. While the bible equates it to a sin of prostituting oneself to false idols or false gods, in the sense of the sacrifice of pride. While the “westerner’d” equates it to sex and pride, while associating it to a negative view of feminine sexual services. But a positive view of masculine sexual conditioning. Australians have a healthier more natural view and at the same time allow for personal opinion and disposition to make a choice for themselves. Northern liberal or southern conservative. Same works for the united states. Canadians are devoid of choice to favour dominion on lunar values. There is no pride in an apology.

No? Its been 30 years since canadians won their own trophy cup. Is the team called the oilers, after crude oil emissions destroying the atmoshpere, really going to win the cup this year? So much for national pride. Rhey should stick to what they know best and bending over. Even the native Americans said, stop using our language as symbols of pride, you suck.

Satirical truth aside, it’s all apart of the script, anyway. Present goals are in reducing carbon emissions, not in attaching pride to them. Even if they did win. Symbolically speaking is an insult to current objections and motivations. Though attaching to male endeavours. Is part of the problem. That needs to be fixed. On this regard, the present russian influence serves purpose. It has less to do with annexing land and more to do with conditioning it’s populace and interfering with the manipulations against mankind and giving notice and support for its current anti-semitism against evil and outside interference against its motivations. The united states cutting trade with china forces the chinese to invest in other clients endorsing ties and diplomatic and foreign relations to ensure their own economic survival. And then gets backlash from western nations condemning to increasing support for the russian government.

On this regard, the American justice carries a sword and doesn’t care on whom it is pointed. The russian justice holds a shield. The Americans are forcing hands and picking fights outside their own jurisdiction increasing support for it’s enemies while gaining independance from communist conservatist governments. Canada aims at increasing its own population by giving refuge for as many foreigners as it can possibly support with minimal strain on its economy. Supporting the war against Ukraine. The chinese have a larger army than there are people in the americas. This current state of events will last for another 12 years. Afterwards russia will be absolved of all it’s “crimes”. And peace will be ling lasting. Though a major war is not out of the question. Theres no point to fret for its all planned out anyway with a very clear and specific goal in mind. Unless it forces its attention specifically and martial law gets enacted though i doubt the majority of canadians would even care or listen anyway. Being all foreigners running away from the fight to indulgence in providence and welfare, and debauchery, sexual liberty, strong alchohol and a sedatives. Sold on every street corner. Sorry personal bias. Of all the foreigners im being introduced to it’s only the Nigerians who aren’t seemingly taking advantage of the welfare system or promoting and/or smoking drugs on my pathways. While most of the locals still give me the ridicule of being full of shit. Cause they masterbate to pornhub. And speak of degenerate, prejudice or bipolar bs everyday. And then every once in a while because i have a neurotic break and then get punished for it. … same story for the last pushing 40 years. Same shit different year.

At least vishnu can jerk off four guys at the same time. See what i mean?

🎶 Girl, you’re my angel 🎶

If looking for russian history books. Or “foreign policy books. I wouldn’t trust anything written after 2014. Do you see the titles and headers of all these new books? Talk about propaganda. Dont play innocent. People voted trump into power as a mock example for ridicule.

[missmcspooks]

Tracey Wigginton: A Thirst For Blood

WHO WAS TRACEY WIGGINTON?

Tracey was born in August 1965 in Rockhampton Australia. Her mother abandoned her when she was four years old, and was officially adopted by her grandparents, George and Avril Wigginton. Tracey claims that her grandparents were sexually and physically abusive towards her, and were very controlling over her life. When Tracey was 15 her grandparents passed away and left her $75,000. She briefly moved back in with her mother, but moved out as her mother was not accepting of her sexual orientation. Her mother claimed that she was rebelling against the Catholic church. Stacey moved in with a friend who claimed she was a very friendly and sweet girl. She eventually stopped attending Mass and instead began seeing a White Witch in Adelaide. By the time she was 24 years old, she had gotten deeply interested in the Occult and black magic. She held seances, kept black magic items on her person, and read tarot cards. She would use animal blood to draw occult symbols, and claimed to have a “need” to feed on animal or human blood. Stacey had a lover named Lisa Ptaschinski, 24, who also participated in the Occult, along with another lesbian couple, Kim Jervis, 23, and Tracy Waugh, also 23. It’s also been stated that Tracey had multiple personalities, including her alter ego named “Bobby.” Tracey had also convinced her lover Lisa to slit her own wrists to allow her to drink her blood during their rituals. 

THE MURDER

Tracey informed her cult crew that she strongly felt the need to feed on a man, and she’s been wanting to indulge on this feeling for a long time. Their wasn’t much planning when it came to the murder plan, other than going out for a drive one night to look for the perfect victim. On October 20th 1989, the four went to a club called Lewmors in Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley. They drank for around two hours before Tracey declared that it was time to go ahead with their plan. They drove around for a while until they spotted Edward Baldock, 47. Edward was a father of four and also had grandchildren who he loved so dearly. He was out with his friends that night, drinking and playing darts, and was out looking for a taxi when he was found. They pulled over and Tracey got out to speak with him. She seduced him and made it sound like she was a prostitute and would be taking him to a secluded area for them to be alone. When he got into the car, he was so drunk that he instantly fell asleep. The crew drove to Orleigh Park and Tracey, Lisa, and Edward got out of the car, while the others remained inside. Kim handed Tracey a knife that she carried with her for protection. The three of them found someone secluded. Stacey helped Edward take his clothes and shoes off while Lisa just stood there and watched. Edward panicked and asked her what she was doing, when she quietly stabbed him in the back. As he went to grab her hand, Stacey pulled him by his hair and stabbed him in the neck, and then in his throat. Stacey stabbed him 27 times, almost severing his head. When Stacey began to drink his blood, Lisa couldn’t handle it and ran back to the car. She drank his blood for 15 minutes before returning to the car, and the crew was able to smell blood in her breath. However, what Stacey didn’t realize was that she dropped her keycard which had her name on it, and when the girls weren’t looking Edward put the card in his shoe, thinking it was his bank card. Later when someone found his body, police found this keycard and the four women were arrested immediately

TRIAL, SENTENCING, AND PROBATION

On October 23rd, 1989 the four women were taken to court and were all charged for the murder of Edward Baldock. The following year on February 1st, all four women were brought to the Supreme Court of Queensland and were committed for trial. Tracey was the only one to plead guilty and didn’t have to go to trial, as the trial for the remaining three took 14 days. This murder was described as “one of the most brutal and bizarre crimes Australia has ever seen.” The coverage of the hearing was being shown around the world, everyone knew about this case. Stacey was sentenced to life in prison with the minimum of 13 years. It took the jury 48 hours to convict Lisa of murder, sentencing her to life in prison, and Kim was convicted of manslaughter, sentencing her to only 18 years in prison. The fourth woman, Stacey Waugh, was acquitted due to not having an active role in the murder. Tracey applied for parole five times before she was released in 2012. She has remained on parole up to this very day. When she was 42 years old she suffered greatly with diabetes and kept a low profile until 2019 when she began sharing disturbing things on her Facebook page. She posted pictures of skulls and bones,vampires, witches, and demons. She also posted a status saying, “do not meddle with the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.” Many people including the daughter of Edward stated that Tracey should’ve remained in prison for the rest of her life. Lisa was released on parole in 2008. 

[toast-the-unknowing]

One of my favorite headcanons is that Adam does tarot readings for friendly drunk sorority girls at parties. Don’t ask me why, I just find the image hilariously wholesome

yo where the FUCK was a nice trustworthy-looking mystic boy telling girls “yeah the tarot cards say you should dump that loser” when all of my sorority sisters were dating scumbags, do you have any idea how much better Adam would have made my college years

[freakingoli]

[ ELLIOT FLETCHER, TRANSMALE, HE/HIM ] — If you’re strolling Derry today, you might see [ OLIVER MOORE ] along the way! The [ TWENTY FOUR ] year old can usually be found at [ DERRY HIGH SCHOOL ], when they aren’t busy with [ TAROT CARD READINGS or YOGA ]. I hear they seem to be [ FUNNY and FRIENDLY ], but they are also rumored to be [ HOTHEADED and CYNICAL ].

tw; transphobia (kinda)

name: oliver moore age: twenty-four birthday: december 15 gender: male sexuality: pansexual family: trent moore, adoptive father - retired army captain bio:

On December 15th almost twenty-five years ago, Olivia Duke was born in a hospital in New York City.  The baby’s mother was a child herself, only sixteen years old and completely on her own as she learned to nurse her baby, and change her diaper.  After leaving the hospital, she brought her baby home to the small apartment she shared with four other “delinquent” teens (delinquent to their families, though their only crimes were that they’d in some way offended their conservative families), and did her best to make a life that her child could fit into.  She had already dropped out of school so she could work a minimum-wage job, and quickly she learned that being a young mom meant no longer having real friends or a social life of any kind.  And within a month, she was at the Fire Station, sobbing and handing her baby over to a firefighter who knew better than to ask any questions.  Baby Olivia was handed over to the state.

Olivia was put into a foster home immediately.  The couple she was given to were in their mid-twenties and unable to conceive, and they loved Olivia unconditionally for a long while.  When Olivia was old enough to refuse to wear the dresses and bows they tried to put her in, they adapted.  The couple was more than happy to support the child wearing t-shirts and boy shorts, even letting her decide whether she wanted short or long hair when she was only three years old (she chose short, and she was ecstatic to run around looking like a boy).  They raised her as if she were their own for four years, and then Oli’s foster father got sick.  At first the couple tried to keep Oli, but as his health deteriorated it became too difficult, and since they hadn’t yet adopted the young child, a social worker eventually came to take Oli to a new family. 

As a four year old, Oli learned that anyone that came into her life was temporary.  The social worker tried to explain things to her in a delicate way, but all she heard was ‘you don’t belong to anyone, you will probably never belong to anyone’.  And it made her a little troublesome for a long time.  She struggled to make connections with her next foster family, refusing to let them hug her or help her do anything.  She wanted to be independent, wanted to make all of her own decisions, and constantly yelled at the other foster kids in the house that tried to be kind to her.  Eventually, she was pulled from this home as well, and placed with another.

By the time Oli was ten, she’d been with six more foster families.  The next family they placed her with was a military family; the structure seemed to be good for Oli.  She actually started going to school, getting halfway decent grades.  Things were okay for about a year...then puberty happened.  Oli was almost twelve when she started to develop, and it was a crisis for her.  She’d started going by Oli when she was four years old, she’d always worn “boy” clothes and done “boy” things, and half of her peers were surprised to find out she was a girl when teachers or other adults called her one in public (truth be told, when Oli was ‘mistaken’ for a boy, it just felt right).  Starting to transform into a young woman was torture for Oli, and she made sure everyone around her felt just as tortured.  Oli’s behavior was worse than ever; she ditched school, hit other kids just for being in close proximity to her, and even shoved a teacher who tried to help her on a math test.  Then she started hurting herself behind closed doors, and her foster family was at a loss.  Once again, the social worker came for Oli.

The next foster home was Trent Moore, a widower, an older man who had once been a captain in the army.  He took Oli in with open arms, and gave the child the space she needed.  Trent was able to take Oli into school himself every day, make sure she got to class and to therapy and even got her involved in yoga with him on weekends.  Oli started to do better, though not great, and when Trent found out she was still hurting herself, he sat down with her and waited patiently while she cried, waited patiently until she could put words behind what she was feeling.  When Oli told Trent that she hated her body, that she didn’t feel like a girl, Trent was understanding.  He didn’t tell her she was wrong for what she was feeling, didn’t really tell her anything other than he was so thankful that Oli had opened up to him, and he would do whatever it took to help the child.

Trent was unfamiliar with the territory, so he did his research.  He found the specialists, called at least ten different therapists and doctors, and then compiled all of the information he’d found and sat down with Oli again.  For the first time since Oli was four, he felt listened to and safe with an adult.  Trent immediately started referring to Oli as his foster son, talked about Oli as a he, things belonging to him, his opinion on such-and-such.  Oli was enrolled at a new school for eighth grade as a boy, and Trent spent a lot of money on fancy binders to help his son feel comfortable around his peers.

There was still some bullying, kids finding out about Oli from kids at his previous school.  He was often picked on, beaten up, tossed around.  And after the tenth black eye, Trent got sick of teachers and principals that couldn’t stop everything, and picked up their lives and left for Derry, Maine.  A fresh start was just what Oli needed, Trent figured.  And it truly did help Oli.  When Oli was fifteen, Trent asked if he would be okay with Trent adopting him.  Oli was overjoyed, having previously thought this could still all be temporary.

A few of the teachers at Derry High School knew about Oli’s ‘condition,’ and they took it upon themselves to make sure everything went smoothly for Oli.  He had support in gym, so students never got a chance to see him change in the locker room.  One teacher got permission for Oli to use the faculty bathroom instead of having to hold it all day rather than risk using the boys bathroom.  They frequently (though also inconspicuously) checked on Oli, making sure he was doing okay, getting everything he needed, facing no issues with peers or even other more narrow-minded teachers.  As someone who had previously thought adults were only there to hurt him in the long run, this meant a lot to Oli, and ended up being a huge factor in what he decided to do with his future.

At sixteen, Oli was officially adopted.  In celebration, Trent immediately took Oli to get his name legally changed from Olivia Duke to Oliver Moore.  Everything seemed to be falling into place for Oli...or Oliver, as he really, really enjoyed being called for a long while.  When he was eighteen, Trent scrounged up enough cash to pay for Oliver’s top surgery, something that Oliver will never stop being grateful for.

Oliver graduated from Derry High School, which he knew would have amazed the majority of his previous foster families.  He went on to college to study secondary education and mathematics, getting his degree by the time he was twenty-one.  Then he was immediately hired on at Derry High School as the remedial math teacher, exactly the role he’d wanted.  The remedial classes were the ones he’d been thrown in as a young teen; the classes for the students who struggled with academics, usually because of outside forces beyond their control.  More than anything, he wanted to be like the teachers that had supported him through the toughest time in his life.

Trent was getting older, and more and more tired as time went on.  The cold winters were getting to be too much for him, and Oliver had really been taking care of Trent more than the other way around since he was just about sixteen years old, right about the time he’d been adopted.  When Trent brought up leaving Maine to Oliver, when Oli was twenty-two, Oliver had immediately offered to go with him.  But Trent refused, saying he didn’t want to deal with selling their little house, but really because he knew Oliver was happy where he was at.  Trent moved to a retirement community in Florida, and now he and Oliver see each other mostly for holidays, though they text and talk on the phone frequently.

career: remedial math teacher at derry high school personality:

Oliver is a sweet and funny guy, always wanting to make others smile or laugh, cheering up anyone he thinks is in a bad mood or having a rough day.  

He absolutely loves his job, and thinks of the kids at the school almost as if they were his own children.  Romantically, it’s difficult for him to get involved with people.  He can be very flirtatious, but he still remembers the issues he had back in New York when people knew he was trans.  Telling someone now that he is trans requires plenty of trust on his part, and sometimes that trust is really hard to gain.

Oli hasn’t really dated much, but there are a few individuals that he has hooked up with.  When it comes to casual hookups, he’s more likely to hook up with men.  Generally they’re less likely to ask questions when he goes down on them, or jerks them off in a club bathroom.  He tends not to do any more with them, though on several occasions he has been drunk enough to go further.  He usually wakes up feeling regret and shame, though, so he’s not too big of a fan of those occasions.

He is a fiercely loyal friend, and will blindly support anyone that has earned his trust.  He’s the type of friend that will be at your side with the torch and pitchfork without even knowing what he’s protesting, because an enemy of his friend is also an enemy of his.

more to be added!

[downanight]

p.s. - for a mobile friendly version of our member groups page, click read more!

STANDARD MEMBER GROUPS

all our standard member groups will be free and available on our launch date! we’ve based these on aesthetics versus traits to make them more flexible for you - please consider them loose rather than a total prescription of what your character needs to be!

BAGEL 🥯

vintage corduroy. rollerskates. peanut butter by the spoonful. thrift store couches. ferris wheels. hand drawn artwork. moodboards. watching the sunrise. camera shutters. undiscovered beauty. well-worn sneakers. banana splits. signing petitions. meditation. wise words. sprigs of lavender. long walks. wire rimmed glasses. humming under the breath. cluttered desks. creases between eyebrows. mismatched socks. happy little accidents. wide open windows. swatches. scratched heads. controlled chaos. spinning endlessly. pressed flowers. staring out the window.

BURRITO 🌯

cracking knuckles. the loudest voice at the table. impatient tapping. long term plans. 5am alarms. firm handshakes. sleek cars. dark blazers. polished brass. structured pants. avocado toast. belgian chocolate. annual gym memberships. my way or the highway. black coffee. dramatic sighs. whiskey on the rocks. swipe left swipe left swipe left. moodboards. neat lists. withering stares. asleep at the desk. ambient lighting. no room for mistakes. first place trophies. rehearsed speeches. hardwood flooring. never say never. late night cigarettes. ticking clocks. grasped hands.

COOKIE 🍪

blanket forts. home-cooked meals. words of encouragement. fireworks in the summer. hot fudge. black and white classics. unfinished thoughts. fuzzy socks. lost items in an old coat. hitting snooze over and over. nostalgia in everything. large families. ocean waves coming to shore. deep breaths. salt stains. juicy peaches. earthen dishware. chamomile tea. flour smeared cheeks. pumpkin spice. walks in the woods. blossoming carnations. slender jewelry. foreheads pressed together. slow jazz. filled calendars. warm cookies. unexpected gifts. fantasies.

FRENCH FRY 🍟

creased maps. raging waterfalls. unwashed hair. instant coffee. one way tickets. sunsets over the desert. root beer floats. half smoked cigarettes. grass stained jeans. dark chocolate. eye roll emoji. 3% battery. crowded concerts. sarcastic greeting cards. acid trips. candlelight. old posters. midnight swimming. warm musk. driving with the top down. burritos with extra guac. forgetting to text back. urban exploring. rumbling thunder. found family. rope swings. just jump. sharing stories. packing light. warm beer. road trips with no destination. bare faced. falling leaves. never look back.

HOT DOG 🌭

small details. herb gardens. busy city streets. conspiratorial smiles. baby powder fresh. tailgating at the big game. extra espresso shots. saying yes. endless ocean. meaningless tattoos. whatever’s on draft. 5k races. answers to everything. all night phone calls. truth or dare. messy buns. raspberry sorbet. you’re my bro, bro. cheating at monopoly. passing out on the couch. conversations with strangers. smolders. act now, think later. leather jackets. smudged makeup. restlessness. loud laughter. confident strides. natural talent. what ifs. hairbrained schemes.

PRETZEL 🥨

dogeared books. leather satchels. phone on silent. noise cancelling headphones. new book smell. chai lattes. chewed fingernails. dancing in the rain. trivia nights. succulents on the windowsill. all white bedding. a wrinkled dress shirt. messy handwriting. true crime podcasts. 5am drives. classic matte lipstick. bare feet in the grass. chapped lips. bullet journals. tired but satisfied. carefully chosen words. old libraries. well brushed hair. fresh bread. untouched snow. antiques. the shade from trees. bicycles. knitted scarves. knowing looks. first hand up in class. reliable suits.

PIZZA 🍕

dancing on tables. baggy shirts. salty fries. smeared make-up. bed head. bold statements. frappuccinos. fashionably late. lucky charms. girls nights in. roaring laughs. siri, open tinder. reality television. takeout on speed dial. midnight skinny dipping. incorrect turns of phrase. wilting houseplants. thriving on chaos. rocky road. hiding junk in closets. long island iced tea. long contact lists. bright confetti. breakfast for dinner. sweatpants. running from responsibilities. dark sunglasses. funky socks. fading hickies. social butterfly. novelty couch cushions. water balloon fights.

PREMIUM MEMBER GROUPS

our premium member groups will be up for grabs once the site launches. to gain a premium member group you’ll need to buy it with points, so get plotting, threading and saving up! purchasing a premium group will give you a cute new skin variation and colours, as well as some lovely prizes and opportunities!

CEREAL 🥣

paint splattered t-shirts. lush green fields. toothy grins. patchouli and sage. tiny tattoos. handwritten notes. mud tracked through the house. classic rock music. unread messages. chipped mugs. tangled headphones. repurposed leftovers. misunderstood punch lines. loaning money. old architecture. wandering. herbal remedies. heavy backpacks. chunky boots. encouraging smiles. thought-out haikus. tarot cards. pots of soup. charitable donations. unruly manes. socks and sandals. warm honey. old cars. golden hour. earl grey. canvas tents. gingham blankets.

CUPCAKE 🧁

maraschino cherries. no set schedules. comic books. wildflowers. light up sneakers. cosy beds. bubblegum. stacks of pancakes. singing in the shower. conversations with dogs. post its on the mirror. romantic comedies. champagne kisses. giddiness. blue sky thinking. twirling in a sundress. saturday morning cartoons. cursive handwriting. crushing hard on strangers. rolling down hills. chewed pen caps. bursts of excitement. hair flipping. cheap drinks. outright flirting. youtube marathons. great with kids. graphic shirts. tik tok trends. silver linings. welcome distractions. impromptu picnics.

ICE CREAM 🍦

drunk tattoos. neon lights. conspiratorial smiles. smashed phone screens. cheap wine. last night’s leftovers. walks of shame. scratches on backs. polaroid pictures. mischievous glances. glow sticks and glitter. crop tops. technopop. laughing til it hurts. bottles of vodka. messy bedrooms. dirt under fingernails. salty fries. bruised knees. doing it for the meme. scars with stories. lips between teeth. glossy lips. thumping bass. splashing puddles. throwing arms in the air. sleep is for the weak. bed head. wake and bake. adrenaline rushes. borrowed dollars. leaps of faith. live fast, die young.

NOODLES 🍜

starry nights. crossword puzzles. listening carefully. sci fi movies. art galleries. snorts of laughter. statement clothing. birds in flight. video games. catching fireflies. foreign films. angry tweets. stacks of books in the corner. saying the wrong thing. dramatic haircuts. taking the train. watching tv with subtitles on. highlighted pages. far off lands. pretending to be someone else. matcha. steamed up mirrors. people watching. documentaries. untied shoelaces. reminders on the back of the hand. underestimation. dad jokes. blanket burritos. nervous texting crushes.

SUSHI 🍣

candle-lit dinners. chilled wine. sound of stilettos on the sidewalk. twilight hours. lipstick on white collars. polished metal. few but close knit friends. love of higher society. hand on chest when laughing. french manicures. caprese salad. luxury watches. leather wallets. long walks on the beach. living peacefully. minimalistic decor. croissants and fruit. flower bouquets. sleek sweaters. well-made beds. pistachio macarons. the glow of a laptop. marie kondo methods. french press coffee. pressed linen. broadsheet newspapers. vanilla bean. grand pianos. long swims.

POPCORN 🍿

dark movie theaters. hand-holding. stuffed french toast. bulky sweaters. hot chocolate. heads on shoulders. beaten up converse. bowls of ramen. comfortable silence. pinky promises. old favorites. tight hugs. dusky evenings. gin and tonic. bubble baths. ruffled hair. slouchy shirts. carnival ferris wheels. amaretto sours. wide umbrellas. quiet murmurs. too many emojis. overstuffed couches. a push in the right direction. hand-me-downs. vcr collections. acoustic guitars. grandma’s casserole dish. sworn protectors. body warmth. aloe plants. waffle cones. dappled sunlight.

WAFFLE 🧇

careful notes. scrabble champions. never wrong. secluded cabins. under eye bags. never misses a phone call. the road less travelled. bitten lips. zoning out. keyboard warriors. cloudy lemonade. forgotten meals. ripples in water. debating at the dinner table. crossword puzzles in ink. crackling fires. best laid plans. paragraphs in journals. long stretches. budget spreadsheets. food magazines. thriving houseplants. practical advice. tailored clothes. raised eyebrows. protein shakes. filling the swear jar. decisive nods. leather couches. lined paper. reason over feelings.

[iseutz]

The Ask Arcana Questionnaire

(credit: fireflytrio)

Using the asks the Arcana devs have answered on their tumblr, I’ve composed together a list of questions you can use for your own MCs/fan apprentices/etc if you so wish! You’re by no means obligated to answer all questions, but rather use it as a tool to help develop your character(s). This list will also be updated as the devs hold more Q&A’s over time. Have fun! (Warning: long post ahead)

Part 1.) Characterization. Use these questions as a way to flesh out some of your character’s personality, background, likes/dislikes, etc.

Their surname? For some reason, people feel discouraged to nickname Selendri; instead, they feel a compulsion to call her by her name more often than necessary

Halloween costume? Albino deer spirit

Familiar/animal friend? None of her own, but she has an affinity with ferrets

Big spoon or little spoon? Little spoon

Religious? Perceiver

Favorite fruit? Saturn Peach

Idea of a nice date? Dinner at a tavern, followed by too many drinks leading to increasingly personal chat. Nice stroll by the riverside, potentially smutty goodnight kisses  

Favorite season? Beginning of spring, when it’s still chilly

When is their Birthday? Around the end of November

Favorite carnival ride?

Favorite emoji?

Like to do in their free time? Cats stalking, reading, sewing, drinking

What sports would they play? Dressage

What kind of car would they drive?

How do they treat their significant other when they’re feeling unusually affectionate? Settling on their bodies, proclaiming the beauty of unusual spots (wrists, eyelids). She’s embarassed in voicing her feelings, so she downplays her declarations, but you can’t mistake when she’s in love 

Favorite manga?

Main store to shop for clothes (if they lived in our world)? Thrift shops, then customization (with mixed outcomes)  

What were they like growing up? Quiet child, seemingly unable to scream. Slight know-it-all, prone to taxonomic obsessions (plants names, horse/dogs/cats breeds). Used to bite herself when frustrated

What kind of drunk are they at a party? Cheerful istrionic drunk

Reaction to someone telling a dirty joke? One-upping

Reaction to stubbing their toe? *Insert Peter Griffin knee gif*

Favorite color? Indigo

Favorite See’s chocolate?

Favorite poptart flavor?

Favorite hobby? See “free time activities” section

How they sing at karaoke parties? Opens up with a deep/sad/serious song, then it’s 70% silly stuff the more she drinks

Preferred social media platform?

Opinion on puns? Dad jokes rule

How do they typically deal with their problems? Over-analisys

Spice girl nickname? Uh, Princess Monstertruck Spice?

Personal hygiene routine? She only showers in the evening. Water-splashes in the morning. Hates washing teeth (but does dutifully)

Favorite alcoholic drink? Beer

Favorite genre of music? Anything with violins crescendos

Modern AU job/career?

Favorite musical?

How would they celebrate their significant other’s birthday? Costume/themed treasure hunt involving all their friends

Would they rather turn into a tiny rhinoceros or a giant hamster? She’d try to pet them both

What would they do for their significant other for Valentine’s Day? Anything. Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Chocolate will be involved, tho

Pros and cons to having them as a roommate? Clean, but untidy. Friendly, but guards her spaces eagerly. Hates to share food.

On a scale from 1-10 how Extra are they?

Favorite meme?

Favorite three pokemon?

How tall are they? Average

Part 2.) Scaling. Using your best judgement, where does your fan apprentice fall on these scales?

[Example: Shortest to tallest?

Portia, Asra, [MC name here], Nadia, Lucio, Julian, Muriel]

Most to least superstitious?

Portia, Julian, Nadia, Lucio, Asra, Selendri, Muriel

Most to least excited to be at a WWE event?

Portia, Lucio, Asra,  Selendri, Julian, Nadia, Muriel

Worst to best at handling children?

Nadia, Lucio, Muriel, Asra, Portia, Julian,  Selendri

Worst to best alcohol tolerance?

Muriel, Asra, Lucio, Julian,  Selendri, Portia, Nadia

Best to worst at keeping secrets?

Selendri, Asra, Muriel, Nadia, Lucio, Portia, Julian

Best to worst dancers?

Asra, Portia, Julian, Nadia, Lucio,  Selendri, Muriel

Most to least likely to slap you for stealing a mcnugget?

Selendri, Nadia, Lucio, Asra, Portia, Julian, Muriel

Least to most likely to eat something weird on a dare?

Nadia, Julian, Muriel, Lucio, Portia, Asra,  Selendri

Least to most old?

Asra, Portia, Muriel, Julian, Lucio, Nadia/Selendri

Part 3.) Extra characterization tidbits (whether you want to make a description or insert a photo for these is up to you!)

MC as a:

•MCR song

•vine

•a piece of furniture

•character from the Labyrinth Sir Didymus

•character in a cliche Noir film

•Tarot card Temperance

•Micheal Jackson song Any Weird Al’s cover

•character in the play “Cats” A mix between Victoria and the Rum Tum Tugger

•Panic! at the disco song

•cliche high school student stereotype Despondant nerdy alternative teen

•furby

•flight rising dragon breed

•deadly sin Sloth

•DnD class Warrior

•character from Mean Girls

•hogwarts house Griffindor (wannabe Slytherin)

•cryptid

•monster factory character

[ironidemic]

Killing Time: Part II

It had become a routine for Friday nights. Wendy would climb out of her bedroom window and jump down from the roof as soon as her parents were asleep, making her quiet getaway along the side streets where cars would pass her only on occasion, speeding by in streaks of red and white light, too quickly to see if their drivers even thought twice about seeing a girl her age walking alone in the night. The suburban landscape was wrapped in a calm loneliness, a comforting kind of isolation that put Wendy at ease. Everything was going to plan, and after the initial rush of sneaking out of the house, her pulse had slowed to normal. She savored the quiet, feeling safe in the darkness, invulnerable in the way it concealed her. During these late hours, the world seemed to stand still, allowing everything to be alright if only for a moment.

She met Rachel fifteen minutes later in front of her family’s worn-down ranch house, situated on the outskirts of town where only stray cats and food stamp benefactors laid down their roots. Wendy observed for perhaps the hundredth time that Rachel herself, with her pristine smile and carefully filed nails, surely didn’t belong in a place like this, with all of the grit and tragedy. It was just the hand she had been dealt in life, and she seemed to have come to a grim kind of acceptance with that fact. The pair walked together from there, with Rachel confessing school drama in between drags on a cigarette and Wendy listening for the most part, save for a few intermittent scoffs or nods of agreement. It was strange, she had every reason to hate hearing Rachel gossip like this, but for some reason, she could never seem to bring herself to mind. Nothing Rachel said ever struck her as shallow; she saw everything so analytically that it seemed glamorous, and as much as Wendy might deny it, she liked to feel what it might be like to be part of that world, one of cliques that she could never enter and parties she would never attend. It was nice to see the world in that limited view every once in awhile.

“Wendy, you okay?” Rachel playfully bumped her shoulder. “You’re zoning out on me here.”

“I’m listening! Believe me, I don’t want to miss any of the details about Lauren McNairy’s surprise pregnancy. I’ve hated that bitch since the fourth grade”

“When she denied you entry to her lunch table? Stalin himself never committed a worse crime.”

“Shut up! If it wasn’t for her, I may not have ended up looking like disheveled Morticia Addams.”

Rachel shook her head in mock disbelief. “If you say so…”

Steve was already there when they arrived at the waterfront, and had somehow managed to get himself drunk ahead of time, as was apparent by the light slurring in his speech. He waved when he saw them, holding a bottle in one hand and using the other to amplify his voice. “Look who it is! The degenerates! I knew shouldn’t go walking alone at night.”

“The only degenerate here is you, asshat! The rest of us have managed to maintain some type of dignity,” Wendy shouted back, rolling her eyes. “You hit the bar before coming here?” She asked, though the answer was obvious. Steve was always hanging around in bars, drinking and getting into fights to pass the time, anything to escape the confines of his family’s two bedroom apartment.

“Don’t question my lifestyle choices,” he retorted. “I just go with the flow, and that just so happened to be where it took me. What else is a guy supposed to do on a Friday night?”

“I don’t know, homework? Or are you illiterate in addition to being a drunkard?” Rachel cut in laughing.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone working on your’s as we speak. Who is it, some poor honors kid who’s just as madly in love with you as everyone else?” Wendy teased, her tone exaggerated and dramatic.

“Cry me a river, sweetheart.” Rachel countered, easily shrugging off the comment. Steve, meanwhile, had begun whistling impatiently, making a show of rotating a silver ring that pierced his nose. Wendy cleared her throat.

“Steven, is that new hardware I see on the septum?”

Steve grinned, a wide, toothy smile of a giddy child. “Like it? I found a guy who does piercings cheap. I can hook you up if you still want one on your lip, Wen.”

Wendy shrugged, picking up a stone from the bank and turning it over in her palm. “Hard pass. I think I’ve pissed off my dad enough for this week. I got an office referral for ‘insubordinate behavior’ again. The old bastard lost his shit.” She pulled her arm back, pitching the stone as hard as she could at the water’s surface. It skipped twice before sinking into the inky depths. Rachel waved a pair of imaginary pom-poms and kicked her leg high in the air.

“Things are tough all over, kid,” she laughed. “Hey Steve, pass the booze.”

The next half hour flew by, blurred by vodka from a worn glass bottle and anchored by the rhythm of stones being thrown into the water and the sounds of laughter echoing in the dark. At some point a fire was lit, a pire of driftwood and dry leaves set ablaze with cigarette lighters that illuminated the beach in a soft orange glow, its rosy fingers clawing at the water’s edge and reflecting off of their faces. Wendy felt like she belonged here, young and tragic but alive, her stony defenses lowered with the two people she cared about most. In moments like this, it felt as if the world belonged to them, a sensation as fleeting as it was glorious, flickering and then dying out when Wendy spotted a pair of headlights shining down the gravel road. A dented ‘77 Camaro pulled up and parked in a patch of weeds that ran along the beach, and out stepped Rourke, looking like a criminal with his crew-cut hair that accentuated the bony structure of his face. A military school dropout and a war vet’s son, marks of stern discipline showed themselves subtly in the hardness of his expression, the stiff jumpiness of his movements. Wendy shrank back, kicking at the sand and gazing absently at the treeline across the water.

Rachel ran to embrace her boyfriend the moment she saw him, her eyes lighting up feverishly as she wrapped her thin arms around him, a small smile forming on her lips. The couple kissed, and Rachel melted into his arms, hanging from his frame as if she desperately needed it for support. Rourke’s cold blue eyes remained wide open, staring somewhere off in the distance, but his grip was firm, wanting her but not loving her. Wendy hated him more than ever then, but swallowed it for the time being. Whether she liked it or not, everyone had to be present in order for the ritual to take place.

“Hey man, what took you so long?” Steve greeted, slapping Rourke on the back in a friendly manner.

“Let’s just call it an errand,” he laughed dryly, pulling a weighted burlap sack out of the trunk of his car and saying nothing more of it. “I’m sure you didn’t miss me too much.”

“We managed,” Wendy deadpanned. She looked up, and the pair made brief eye contact, giving half nods of acknowledgement. They didn’t have to pretend to like each other.

Rourke leaned in to kiss Rachel again then pulled back suddenly, jerking his hand up as if in pain and then slowly running his fingers through her hair. A smile formed on his face that looked twisted and contrived.

“Let’s start, shall we?” he said, gently lifting her chin so that she met his gaze. Rachel cracked a red-lipped smile and nodded in agreement, her expression showing nothing but complete trust. Steve and Wendy reacted quickly, assuming their respective positions around the bonfire: Wendy standing to the East and Steve facing the North. Rourke carried the burlap sack to his place in the South, cracking his neck after it hit the ground with a dull thud. Rachel drew a tarot deck from the pocket of her jeans before finally joining them, filling the fourth place in the West and completing the circle. She knelt down and shuffled the deck once, placing the top card face down in the dirt before revealing the image. Even from a distance Wendy could make it out in the traces of firelight: a horned creature with the head of a goat and the body of a man, gray wings extending from its back, and a man and woman fettered at its clawed feet: The Devil. Rachel stood, her eyes shimmering a clouded white.

Rourke’s smile had become more twisted than ever, curling upwards at the edges in a narrow line that pulled his lips thin over his teeth. He pulled a knife from his front pocket and held it up over his head, the metal shining red and gold in the firelight. In one quick motion he drew the blade across the palm of his hand, not once flinching or hesitating, and simply stared down at the blood welling up in the cut as if he felt nothing. Rachel slit her palm next, gasping slightly and clutching her wrist to combat the pain. She passed the knife on to Steve, who contorted his face and uttered a string of curses under his breath after accidentally cutting his hand too deep. He then outstretched his uninjured arm, offering the knife to Wendy, the blade  now stained a deep crimson. She clenched the handle and cautiously took it, glancing at the pale, ill-lit faces surrounding her. The blade was cold on her skin as she made the incision, cutting just deep enough into her skin to draw blood. For a split second she felt nothing, just a vague tingling sensation in her wrist, until pain crept gradually into its place, pulsing through her nerves and forcing her to bite her lip in order to fight back the tears as she handed the knife back to Rourke.

    “Ready?” Rourke asked. They nodded solemnly in response and extended their arms over the fire, allowing the drops of blood from their palms to feed the flames, each drop sizzling on impact. The wind shifted, blowing hard from the east, and the fire turned a pale blue color, radiating vibrant heat as the rest of the world faded dim and cold. Rachel threw her face upwards towards darkened sky, and began to chant, her voice coming from somewhere deep inside her chest, producing a low, guttural sound that seemed entirely foreign on her lips. Sweat covered her brow when she finally fell silent, her chest rising and falling rapidly in exhaustion. The preparations were complete; they had channeled the spirit. It’s invisible darkness engulfed them, wanting, waiting.

Rourke reached into the burlap sack sitting behind him and dragged out a skinny hound by it’s back legs. Wendy’s stomach lurched, her mind reeling in temporary shock. A faint glimmer of emotion surfaced in her conscience, one of many that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time. Pity. It disgusted her, tugging at the back of her throat and pooling in the pit of her stomach, but as she saw the mutt hanging there, beaten unconscious with dried blood and dark bruises covering its protruding rib cage and patchy coat, the feeling only grew. Suddenly, she felt everything at once: the shame, the fear, the despair, all culminating in the crushing realization that she was in far over her head. She wanted it to stop; she couldn’t bear feeling this here, now, not after she had worked so hard to contain it. Just as Rourke had positioned the knife on the dog’s neck, ready to make the sacrifice, Wendy stumbled back, taking one foot out of the circle.

“Stop it!” She screamed, holding her face in her hands to hide the anguish betrayed there. “I want out! I can’t do this anymore!” She had lost control, on the verge of a panicked breakdown that had been lurking in her psyche since the day she first sensed that something had gone horribly wrong.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re going to get us all killed!” Rourke’s eyes were wild, but there was fear lingering in his voice. “You can’t just opt out, you stupid bitch! There is no out, not for you or me or anyone. This is what you signed up for!”

There had been other rituals like this one. It started with small offerings to the dark spirit: trinkets, valuables, personal items, locks of hair from family members; things that seemed to have little significance until they realized that a connection had been forming all along. Threads of the darkness had wormed their way into each of their lives, twisting and tying around their limbs until they were rendered nearly immobile. They needed to conduct the rituals; their strength depended on it, a neverending pull that was futile to resist. It was only a matter of time before the sacrificing began, when they were already too weak to protest and all morals had faded into indistinguishable shades of gray. It started with rodents and birds caught in the woods, stray cats found in alleyways and roads sides, but the spirit’s appetite for blood only grew, an unsatisfiable thirst for weakness and pain that always demanded more. Through it all, Rourke promised that in the end, this would all be worth it. The power of the darkness was limitless, and to have the ability to tap into it at will, well, that could make any problem disappear. Money, freedom, happiness, control; it all would rest at their fingertips.

Wendy shook her head. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” It was a command as well as a plea, but it was too late for either of those. She had made up her mind, and stepped out of the circle.

A blinding flash of light erupted from the fire, and Wendy felt her body being thrown backwards into the rocky bank, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. She grasped at the sandy ground, trying to find her feet to stand, but something held her there, rendering her immobile. Wendy yelped, struggling against her invisible restraints, when pain hit her chest with the force of a bullet tearing through her insides. The sensation spread beneath her skin, hot like acid coursing through her veins. She doubled over, desperately screaming for it to stop, but the pain was persistent, coming in white-capped waves that pounded beneath her skull in sickening rhythm with the sounds of the other’s cries of pain somewhere in the distance. In the moment, she would have wished for death if it guaranteed relief; anything to make the pain end. Just when Wendy thought she could bear it no longer, her chest heaving and lip quivering in submissive defeat, a voice filled her head, flooding the cavity like water.

“Rachel. Give her to me and you will be spared.” It spoke in layers of deep groaning and shrill hissing, the result something dry and sinister that seemed to shake the ground. Wendy’s stomach lurched in protest-- not Rachel, anyone but Rachel, but before she could think further of refusing, the pain multiplied in one white hot flash, leaving her gasping and shaking in aftershock.

“Do what it says,” Rourke called out weakly. “It’s no use resisting it.”

Wendy knew he was right. Their course was set in stone; they no longer had a choice in the matter.

They dragged her thrashing and screaming into the cold rapids, wading out until the water was waist deep. Steve and Wendy each held one of her legs, struggling to stop her from kicking the while Rourke carried her further into the water, one arm around her chest and the other covering her mouth. She was crying now, her eyes darting wildly to each of their faces, pleading helplessly for any sign of compassion. Wendy had to look away, staring down at the soft ripples on the water’s surface. One could be sacrificed to save the lives of three. It was only logical, and fear prevented her from thinking otherwise.

A full moon shone between scattered clouds in, sending beams of blue light over the landscape. Rachel’s skin glowed pale and unblemished in the water’s reflection, a perfect offering. They pushed her under and held her there, fighting to control the violent thrashing of her limbs. Wendy could feel her weakening, the resistance becoming less and less until she surrendered, her body going limp and floating up to the surface. Her face was soft, eyes resting open and vacant.

They dug a shallow grave in the woods offshore, scratching away at the rocky earth with bare hands, dirt caking beneath their fingernails. Rachel's body was still warm when they lowered it into the ground, but her muscles had already begun to stiffen, as if she were bracing herself against their touch, paralyzed in a state of unending revulsion. Wendy’s hands felt numb, operating outside of her conscious as they covered the corpse, piling soil over it until a soft mound formed. She rose in staggering unison with Rourke and Steve, saying nothing, her eyes plastered to the pebbles and sand clinging to her damp knees. Everything was still, the air humid and chilly, the bonfire reduced to nothing but a pile of ash scattering in the breeze. Rourke produced a roll of gauze from the pocket of his ripped acid wash jeans, bandaging his own hand before offering it to Wendy and Steve.

“We aren’t going to tell anyone about this; we won’t even talk about it to each other,” he said, words rolling quickly and smoothly off his tongue. “It would be better if we weren’t seen together for a couple of days. I doubt anyone will find the body, but if they do, we’ll need to come up with separate alibis... ”

“It’s almost like you’ve done this before,” Steve interjected, laughing nervously. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his skin had turned a slickly shade of ashen gray. The fact stood clear: Steve, the unshakable force of delinquent's confidence, was terrified.

“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” Rourke answered flatly, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. He took a long drag, blowing the smoke slowly from his mouth and watching as it rose up into the air, clouding his face from view. Wendy grimaced, inhaling sharply and pulling the gauze so tightly over her wound that pain shot through her entire arm.

    “How the hell can you say that after what you… what we did?” she hissed between gritted teeth. “Rachel is dead because of us, because we were a bunch of weak fucking cowards!” Wendy stood, fuming, watching and waiting for her words to sink in. Rourke tensed up, his jaw clenched tight with rage as he grabbed her arm, jerking her towards him. His nails dug into her skin, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her face.

“Rachel is dead because you didn’t follow the rules,” he growled. “We did what we had to do, but her blood is on your hands.” He had the air of a loaded gun, and Wendy noticed for the first time that his irises were completely black. She didn’t dare move.

    “Let go of her, Rourke!” Steve said, stepping defensively between them. “She’s just tired.” Steve turned to Wendy with a look dead seriousness. He loomed nearly six inches over Rourke’s height, but that didn’t hide the glint of fear reflecting in his eyes. “Go home, Wendy.” Rourke’s hand slid away, falling at his side in a tight fist. Wendy nodded to Steve before turning away and running into the darkness. Her skin was numb, her mind filled by Rourke’s echoing voice.

Her blood is on your hands. She knew that it was true. Rachel was gone because of her. No more blond hair, no more of coy smiles or understated laughs. She was gone now. Rachel was dead, and her last thoughts had been of fear and betrayal. Wendy was sure she could have stopped it if only she had been stronger, if only she had kept her mouth shut in the first place. Guilt overwhelmed her, pressing down like a weight on chest, making it hard to breathe. Yet the fact stood, impossible to forget or deny.

Her blood is on your hands.

[selfperformancewith]

Without complaint, without bragging

2018 has been a tough year so far, but I’ve barely talked or written about it.

Some of the difficulty isn’t mine to reveal, and it’s taken me a long time to respect that — to not blather all over the internet like it’s my private journal, a vessel for all my unsecrets.

But other things I’ve denied myself the clarity and relief of writing out.

Like my emergency root canal. Because I had a filling that cracked, my tooth rotted and the new filling didn’t hold. I thought this wouldn’t be a big deal because I have dental insurance, but it turns out fillings + root canal + crown = $2000 out of pocket...

This is stressful. So is getting an adeno virus at the same time as your period that probably long-term damaged your eyes but who knows how the fuck to get in touch with an ophthalmologist?

So I’m wearing six-year-old Warby Parker’s instead of contacts because we’re still accumulating an overwhelming amount of debt.

This isn’t to mention the lingering cough, or the fact that I’m intermittently so exhausted that the thought of walking down the street makes me want to cry, or the weird nerve pain I’ve been getting in my legs when I’m on the rag, or my hair falling out, or the fluid in Theo’s ears

(Portrait of the blogger suffering in the bathtub, January 26th)

or that I still get drunk like an idiot to help me forget that on a good day I would confuse the Iliad and the Odyssey when sober

or that because I can’t even really afford to go to therapy every two months I’ve started lying to my therapist about how I’m doing so she doesn’t suggest I come in more often

or that my new year’s tarot card reading was filled with childhood trauma that I need to overcome and I think that if therapy was going to be helpful for that it already would have been helpful for that.

*

I keep asking the tarot cards how I can be a better person. This is infinitely easier than admitting that I’m feeling depleted.

*

I don’t want to be one of those people who believes that other people will just keep taking from you and taking from you without acknowledgement or reward unless you tell them to stop but that’s probably what I expect from others, too.

How did it get to be the norm that I know that my feelings don’t matter?

I know, they don’t, but lots of things that don’t matter don’t just up and disappear.

*

Sometimes I wish people would see me without me having to point myself out.

The only photos of me alone that have been taken since Theo was born have been taken at work.

I could take a selfie, but that only points to the root of the problem.

(The last selfie taken of the blogger two weeks ago after reading like sixty books to the toddler while sick.)

I theorize that I’m awful in conversation because I bring it back to me and that I bring it back to me because I don’t talk about myself that much unless prompted and because my feelings don’t matter they get ignored and my stupid ADHD mouth just lets them go.

It’s like I’m stuck in the memory of Girls Friendly Society at church when I said I was good at something and instead of the validation I so badly craved from my peers I was told to stop bragging.

Or all the memories of being told to stop complaining.

But if not voiced, then what?

*

I hesitate to share this even though it was written to be shared because I’m so sick of trying to be fixed. I’m sick of trying to fix myself, of trying to fix others, of hearing about how I shouldn’t think or feel the way I’m thinking or feeling in a blog post as though I can control my feelings.

But I can’t control them. I can tend to them or leave them offline in silence where they apparently chip away at my life force.

Let me say: mothers who do this — who work full-time and parent and maintain friendships and hobbies and health without succumbing to burnout or a big or small mental breakdown — I salute you. I am in awe of you

*

What does depletion mean?

Probably that I’m weak and unworthy of all the good things I have in life

that I’m unskilled at doing everything I should be able to do by now

these ridiculous, hilarious thoughts that keep me hustling for worthiness / how hearing their ridiculousness doesn’t mean I can turn them off.

*

Is writing only worth it if I can somehow provide a solution? Add some value?

*

At least if I’m finally burnt out it was in the pursuit of solving problems and making the things I love better.

Maybe I’ll figure out how to actually nourish myself. Maybe I’ll honor who I am, stop trying to be who I think I should be. Maybe the lesson is that trying to will things to be better or different or to look a certain way isn’t a holistic or sustainable solution.

*

I want to stop wishing that I could be void of need.

[from-the-concrete-to-the-coast]

Today was a really special day for me. I got to spend it with one of my best friends, someone I never get to see enough because I am not good at transitioning myself into the role of Single Friend Whose Friends Are Married And Have Children. (not because I don't love kids, because I adore kids, I'm fine with hanging out in kid friendly spaces and modifying our old favorite activities to be kid friendly, I just overthink everything and worry that my normal chitchat messages are taking too much time in their busy lives being parents and spouses?? I'm still working a lot of those details out for myself, I guess.) Anyway, this friend and I have known each other for years and years, and back in our wilder single days, she invited me on a trip to see the synchronous fireflies in the Smoky Mountains. On this trip, we saw a bear on a hike, which prompted us later that night, while quite drunk, to make bucket lists of all of the great stuff we want to accomplish. Now, years later, we have both crossed many things off our lists (I got a lap dance! I came out to my parents! I learned to take a decent photograph!) and so has she, but today, a few days after her beautiful baby girl turned one, we had a day for getting out of the house and knocking more things off our lists. (Also celebrating my birthday, which is this Sunday!) We started the day with something on her list, which was getting a pedicure. My god, that was one of the most relaxing things I've ever experienced. I was worried it would be weird having a stranger touch my feet and legs, but it was just really relaxing and nice! And the massage chairs were taking away pain I didn't know I had. So amazing. Then she took me out for lunch for my birthday. We went to this place called Mooney's that's a sports bar well known for their mac and cheese. We ate our weight in carbs (so good) and brought home copious leftovers each. Then we headed out so I could tackle my bucket list item for the day: getting my palm read! The lady who did my reading was running a little late because of the snowstorm, but it let us have some time to look around the store at all the cool stuff -- crystals, tarot cards, incense, some beautiful leather bound journals. When she arrived and we started the reading, I was surprised that she started with a prayer, especially one that sounded a lot like the ones I was used to hearing from my Catholic upbringing. She spoke very quickly, which made me happy that she made an audio recording of the reading that she's going to email to me. She had a lot of pretty spot on information about how I relate to my family and the world, and some very interesting predictions on my career and love life. One thing that she said kept coming up for me were these splits -- most of my lines had points where it would clear split into two distinct and equally deep lines, meaning I've got some big decisions coming up. Apparently there's a big one coming up in the next few years with regards to my career, and when the dust from that settles and I find my footing career-wise from that decision, that's when I'll meet the person I'll spend my life with. I'm excited to get the recording and listen back to it, because I know there's stuff I missed just because there was so much to take in. This day couldn't have come at a better time, honestly. I'd been kinda reeling from a really upsetting interaction with an extended family member that led to a huge panic attack in the middle of Walmart last night, and I had been feeling really blasé about my birthday. It's two days before Valentine's Day, so everything is usually really busy, and I'm working for my parents all day and then doing a family dinner, so it's going to be a really lowkey day. I've been jokingly telling people I'm going to wear one of those huge "it's my birthday!" Pins so all the drunk people will give me great tips, lol, but I would hate all the attention if it actually happened, lol. Mostly, after everything that's happened in the last two days, I am really just thankful that I have friends and family who don't see the depressive/anxious lack of communication as me hating them, and understand that I love them very much even if I am the worst at communicating it. I am trying to be better at it, and thank you for sticking with me when I suck anyway!