#that the adults in my life saw me compulsively tearing out every hair on my face

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Painful Use of Powers

Tim and Jon are having a friendly discussion that is rather rudely interrupted when Jon accidentally Beholds something. They powers of the eye have faded after the world is back to normal, and it makes Jon very ill.

Cw panic (not detailed), vomiting (he vomits static so like.... not anything gross just weird), food mention, baby shark

This prompt is from the bingo on my tumblr, feel free to send a prompt, a character, and let me know if you want a drawing or a fic!  The starred ones I already have prompts for, the crossed out ones are ones I have already posted.  Bingo by @celosiaa​!

“It’s… been pretty strange.  About half the people I talk to remember everything about… well, you know.  And the other half don’t seem to remember anything at all.  Just remember before… and then remember after.  I have to wonder if it’s a trauma response thing or ….some weird eldritch thing.  But… not actually that curious, if you know what I mean?”  Tim is sitting on the couch next to Jon.  Once upon a time, they maybe would have been flush with each other.  But it had been a long time since they were that comfortable together.  Jon hopes that one day he will feel safe enough to lean on Tim again.  

Jon half swallows a partial laugh.  Not a particularly humorous one, just a huff of air, really.  “I’m curious… of course I am.  I just… try to avoid thinking about it.  Curiosity is a little dangerous for me…  Which is irritating because being a teacher is about Learning as well as teaching.  And apparently it is down to me to try to revive these children from the fatigue of rote memorization without an independent will to learn!”  

“Ha!  You inspiring people to learn!  Are you sure you don’t just give them that glare of yours and tell them when the homework is due after babbling to them for an hour about whatever.  Bet they don’t get a question in edgewise!”

Jon gives Tim that very glare.  And Tim laughs properly.  Which fills Jon’s chest with hope.  He shouldn’t hang on the every positive response he gets from Tim… but he does.  

“Actually I read something funny the other day!  I was on twitter and I found a threat that had a theory that one of those stupid kids songs brought about the Eyepocolypse!  One of those ones that you sing over and over again until every adult that ever met you just wants to clobber you…. I think it was the baby shark one…  Whatever the fuck that is.”

Static fills Jon’s mouth.  Buzzing through the air.  And he Knows the song.  The words.  The many many many versions.  

B̠̼̙͙̘͚̺̓̋̿͑̓͘͟͞ả̶͎̜̙̩̖̋̈́̆̂̚ͅḇ͕͓̘͖̦̫̥͂̊͂̀͂̇̇̂̚͜͢y̟̬̳̱̦̘͖̗͑͑͛̀̚͝͞͞ s̘̠̪̠͎̻̯̰̏͂̒̍̒̏͞ͅẖ̴̢͕̙͕̟̤̯͆̊͂͐̆͜ą̛̙̞͇̹̪̖͕͈͆̽͗̇͋̍͘͘͜r̡̛͍̹̳͉͕̱̝͔̾̒͛͊͐̾̿̕͠ͅķ̯̼̀̉͒͆̌̈͜͢͡ d̷̪͙͓͔̞̗͂̋̀͆͆̕͜͞ơ̵̲̩̦͐͋̊̔̉̑͢͢͠ͅ d̜̳̜̺̣͓̟̿̽̔̽̑͜ͅo̸̙͈͇̠̣͐̿̾̂̏̇̚̚ͅ d̸͍̞̹̫̤̀̑͒́̒͊̔ǫ͚̮̳͇̤̰̦̖̀̋̋͂͌̋͑͢͡ d̲̜̹̤̘̝͖͗̀͑̆̽͢ǫ̴̛̤̤̗̝̯͒͆̂̿̀̐͝ͅ ḍ̶͈͇͖͔̫̯̥̄̃͋̄͌̀̇̑͛͋͟ö̢̖̥̯̹͙̱̓̀͋͗͟͡ d͔̬͚̤̩̯͛̽̏̈͘o̪̼̬̯̮̼͌̈̎̐́̕ b̷̢͙̮̱̹͓̎͑͂̊̋̋͛̊͋̇a̗̩͍̩̲̾̇̄͐̾b̮͇̖̣̭̫͎̂̽̅̾́̄͠ỷ̷͚̘͕̫̲̩̠̮̬͒͆̾̃̅͑̓̄ s̲̳̖̼̩̙̓̿͆̉͛̃͒͝͠͡h̴̡̺̯̮̼̙̜̋̓̋͐̿͢ͅa̴̳̩̲͓̱̞͊͊̓̑̄͢ͅṟ̷̨̛̬͎͕̮̖̣̜̎̌̂̎͢k̟͍̱͍͛̅̉̏̑͑͌͡ͅ d̸̥͓̻̗̩̮͖̓͛̀͒̈̉̀̕͞o̹̭͓͎̤̝͆͂͆̈́͗d̵̙͕̼̖͔̬͚͕̞͂͑̒̀͢͞͝͞o͖͕͉̘̠̹͑̂̂̽̌̋͜ḑ̢̟̙̝͋̈̾͌̆͐͋͂̓̌͜ơ̛͖͎͖̱̳̘̓̽̒̔͌͐̔͒͢ḑ̵͍̱͙̘̙̇́̃͡͞o̴̧͓̼͔̜̣̲̻̔́̓͒͗͂́͜ͅd̨͓͈͎͚͕̳̝̩̿͋̂̔́̔̈̇̓͜ȍ̷͕͙̝͎̙̼̣̃̍̏͘̕͟͞d̴̩̩͖̙̘͕͓̼̯̊̿́̾͋̄͘̚͞ŏ̞̤͉̱̝̯̔̄̅͊̑͟ w̴̰̥̱̲̦̤̘̠̑̅̉̓̀͢ę̶̛̬̗̗͓͍̟̏̀̓͗͑͢ṇ̙̟̳̅͑̾͆̈́̀͋͢͞t̵̠̯̫̙̘̺̳͋̋̍͒͂̍̌̐̋ f̸̻̭̫͚̮͐̑̉̄̍̓̂͝ȯ̢̨͔͍̥̲̌̅̋̂͋r̢͔̥͈͎̭͔̼̹̀̿̀̂̊̈́̊͜͠ ả̢̡̛͉̙͓͎̩̈̈̑̇̒͢ͅ ş̺̦͍̣̬͔̭̲̅̓͑̿͗̍ͅw̺̺͉͙̩͚̻̣̜̪̿̍̽͒̎̀̚͝í̢̺̥̩͖̹̣͖͚̈́̿̐̏͜m̶̜̯̺͙̯͒̔̈́̍͞͡͠ d̶̢̨̡̛͓̖̥̱̩̹͊͒̔̽̈̎̽̚ò̤̤̪͎͔̺̽̍̋̅̆̔͠d̳͎̥̟̺̰̰̘̿̌̐́̄̌ơ͔̣̝̱̪̟̪̑̒̿̑͆̂̓̍̃d̢͎͖͖̭͓̭́̌̇̊̇̀͗͛ơ̴͖͓̤̝̘̯͓̐̊̓̾̕͜d̷̤̺̫̙̠̜̬̈̆͐̽̚͟ő͕͚͖̳͙̭̞̜̓̊͊͘͘d̴͈̲̰̬̘́̈́̓̚͠ȍ̶̠͙̜͖͉̱̥̄́͛͌̌̈͟d̳̜̮͓̀̓͒̈̌̅͌͢o̺͕̙̺͔̫̍̾̾̍͊

.

The knowledge floods his senses.  Too many words.  Too many songs.  And he can’t stop it until he has experiences every annoying children’s song and rhyme and poem at once and he can’t take any of it in and he can’t thinkcantthinkcantthinkcantthinktoomanywordstoomanytoomany 

sharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharkDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDo

The static crackles in the air, and Jon’s vision goes dark.  

Jon wakes up and throws up.  Or would, if his insides hadn’t turned to static.  As it stands, static floods his mouth and echos around the bin that has been shoved hastily in front of his face.  

He thinks vaguely this must be an unpleasant experience for whoever is guiding him upright and holding back his hair.  

Even so, it is miserable for him.  

This is one of the least pleasant experiences of his life.  Which is saying something.  

It hurts.  It feels like he is being turned inside out and his head sawed in two.  

Once his body is done, his eyes are leaking static is well and he slumps further, head still in the bin, breathing hard.  He groans, pitifully.  

He allows himself a minute.  A minute to try to process the information overload that sent him into this state.  To try to feel more real and less like a manifestation of buzzing energy.  

He can’t drag his eyes open.  He doesn’t even want to try.  

Then he remembers Tim.  

Tim who is almost certainly the one rubbing his back.  

Tim who just witnessed Jon Behold something.  

Tim who thinks Jon has this under control.  

Jon is supposed to have this under control.  

But does he?  Does he really?  Because this Does happen.  Not too often anymore, but it does.  Jon can’t always.  

Sometimes a weak compulsion threads through his words.  Sometimes he something slips through into his subconscious.  And sometimes, the floodgates open like they just did, and Jon’s body is not equipped to deal with that now, if it ever even was.  (Which it wasn’t.  He remembers lying on his office floor… sick and shivering for hours before Basira found him at his desk, having finally found the strength to stand, plagued by a raging headache.)  

Tim wasn’t supposed to see that he is still like this… this… monstrousness that hasn’t gone away.  It hasn’t.  Just a bit weaker.  Still out of control and he should have this under control by now!  It’s been years!  

And he can’t think anymore because it hurts too much, and even the gentle hand on his back is too much like hitting.  Like scratching.  And he knows it is just oversensitive skin and he knows that touch is fine and grounding and good, but his brain can’t tell the difference anymore.  Not after years of hurt have been visibly pressed into his skin.  And not when merely existing is rending his head in two.  

He is breathing hard with a solid band of panic crushing his lungs.  And he’s gagging around more static.  And static is streaming down his face and he can’t let Tim see him like this.  he can’t.  He can’t!  He doesn’t want to lose Tim again.  He can’t do it again!  Not when things are so close to good that it hurts.  

He tries to get up.  To hide, but it sends him retching again.  

Tim is alarmed.  Not about Jon’s use of powers.  He’s… something close to okay with that.  Well… not Okay okay with it.  But it’s still… just Jon.  It doesn’t happen often.  And Martin warned him Long before allowing them near one another, the second conversation they had after Tim ran into him in the grocery store and had to go through the awkward business of ‘yes I’m alive, sorry I didn’t say anything, also here’s Sasha who you thought was dead.  What do you mean you almost got yourself killed because you were left with nothing to live for?’  That had been…. a conversation to remember.  

In any case, Tim knows that Jon isn’t entirely human.  Mostly human, at this point.  But… not entirely.  Sometimes things like this happen, although Martin hadn’t said anything about….. all the static.  Something about ink?  Something about some minor compulsion.  And that Jon is… not cagey about it… but skittish.  That he still expects to be punished for this thing that he clearly can’t entirely control.  He knows that Jon occasionally Knows things on purpose and gives himself migraines.  Much to Martin’s worry.  But accidentally Beholding… well it looks worse than a migraine to Tim.  This looks painful, and like it’s quickly devolving into a panic attack.  

Which… Tim has a sinking feeling is because he is there.  This would be…. the third one he’s caused.  At least that he knows of.  

There was the time that Jon was under the weather and compelled him by mistake.  There was the time when he’d finally gotten comfortable around Jon again and had started joking and something in the tone of his voice or the volume had sent Jon into a messy spiral.  And now this.  He’s been so careful.  He wants his friend back.  And they were finally getting somewhere with easy visits without Martin moderating.  Finally.  

And now Jon is sick and hurting and  afraid and Tim is probably just making it worse.  

Jon flinches away from his hands with a whimper, and his theory is strengthened.  

He stops.  Timothy Stoker takes consent very seriously.  “Do you want me to let you go?  Can you sit on your own?”  

Jon whines again, forehead resting on the edge of the bin.  Dreadfully pale and face crackling with a static that Tim guesses to be sweat or tears… possibly both.  

He would absolutely let go of Jon if he was sure he could safely do so, but… Jon looks as if he might just topple over as it is.  Best not to disturb him too much.  And if he looks uncomfortable with the arrangement, then Tim will try to fix it.  However he can.  

Until then, he ought to call Martin.  But he can’t get up without dislodging an unsteady Jon.  And Jon doesn’t look up for sitting in on a conversation.  

He sends a text instead.  

There’s been an incident.  We’re okay, but if you could come back here soon… Please come back soon.  

Jon cries.  And so does Tim.  Softly.  Briefly.  So many steps they have taken together, and there is still a journey before them.  

Martin’s home.  Jon would cry with relief if he wasn’t already crying.  Finally real tears instead of trails of static.  Every time he’s tried to move has made him sick.  He eventually gives up and leans against Tim.  Shivering slightly.  He wishes he could get some painkillers, but…. he can’t even sit up.  Not even far enough to let Tim get up.  

He did find it in himself to weakly sign for Tim to wrap an arm around him.  

It’s grounding.  And solid.  And warm.  And real.  

But now Martin is here.  Speaking in low tones to Tim.  Hands on his face.  Jon leaning into Martin’s warmth.  Martin wiping his damp face with a warm flannel.  

“Hey, sweetheart.  Jon, what happened?”  Martin.

Jon doesn’t want to open his mouth.  Insides still unhappy static.  He signs, “Baby Shark.”

Tim chokes on a laugh.  

It jostles Jon, which causes him to groan.  But… but.  A laugh is good.  It isn’t derisive.  It’s… just warm.  And very Tim, as he once was when they were together.  As he is, now.  

Tim stays for dinner.  It’s takeout.  And while Jon is still queasy, he manages a little bit of soup before falling asleep.  Still leaning on Tim, Martin cradling his legs.  

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Tori!

You have been accepted for the role of HESTIA JONES! We really enjoyed the balance and realism you brought not just to Hestia’s flaws, but to the flawed world in which she (and everyone else!) lives, and we’re looking forward to all the tension this lovely little firecracker will add to the Order! We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Tori

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: Well, due to classes and my internship being online now, I have lots of free time. I’ll definitely be able to check and reply throughout the week. Weekends I will be able to as well, but I  spend those days with my spouse, so I may not reply as frequently.

ANYTHING ELSE: Rape/non-con/dub-con is definitely something that needs to be tagged for me. I’m okay with most other things.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Hestia Jones

AGE: 18

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisgender female, she/her. Hestia is currently a bit…confused, is how I’ll put it, about her sexuality. Those types of things were taught and not mentioned a whole lot, so her attraction to women makes her feel a bit uncomfortable. And scared. But she’s interested in them.

BLOOD STATUS: Half-blood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Ravenclaw

ANY CHANGES: Nope! I love Lana as the FC!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Hestia is very good at thinking outside the box. Whether it comes to her ideas at her internship or fashion or even at the Order, she doesn’t do well with just sticking with the status quo. At the internship, this was easy. There were so many laws to be changed and there were all right and legal channels to go through. Her supervisors even encouraged her to keep digging! In the Order, she tries to speak up, but because she’s a low-level member, her ideas fall short. It’s frustrating. But she keeps going back to the drawing board to come up with something new. She’s not one to back down from a fight or to give up so easily.

She’s also very independent, even from a young age she liked doing things herself. She hates asking for help and admitting defeat. Her supervisors always write “Shows great initiative!” on all her reports. She’s not afraid to tell people how she feels or what she thinks should be done. She’s not afraid to get ahead of the curve, to get ahead of the trends.

Although, because she’s so full of ideas of what to do next, Hestia isn’t the best listener. It’s like she zones out the minute someone tells her what’s actually going to be done. Or what she could be doing better. At 18, Hestia thinks she’s an adult and that her ideas are just as good as anyone else’s. And sometimes that means everyone else is wrong in her eyes.

She also has a bit of internalized-homophobia and internalized-misogyny as well. It’s the early 80s and no one really talks about gay people, about those who may not be straight. At least not in a positive way. And with dealing with her own feelings of same-gender attraction, she’s trying to repress it. She has a mean jealous streak and it shows when she sees anyone who is out talking about it. How dare they feel so comfortable when she doesn’t? She’s trying to deny her own feelings and Hestia isn’t the greatest at dealing with that. It’s given her a big compulsive streak as well. She’ll go out drinking with other interns and black out, as if that’s going to help with anything. But at least it means she doesn’t have to think about her own feelings too much.

With the internalized-misogyny it’s a bit more difficult. Hestia hates the “I’m not like other girls”. The ones who think they’re better just because they’re not into fashion or doing their nails, because they’re too busy reading and being introverts. And she does kind of look down on women who aren’t as feminine.

Despite those things, she is rather welcoming and definitely is still in the fight against the oppression of muggleborns, halfbreeds and the others. She would never look down on someone because of blood or even species.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Hestia grew up an only child to a muggle father, Alexander, and witch, Natalie, surrounded by all the love she could ask for. Or, at least, that’s the way she saw it. Her parents were always supportive of her aspirations and her goals. Even if her father didn’t quite understand everything that she talked about. Her parents also both worked a lot and had very well-established careers. Hestia never went without anything. But her parents made sure that their daughter didn’t grow up too spoiled. They taught her to work hard and to never stop being curious.

Hestia did grow up seeing some of the racism that her parents, and herself at times, faced. And it made her even more empathetic to the cause of fighting oppression. The fact that her parents changed their names to something more “normal” made her angry. The fact that they couldn’t truly be themselves. While her parents didn’t instill this fight in her, she has it because of them indirectly.

OCCUPATION:

She is still a law intern in the Department of Magical Law. It becomes a struggle to go in each and every morning, knowing that she’s lying to everyone there on what she’s doing. On who she is. But currently it’s the most moral way to change the laws. The Order certainly isn’t holding any protests or petitioning the Minster, that’s for sure. Still, she hates holding this secret in and sooner or later she’s afraid she might just spill the beans.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

She’s a low-level member and quite frankly, she’s tired of not being heard. Of being looked down upon because she’s not in the inner-circle. As if cliques at Hogwarts weren’t annoying enough. She knows she’s smart and more than capable with a wand, so why won’t they listen to her? Would it be so terrible to listen to the low-level, and quite young, members?

She also just has a lot of complicated thoughts, because she’s still working for the Ministry. If they found out what she was a part of they’d…well, Hestia doesn’t want to think about that. Going to meetings and headquarters gives her so much anxiety that she’s hardly able to sleep at night. Is this the right thing to do? She’s never been one to follow what people tell her to do, to behave how people want her to, but this? This is something else entirely. And it feels like no traction is being made. Voldemort and the Death Eaters just seem to be getting stronger and more powerful. Hestia joined to make a difference, but all she’s doing is getting ignored.

Hestia also sees the wear and tear it has on members like Fabian, who rushes head first into danger. Who looks like he’s dead behind his eyes. If this organization is doing so much good (supposedly!) then why is Fabian on the edge of suicide?

SURVIVAL:

Hestia’s safety net is her internship, is the Ministry. As much as the Order hates them, she needs them to stay alive. If she doesn’t have that, then she’s not sure what she’ll have. Where she’ll go. If something happens to the Order, she’ll keep her internship and hopefully get a job at the Department of Magical Law. Having a secret life isn’t ideal, but she’s glad her more public life is the one with the Ministry. Hestia is 18 and thinks that maybe she can still change laws and the Ministry from the inside.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Hestia is very busy between the internship and the Order, but she tries to spend time with her friends. To go out to the pubs with them (and maybe drinks far too much). She’s not interested in a full-fledged long-term relationship at the moment, but she wouldn’t mind some company. A friends-with-benefits situation. Hestia has no idea how her friendships are staying above water with everyone so stressed and worn-out all the time. Maybe it’s because alcohol hides that for a moment, or maybe they’re all just very good at pretending.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: I ship chemistry above all else. I don’t really have any anti-ships besides no chemistry.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

I like to think that since Hestia comes from a fairly well-to-do family, she doesn’t really get poverty. She doesn’t understand that some people can’t just shop all the time or get their nails or hair done. Obviously, she’s around some Weasley members, but she just doesn’t get why they don’t just work harder. Like her parents.

I mentioned above her internalized-homophobia, so there’s that as well.

Part of her has a hard time looking at the bad parts of the Ministry, because she works there and Amelia is so supportive. She’d rather just keep her head in the sand when it comes to the not-so morally upright things they do. I think of the line from Rogue One where Jyn says it’s not a problem if you don’t look up [and see the Imperial flag]. That’s Hestia about the Ministry most of the time.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

Getting to explore her emotions and feelings about working for both the Order and the Ministry. How complicated that is, how it compromises her at times. It’s a very interesting dynamic.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL):

This might be something the Amelia mun and I work out, but I absolutely want Amelia to find out at some point. And to explore how that changes their relationship. Or even if someone else finds out Hestia is part of the Order.

ANYTHING ELSE? That’s all!

[digitalpenstroke]

Reunion (DPS Story)

I want to say that I'm probably the most honest man you will ever meet.  Never once have I touched a drop of Bacchus's wine, touched the Devil's Lettuce, nor indulged in the more heinous or destructive drugs ever to exist.  I'm not what you would call a poet, a novelist, nor even someone that can dream anything creative.  I am dull as a man my age could be, but still happily married and gainfully employed.  So when it comes for me to tell you this story, let me say that in its entirety that it's real.  At no point have I changed events, names, or even places to protect the innocent -  not that there had been any wrongdoing at all that night.  And let me make it perfectly clear, I am not a superstitious man either, but it certainly has created a believer into that world in me.

During a business trip to Ireland last year, I found myself in a quaint little village by the sea.  For the life of me, I can't remember its name, but I do recall there being a cliff with a gorgeous view of the sunrise only ten minutes away from it.  Four other colleagues and I stopped there for the night on the way to a convention.  Given we had all the time in the world to make it to our destination and have traveled a fair distance from the airport in Dublin, we figured we could use a bit of a rest from the trip. ��We stayed in separate rooms, bid ourselves good night, and to meet up with one another at 9 am to resume the rest of the trip.  The others hit the bar, I decided to go to my room.

For how warm and inviting an inn such as this is in a nice little village, there isn't a lot to do in the room itself.  Not like what you expect to find at a Holiday Inn or Travel Lodge, but in 2018 you would expect some modern conveniences.  The place didn't even have a charging dock for my cell phone, and of course, I would forget my charger at home of all times.  No wifi access to connect to the internet on my laptop, either, which meant even going on Facebook or even Youtube was out of the question for entertainment.  It had a TV, sure, but I was never one to watch TV before bed.  So, I did the next best thing when you're as bored as I was:  Try to sleep.

I will say what this village inn did have over the comforts of a Holiday Inn, very comfortable and homey sheets.  It was as if someone took the time to research what sort of bedding my grandparents would have used in their time, and added all the comforts of that era.  Despite how awake I was, I managed to get myself a little bit tired enough that sleep would not be impossible to obtain at that moment.  Getting into just my boxers, wrapping myself up in the sheets and blanket, I let my eyes closed and began to slow my breathing.  I felt so relaxed, so tired, the bed was so wonderful.  I was having doubts I could even leave it in the morning.  I was half-way there, I could feel it, about to lose that consciousness and pass out.

Come to me...

My eyes opened up immediately.  I could have sworn I heard a voice, beckoning me somewhere, but I had no idea where it would come from.  Most of the other patrons were in the pub, and it sounded more like it came from inside my room than the other side of the door.  “I must have woken myself up from a dream,” I told myself, chuckling before settling down again for a second attempt.

Come to me...

There it was again.  The voice of someone I had never heard of before.  It was certainly a woman's voice and a fairly young one at that. A young adult probably, someone who had either finished high school late or was already in college.  In any case, she was adamant that I go to her, but I had no idea where she could have been, or what she would have wanted from me.  I took another look in the room, making sure no one was making a prank just because I wouldn't get drunk with them.

“Okay, really funny,” I said, taking one last look.  “If I need to find you, I will, but don't assume you won't get out of this unpunished.”   It was an empty threat, I wouldn't know what I could do to an obvious prankster.  But at the same time, I also didn't want her to think I would go soft after bothering me.

Come to me...

She called to me once more, yet this time, and perhaps it was from me being a little more awake and alert to the situation, hearing her say that felt a little unusual, or off-putting.  It wasn't that I was lightheaded, but I certainly had the symptom of such a thing happening to me, which is as best a description of the feeling I could think of.  The more upsetting aspect about it, in retrospect, was that the feeling was more welcoming than bothersome.  At the time it didn't register to me that being the case, but remembering back on it now, it most certainly was.  All I knew what to do then was to go outside.  No matter what the feeling was doing to me, cooler air would be better than warmer if I was lightheaded.  A change of clothes later, and I left the inn without my colleagues realizing.

The night air in Ireland seemed crisper and cleaner than it ever did at home.  I didn't question it, instead, I enjoyed the late evening chill.  My lightheaded feeling was gone, at least for the moment.  I began to look around at the night sky and marveled at the glorious sight above me.  Having been a city boy all my life, I never was able to see the number of stars I was able to see now.  It was beautiful, seeing the night sky shimmering like it was, almost like seeing the shimmer of light against freshly fallen snow against a black background.  I thought about staying awake for at least another hour to star gaze.

Come to me...

But as I heard her voice once more, a weird compulsion struck me.  Before it was a personal mission to find her and tell her to leave me in peace.  Now it was just to find her, for what reason I didn't even know.  I brought my head down from the heavens and looked around my immediate area.  Without the convenience of street lights every twenty feet, I couldn't see anything in the dark of night.  The big oak trees I saw early in the evening when the sun was still setting into the sea, were essentially gone in the darkness.  It was impossible to tell what from what passed the beacon of light that was the electricity of the inn.

Yet, against the black of the night, I saw something standing out in its illumination on top of the cliffs overlooking the sea.  It was hard to tell what it was at first, the source of the light only surrounded by a light blue aura.  The likes of it I had never seen before, but it was certainly something I wanted to witness closer.  The road to it was clear, a grassy plain with the occasional rock that I tripped over and cursed.  My mindset didn't even register the pain I would have normally felt tripping over something that hard, my focus was on the light and approaching it.  I didn't even know why, it went beyond curiosity as if going there was somehow a purpose I had long forgotten, and tonight was the night I dreamt of.

By this point, I was about a good thirty steps away from the glowing light, which was becoming more solid and identifiable as I came closer.  The light was being cast off a person, a woman given her body shape. At twenty-five steps, I saw perfect long flowing hair, which almost looked like a liquid for how unnaturally wavy it was in the breeze of the sea.  At twenty steps I saw that she wore something white and long, a dress of some sort.  By fifteen steps I saw the detail in the dress, looking very gorgeous with the frills and the seams, almost like a wedding dress.  By ten steps I stopped.

"You came..."

As I gazed upon her, I lightly gulped down, while an unexpected tinge of nervousness hit me.  I couldn't explain it, it was like I was meeting her again, but I never met her before.  I had so many questions about who she was and what was happening, but apparently, my mouth had other plans for me.

“I could not leave you any longer.”

I blinked quickly, what the hell was I saying?  It didn't make sense.  Who was she that I knew her so well?  When she turned to look at me, it was like my heart sank twice.  She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but I noticed something as she turned.  She was rather transparent.  She was a ghost!  But yet even as this revelation sat, I didn't flinch, as if I expected that.

“I waited so long...” she said woefully, and I could almost feel myself tear up before I spoke.

“I know.  When we sailed, a terrible storm hit us.  We were driven off course and made way to a new land.  We had no idea where we were, or if we would ever go home again.  The captain told us we should make the most of our new life.  I could not have wanted another lover, not with you in my heart, but I did go into the arms of another woman.”  For whatever reason, I bit my lip.  “I was a fool, she had only comforted me in a lonely night, but we did not love each other.  My thoughts, prayers, heart, and soul were bound to you, my love.  And I found my way back to you.”

She seemed to smile at that, but I had no idea what I was talking about.  “Then come to me... and let's go home, my love.”  And even before I thought of taking a step forward, as if mentally to continue this game, something else happened.  My vision was clouded by the same light blue aura that was covering her, and in a matter of seconds, I realized what happened.  Another ghost had come from out of my body and manifested itself as a gentleman very similar to myself.  He walked up to her, took her hands, kissed the back of one, and looked into her eyes while she did to his.  Then the ghosts disappeared, and just like that, the light around them faded as well.  I was left stunned, confused, and certainly a little tired.  I needed answers, but they'd wait for the morning.

That night, when I returned to my room, I slept like a log, so hard that one of my colleagues poured water on my face – with the owner's permission apparently.  We were going to be late if I slept in a little longer.  I told them about what happened last night, but knowing they wouldn't believe me I made the story up like a dream I couldn't shake.  It seemed too fantastical to have been real, they said, and they could have been right, but I wanted to ask around just to be sure.

As it appeared, only one person knew the possibility of the story I told.  He was an old timer, probably in his hundreds, and he remarked on the story:

“Aye, I know.   A young lass, born to the leader of the village, went and got engaged to a seafarin' man.  The day before the weddin', his Captain wanted to do some fishin' out deep in the sea when a storm hit.  Some say the winds got so bad it sent them all the way to America.  And I guess that lass has been waitin' for him ever since.”

When I think back to what happened, it's like one of those weird ghost stories you hear about over campfires.  Or at the very least a cartoon. Then I thought about it.  My great great grandmother was a woman who gave birth to a child from wedlock but married her to keep the peace with her family.  When I realize that and think of the possibility of who this man is, it makes me smile. To this day, even if it's a weird thing to treasure, I was able to reunite my great great grandfather with his first love from beyond the grave.

[visionarylee]

Raised by Broken Women

It’s a topic that we rarely, if ever, discuss; Broken souls having children only for those children to be shattered souls themselves. Because I know that millions experience this, I want to share my story in order to save a life or even change one. If that means my story goes public, well I hope something good comes from it.

My mother comes from a neglected, unloving home where her father was in and out of the home, and her mother saw her as a stain on a pearly white wall. She didn’t grow up surrounded by love. Embraced. Held. She would tell me stories as I aged about her life and my grandmother, the grandmother I saw as an angel that guarded me from the darkness that was my mother. Her conclusion was that my grandma was a broken woman herself-shattered by not only the times she lived in, but by her husband, a man who was in and out of the house leaving her with six children to raise alone only to have another child by a different woman. This love child would become friends with her siblings without her identity being known until it was...well...known.

There are many things I can mention about my mother’s life. The one that stands out the most is that my mother is an addict; sober, but what stands out from that is that it was her younger sister who was her “drug dealer”. Ironically, her sister gloats about being the favorite of my grandmother. I know this because she did. If you ask, she will tell you she had a great childhood. Not so much for the other five.

My mother, the shattered woman she was, decided she wanted a daughter. My father wanted nothing to do with me so she left him and married a man, having his child when I was four. I was young; therefore, I can only remember so much of the good, but the bad, it sticks with me like a repetitive nightmare that shakes you out of your sleep.

When I was in the second grade, my mother rushed into the after-school daycare to pick me up then to my grandparents' house. I’m sitting on the couch, my mom in the chair, my grandparents in the kitchen. Silence. Not even the ticking of a clock. That’s until the phone rings. My mother looks up, eyes distraught as she gazed at her father. He answers, listens, and then looks to her, and I can’t remember his exact words, but I remember the shrieks that escaped my mother’s mouth. The cries. I watched as if she was crumbling into a ball of nothing. My step-father had just shot himself and later died.

That’s when the devil himself intertwined with our lives. My mother was already a shattering piece of glass, but this time, she was just...shattered. Her addiction started, she slept for most of my childhood, which I recently discovered her addiction was Ativan and cocaine, the cocaine coming from her younger sister. The same home she grew up in was now my home, and now she was able to snap her finger, and in mere minutes, I was her.

Neglected, unloved, unbearable, I was now a speck of dirt on a new pair of shoes to her yet she treated my brother like a king and honestly, I’m thankful for that because in my eyes, my brother is royalty. However, with me she crippled me into a sheltered, antisocial, reserved being who just closeted her emotions and resentment. We lived in an emotionless, noiseless home except for the occasional running faucet and laughter coming from our television sets. There were no hugs, no speaking about emotions, rarely any “I love yous”. It was no home. Just a house.

As I grew older, my grandmother would try to tell me something was wrong with my mother. Well, obviously, but I’m a child. How was I supposed to know? What was I supposed to do? I remember my mom walking around our house in a daze as if in a dream with a cigarette in hand. I would try getting her attention, shouting, cussing at her, screaming. Nothing, but that daze of hers. She would finally stumble out of my room, and when she was in her right mind, she would initiate arguments with me as if she fed on them. As if she fed on my misery.

From morning to bedtime, she was asleep on the seemingly comfortable sofa in our living room.  I put myself on the bus every morning making sure to lock the door. Tried to keep my unkempt hair tidy as best as a child could. Food? She rarely cooked so we had the choice of cereal, cans of ravioli and spaghetti, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which I am eternally grateful for. We had the basics: a roof over our heads, hand-me-down clothes, for the most part electricity and running water. See, my mom would get social security checks in the name of her son due to the loss of his father. We lived off a measly $1000 a month. She would go years without working. How could we survive on just $1000 a month? We couldn’t.

Eight grade comes around. My mother used to pawn off my electronics without asking-even stole money in my older years-so this time she asked and promised me a dog. I was ecstatic! I told her pawn whatever! Soon we went to adopt the being that would alter my life; change its course. A rat terrier I named Casey. A small, 2-month-old baby, and for the first time, I felt loved. I felt wanted. I felt needed. I was finally shown that maybe I mattered. Someone thinks I matter.

I’m finally 18, It’s prom time. I remember thinking maybe this time my mother will be involved in my life. She’ll take me shopping, buy me shoes, do the whole deal, but I should’ve known that the past repeats itself. She only came to one of my basketball games in middle school. Perhaps two. My teacher offered to pay for my basketball pictures because she caught me in the hall crying. My mom decided she didn’t want to miss out on her Ativan, a Bud Light, and sleep the day away. Those were more of a priority. Thankfully my aunt, who I didn’t have to ask, prepared me for two proms. Took me shopping, did my makeup, did my hair. When she told me to take a look in the mirror, I was breathless. This wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me. No unkempt hair, no baggy clothes, no old shoes. I felt like a princess on her way to a ball as cliché as that sounds. I felt beautiful. Confident for the first time.

Before I was off to college, my mother decided to go to rehab-the same facility her brother used. I was happy for my brother’s sake as he was too young to know who and what she was, but my childhood was over. I’m off to college. It was simply too late for me to forgive her.

I became physically sick my sophomore year. It was suggested that I return home for the semester, but I chose to bear the pain than to return to the narcissist who was my mother. Her addiction was gone, but her treatment of me with a city in between us was no different. My mental health was starting to decline because the chronic pain was something a school clinic wasn’t equipped to handle, and I had no insurance. My mother never put me on her insurance when she worked so throughout college I had to endure this mysterious, chronic pain. Eventually I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder, anxiety and fibromyalgia. My grades slipped, the pain increased. I would miss a month worth of classes. Rather that than return home to my trigger-my mother.

I managed to graduate college somehow, and now I was in the real world. I was sick, no doctor could help me, I couldn’t hold a job, I crashed my car twice within a year. There were times when I just wanted to die. I prayed for God to end my life, but Baby Casey. Who would take care of him like I did? Anytime suicide popped into my mind, I remembered Casey needed me, and that was enough for me to go on for another day.

But the worst had finally debuted. May I add on time. I knew Casey was sick for years. He had a bad heart and was getting sick and sicker by the months. The love of my life, my guardian angel. He didn’t have much time. I was on vacation for the week when my brother texts me that something was wrong with Casey. I come home, and he looks awful, bloated, but he had always looked like this if his body had too much fluid in it. I gave him his daily medicine, thinking I’ve seen this a hundred times. He’s fine...The next day what I thought were seizures were not seizures. Cardiac arrest. He died. It took weeks for me to comprehend that he was really gone. I would come home and shout for him, be at work thinking I needed to hurry home to walk him only to remember...

I fell into the deepest depression that I had experienced. As I type this, I’m still experiencing it. Since December I feel no emotion. No happiness, no sadness, no motivation, no anger. Nothing. I knew I needed help, and I went to my mother. What a mistake. She couldn’t have cared any less, calling me miserable, depressing, and pathetic yet there were times she’d texted or called me crying about a man breaking her heart. Once I had to leave work and take an extended lunch break because she was so distraught on the phone and indubitably intoxicated. I left my job to comfort her over a man. She’s in tears, stating she wanted to call her drug dealer. I stayed with her for an hour to calm her down. I even took her to Miami to get her mind off of him and my brother, who needed a car and was depending on my mother for that.

Time passes, and I lose my job. I’m about to lose my car, my apartment, my belongings. I’ve already lost my mind. To protect myself from her as I am in this bottomless pit that has no exit sign, I isolated myself. What does my mother do? What a broken woman who despises her daughter would do. She leaves voicemails saying if I starve myself to death or hurt myself, she’d be sad for a little while, but REMEMBER, “it’s not my fault. You’re an adult. You make your own decisions. You're not going to kill me!" I hadn’t talked to her in weeks, and she knowing how fragile my mental state was says this. She goes on to say she never wanted to live with me, but since I don’t have a job “I GUESS you can come live with me.” She rescinded the invite.

That is my mother. The mother who purposely harms me. The mother who compulsively lies to the family about me, who then turns around and degrades me. For example, I visited my grandma, who lives with my aunt and her children, to ask for assistance. My 23-year-old cousin verbally attacks me calling me pathetic, looking down at me as if I was some stranger begging for change. As if she is not in nursing school, although lacks compassion for the career. I could see the emptiness in her eyes as she persistently attacked me even after I apologized. Just pure boredom. As if she herself didn’t ask her parents for help when she moved in with them with a man and child. As if she didn’t turn a blind eye when her brother borrowed $500 from our grandmother with no intention of paying her back as he continues traveling. This is the grandma who is my pillar. The damage my mother has done is irreversible. This is the woman who gave birth to me.

She is a woman with no remorse. No empathy. Shows no kindness to me. There have been no apologies. Ever. Even while I was reaching out for help, she blocked me from communication unconcerned about my well-being. She reserves that for my brother, who is delighted to be her favorite yet considers him dangerous and threatening afraid to sleep with her door open if he is present. This is why I can longer be anywhere near the shattered woman who gave birth to the shattered girl.

It is a never-ending cycle in some families. Broken people growing up in neglected, unloving homes only to have children and replicate that same environment, picking their favorites as they build and decorate.

Although I thought it was too late for me, I take any opportunity I can get to heal. I jog, I write to producers, literary agents, and submit profiles to talent agents. I promote my screenplays, I continue to write, read and watch films when my depression doesn't hinder my concentration or my anxiety doesn't send me into heart attack mode. I am posting this with the hope that others will read this and not only end this horrendous cycle but heal themselves. Isolate yourself if you must. If you can relate to this even just a little, I want you to know that you are not alone.

Broken people give birth to broken children, and it’s time to end it.

Written by Lee

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

life story - part 18

Kyle's mother was named Ronnie. She was an odd woman, and became the talk of the town in her own right. She was pretty heavy, and she often times walked around shirtless, or even at times naked. You would just drive by the house, and she would be out watering her flowers in the nude. I ended up getting used to this, and despite the fact that I have always been a little bit modest personally,  I came to appreciate her ways of doing things. She also suffered from severe bipolar disorder. Her moods were noticeable. And there were a few times when the cops were called. Kyle was the eldest, and I could tell that he took on the largest amount of shame and personal sense of responsibility.

I went back to school ready to keep going. School for me had nothing to do with academics. I was so far behind by this point. I still paid attention to my lessons in class, but afterwards I spent most of my time just thinking about Kyle. Kyle had started spying on me. I realized this one evening as I was outside naming all the items that were outside, giving hundreds of items outside names and then reciting them to see if I could recall them all. As I was out there with little Allison and David in our winter coats, I realized that we were being watched. I could hear the whispers of Kyle and his younger brother Daryl. It seemed that Kyle had taken an interest in me.

Kyle had three younger brothers. The youngest one was named Shawn. He was kind of mean. He was the kind of kid that you would invite over and they would break your stuff. He was the same age as David. Then there was Khris. Khris was very chill. He was boastful and clumsy. He was the kind of kid that would gravitate towards talking to adults, boasting about what he was capable of, when everyone knew he was essentially lying. Still, he was an overall nice kid when you got over the fact that he was always looking for a way to talk about how strong, brave, talented, or special he was. In fact, I thought he was hilarious. Because as long as you gave him attention, he would keep talking, getting more and more confident, taking credit for greater and greater deeds. There was no ceiling. Eventually he would be telling you about how he was abducted by aliens and he beat them up and how the president of the united states personally sent him a letter telling him he should work at the white house, but also he had helped put out a fire in a burning building. He was only a second grader. Then there was Daryl, who was kind of the black sheep of the family. He was kind of okay, but kind of whiny. I generally ignored him. Kyle was the oldest, and he had developed his personality the most, having the most charisma and responsibility about him.

I started seeing Kyle outside more and more as the days grew longer and spring was upon us once again. And he started to stop when I was around, and kind of flirt with me outside of my house, in the store or at the park. It was childish flirting and he did it just about every single time he ever saw me out and about. It was probably the most childish flirting you can imagine. It's so below my understanding that I don't entirely remember all of it – I remember throwing leaves at one another of it would end up with us putting twigs in each others hair or chasing one another around calling one another a childish nickname. But it was the happiest I had ever been up to that point. I flirted right back. So I started finding reasons to not go to my mothers trailer during the weekend, just so I could sit outside most of the day and hope to see or find Kyle. There was one time however, where I got into a sort of uncomfortable situation. Kyle's family was having a fight as I was waiting outside one weekend. Kyle was screaming at his mother, his mom was screaming at him. I had been waiting for him to give me attention, and suddenly he was outside and really upset. Which was really awkward. I tried to act natural about it and act as though I didn't see, and just go into my house. But somehow the doors were locked. So as he walked past me, I noticed he was in tears and the last thing he would have wanted was for me to see him crying. I tried to pretend I was working on the door, but this probably made me look really dumb. In any case, it was obvious and I think that's part of the downside of becoming overly ambitious about waiting around for a person.

Early on in this crush that I had, I would say that while I was totally and completely obsessed, it hadn't entirely taken over and become unfun for me quite yet. My first major disappointment regarding Kyle was that one day, there was this moment we had, were we were walking home for the park together. I felt lightheaded and happy. The sun was going down on our backs. And it was one of those moments where we were suddenly quiet, and I think Kyle consciously realized that we were getting a little too close. When he first moved into town, he was not a popular kid. The other boys gave him a hard time for being short. And then he frosted his hair, and that made him look different than the boys in my class – who were all very conservative redneck sorts and saw any real focus on their hair to be effeminate. But then one of the preppier girls took a liking to him, and he got accepted in the basketball team, and he started hanging out with other boys besides compulsive weird Andrew. In the mean time, he had this side -friendship-flirting session thing going on with me. And as all this went on I grew to instinctively understand that he didn't want his friends or Mary to know about it. As soon as he found out that Mary had a crush on him, he cut back on the flirting a lot. It just lost it's edge somehow. And then when he started dating her, I was crushed. I didn't understand how he could act like he liked me but not.

So, on this one day, as the sun was to our backs, I think he had started to date Mary, but I had somehow taken his interest while he was at the park. There was this moment before I went up to my house – and it was one of those moments were the girl and the boy hold hands. He had accidentally walked himself into this moment with me. He wasn't very conscious of himself. I was freaked out – and he got freaked out and inexplicably and sadly all too explicable, he climbed up the hill a strange way to get to his house instead of taking the sidewalk just to get away. Neither one of us had done or said anything weird. But nature was playing games on him, and he just had become consciously aware of himself. And of course, he could never date me. That would be a joke. I could almost read this thoughts in the bubble above his head. And that kind of thing never happened again. I went on walking. A part of me was on cloud nine because having shared a moment like was really grand, but another part of me had this ugly feeling of knowing that there would never be a better time between us – like I wondered if it might not just be better that I died in my sleep that night so I never felt disappointed. He had rejected me, and that was as far as we would ever be.

Knowing that Kyle was unable to give me attention the way he did when he was alone in the same way as he did when we was with his buddies due to me being me and ruining his reputation in school, I had to figure out a way for it to be acceptable for him to give me attention. I had basically become a drug addict, and I had to get his attention or else my days were horrible. He liked interacting with me a lot and that didn't change when he started to date Mary. But our relationship changed drastically in that time. During the winter, he had gone from sincerely wanting to be my friend possibly even liking me, to finding me funny and enjoying my attention, to realizing that we were getting too close and realizing that he could be a popular kid if he wanted to but he couldn't be my friend and be popular, to disowning me a little bit on those grounds and dehumanizing me in his mind so that he didn't have to genuinely care about me enough to feel bad about it. And then he realized after going through these mental exercises, that he could still keep me around. Because by this time, I made him feel good about himself. I was basically his pet. He could lock me away, he could be even kind of mean to me, and I would still come back wagging my tail.

So what happened here was due to my own pathetic lack of a self esteem. I should have proudly ignored him when he ignored me. But instead I crumpled and bartered for every interaction we could continue to have after that sunset day. I began enticing the other boys in the class to make fun of me. Just a little bit. I thought up comedy skits that I could pretend to naturally walk into when I got to school to get the entire class to notice me. There had always been a tendency to laugh at me somewhat anyway since I am a little ridiculous by nature, and to a degree I didn't mind this because I liked making people laugh. What I put onto myself though took things to the next level. I made myself ridiculous to most of the other boys as well. So pretty soon, I was getting them to all interact with me or tease me whenever they saw me. I overreacted to things that I could have ignored. I reacted in dramatic ways nobody expected. I planned out dialogues in advance. So after awhile, all the boys in the class, and then the boys in the class above me would seek me out to tease me. To their credit, none of them made fun of my appearance – my acne, weight or hair. I also noticed that they were looking at my chest a lot. I didn't really like that, but I took it anyway. Anything that made Kyle take an interest in me was fine by me. And it worked. But it was demeaning and time consuming.

My school work might not have even existed at this point. Kyle had actually even taken precedence over my own inner imagination. I was still highly invested in my make believe stories, but I didn't go ten seconds without thinking about Kyle. When a day would go by and not much was said between us, it got to where I would feel sick. My muscles would feel weak, I would hate myself and want to destroy myself in some way. I would go home, usually be a totally horrible person to my siblings, go into my room and cry. Sometimes I would get these jolts of self hatred that were intense and in those moments I could have done some real damage to myself. I would pull my own hair out. And then the next day Kyle would really be chasing me around just like old times almost, and I would come home feeling like I was flying. I would lay on my bed and I would feel like everything was perfect. There was never an in between day for me. I was either flying or falling. It was a very intense existence.

My greatest moment of that year came towards the end. In our English class, we had to make a fifteen minute power point presentation about a career, generally one we aimed to be, and invite all of our parents as the audience. It took us a month to prepare. I had chosen a comic book artist since that is what I had decided I wanted to be. There was very little information on it, but I used this presentation to be at my utmost funniest. I spent hours thinking of ways I could endear and humor the crowd, ways that I could explain this or that. I would continuously work on it in my mind, inserting jokes, letting myself go impromptu and act naturally when that would work the best. We rehearsed in front of our own class. I would intentionally drop things, intentionally walk a certain way. I had this entire performance under control – and I made sure that it looked like it was off the cuff. Some of it would be, since sometimes I knew that that form of communication produced the most laughter. My English teacher was not amused by my performance, since it was certainly something that nobody would enjoy in a CEO drawing board.

When the day finally came, it started around five o'clock in the afternoon after school. I was a bit nervous. There were about forty or so parents and teachers that had arrived to watch the long boring power point presentations that all the students had to do. Most of it was quiet, respectful, informative, and a complete bore. There were parents who had Q & A time. My own dad was part of the group. Kyle made a few jokes and demonstrated pretty good people skills. After the presentations were over and my father was driving me home, he told me that he thought that that Kyle boy was an 'upstanding young man,' I gushed and tried to not say something proud or too obviously revealing that I liked him.

I don't remember anything I really said or did in front of everyone now. That was fifteen years ago now. I am not able to make this many people laugh as a twenty-seven  year old, and I am sure I would be hyperventilating today and almost unable to perform properly. But that day, I made everyone love me. The parents of the other students were crying they were laughing so hard. I was both hilarious and informative. The whole room was completely mine. Everyone accept my own dad (and really who needs him) was laughing and asking me questions. They completely forgot about their own children. After the power point presentations were over, parents were coming up to me. Someone said that I had the natural talent to be a professional comedienne. I was told that I was the funniest person they had ever watched. I was told my power point presentation was excellent. Even my no nonsense English teacher Mrs. Mathison found a way to tell me that she was highly impressed that I had found a way to break all the rules of everything she had taught me about public speaking and that I had by far the best performance of any student she had seen in a long time.

The whole time though, I had really just done all this so Kyle would enjoy it. Had he not been a part of my life, I would have given a timid fearful speech that wanted to end itself. And I do remember looking over at him briefly. Part of my presentation of course was that I didn't look too much at just one person, but when I looked at him, he for one moment looked smitten with me, and it was unbelievable. I was so pleased with myself. And of course, this situation set me up for failure in the future. I got too dark later on in life, and I lost that natural funniness. I can still be funny to those who know me, but not the general public. But since I had this previous success, everything I do feels like a failure. It's never good enough for me to have passed or succeeded in completing a task that involves socializing. I have social anxiety now – I did then too, I was just using it to be funny, but that's not it. I have really high expectations that I could get that feeling of fame like I did fifteen years ago, and since I seem not to be able to do that, I am reluctant to try.

Since most everything I thought about was about Kyle at the time, I didn't focus on much else. This didn't mean that other things were not happening at home, or with my friends. There were plenty of developments. Sarah started to develop depression around this time. It was really quiet. Her depression was a lot different than mine. She just felt empty. I generally got really upset and wanted to die when I was depressed, but with Sarah, it was/is more like someone is just quietly squeezing the life out of her and she becomes apathetic and incomplete. It might have been because she never really talked about what was bothering her. She generally would do things to make me feel inferior or less than her, but she did this because she felt horrible. But she kept it to herself, where, if someone talked to me, I would generally open up. Sarah has troubles doing that. I just remember around this time her becoming incredibly depressed. But there was little anyone could say or do since it was more or less a mystery.

At the very end of the year, Sarah developed a crush on a boy in the class. He was tall, and in my opinion much like Frankenstein's monster. His name was Rex. He was popular by default. He was too good at sports not to be popular and I think he was the only one in the class to make it to college football. He didn't seem to talk much or have much of a developed opinion and he never really had to since he was so tall. He just kind of got by without problems by smiling sheepishly, doing a great job at sports, and being too tall and built to make anyone want to question him at all. So, Sarah and Samantha went on a band trip to somewhere. I wasn't there since I was a Study Skills kid. And I guess she forgot her coat in the building, and he ran out and got it. Then he opened the door for her. Rex was probably just practicing gentlemanly behaviors that someone had told him was a good idea. He was a bit gentlemanly by nature anyway. Sarah became fond of him after this. We would often times laugh and joke about how we liked the smallest guy in the class and the biggest dude in the class.

Katie ended up becoming my friend. We hung out a few times, and she decided to take me into her trust circle – in her own tribal way. I have no idea what made me likeable. Katie was in a way, so serious about certain things, and so stubborn and tribal that she had just decided on her own that she didn't want to be popular anymore. She was in the class above us, and had generally always been a little bit popular. She just decided one day that she would rather hang out with all of us even though we were nerds in the class below. This was probably a logical decision because 8th grade girls always go to war with one another, and Katie was not good with that kind of thing. She didn't like mind games. If someone pissed her off, she would just say so, punch them, kick them out for good or something of that nature. So I think she was escaping a lot of the girl-wars.

She was also into hunting to a level that made it uncool. That is saying a lot where I hail from. It's quite normal for young women in my part of the world to be really into camo and hunting to a certain level that means that they support their boyfriends hunting trips and they want to join. But girls aren't really allowed to be more invested then their boyfriends, but rather, they have their own style to compliment their husbands and boyfriends who do hunt. It's called camglam. I am sure there are people who dress this way here and there all over the country, but in Idaho and Montana it's the most notable fashion. Basically, it's camo with bad jewels on it. There are stores in town that sell nothing but. Women will put their hair in a tight ponytail at the top of their heads, and wear all camo with gemstones that spell things, or signify antlers, hat, shoes, dresses, coats, purses and so forth. It's not my thing obviously. Katie was not one of these girls. Katie was more into hunting than anyone I have ever known, man or no. She lived out at the edge of town down a strange little road from the hill. She would sleep out in the woods by choice, just to be closer to nature. She learned to make animal noises, and understand tracks. She often times looked like a soldier to me, carrying around her gun. Katie's style was military hunting gear. There was very little fashion to her. I think she was partially like this because her mother favored her older sister to her. And her father had wanted a boy. So he raised Katie to be a tomboy.

I liked Katie as a friend a lot because she didn't sneakily talk crap about people, as Sarah and Samantha were capable of doing. She was either your friend or she wasn't. She either agreed with you, or she didn't. She tended to believe other people were the same way and it really upset her if you went behind her back in any way. There was a naivety to her personality that I could definitely relate to. And once she decided that she trusted me, she was suddenly incredibly nice and loyal towards me and always had my back. I wasn't really used to that sort of support from Sarah or Samantha. And because she was a little older than us, I think she raised the standards of our loyalty and friendship as a group.

The downsides to Katie was that she was really bad about blurting your secrets. Being obtuse herself, she often times didn't really think about people reading into the things she said. She was also clannish and tribal. Everything came down to her friends – and I felt there was an annoying egotism to that. She tended to see things in black and white – and she was proud of that also. And just identity stuff in general. She was obsessed with the fact that she was a hunter, and she was obsessed with the fact she was a Libra. She decided she didn't like other signs and she would actually act aggressive to people who were some other sign different from hers – which was simply ridiculous. This eventually created a bridge between her and I since from my perspective, I look out at a sea of gray each morning, and it's quite another story with her. I liked that she had a moral code and a value system, but sometimes it didn't suit me to take a strong angry measure against something I was unfamiliar with. That has never been my natural response to things that were different or ideas I am not used to. I am sure it was her upbringing, but she was also heavily invested in fart jokes and the types of things men talk about around burn barrels. This wasn't so much bad, but mentally, I am so much different than that. And being as she was a hunter, she looked at animals and thought about killing them and possibly eating them – unless they were dogs or horses. There was once a nest of baby birds outside of her bedroom window. She went out, got a rock and smashed them with that rock with her bare hands. Like, I know she was raised this way, but there is something in me that that just didn't sit well with. No matter how much little chirping annoyed me, I would have enjoyed those young babies as well, and I certainly can't imagine killing them because they got in my way.

Samantha and I hadn't talked for years, and this year was no different. With that being said, there was one thing I do remember very well. We were riding the bus to the high school, when the bus driver suddenly looked at Sarah, Samantha and I coldly and gave us all detentions. We asked what we had done, and she began turning corners angrily. Samantha said 'wow' and this woman started shrieking at her, claiming we were all cussing and making fun of her. I was frustrated because we hadn't cussed, or said anything against her, but when we tried to talk to one another to clarify, she gave us all second detentions. She was speeding by this point yelling at us. She was furious. I have no idea what she might have thought she heard, or if she was simply losing her mind. I kept my mouth shut in frustration, but Samantha, who never had a detention or a bad grade in her entire life basically told this bus driver she was wrong. This woman gave Samantha a whole bunch of detentions and called her a bitch.

I remember getting so mad. As it happens, this bus driver was actually the mother to the bus driver that had taken my own sister off the bus when I was small, and called her a slut. So some kind of power trip issue must happen to these women and it must run in the family. And then their son was in our class. He was always really mean. His name was Cody and he was popular because he was actually mean to the other boys. He also initiated this thing where the boys would watch me eat at the lunch table and they would make noises and giggle uncontrollably whenever I took a bite, which gave me a complex that made it so I have troubles eating in front of strangers. He also called Samantha and I pizza-face because of our acne. And Samantha had braces, so he made fun of her for that too. So when I got to Study Skills, I wrote on a piece of paper that I hated the ENTIRE COOPER family. That drunken loon of a girl, Nicole whom I had gone to the divorce kids classes with years ago, saw the paper on my desk and gave it to Cody. Which made him furious. I just decided to play it cool and go with it. I felt weird about it though because, while I didn't like his sister, I didn't hate her. And I didn't know his dad at all, so I didn't have anything to go by. But to Cody, he thought this note was because of his dad. His dad had shot and killed a man during a hunting thing several years previous, and he had gone to jail for a short time. I am not sure what the issue was, but from what I have been told, the man was trying to attack and kill Cody's dad so I guess he didn't have much of a choice in the predicament, and he only went to jail for a small period of time. I never knew the man. But Cody was extremely defensive and shamed that his father had done jail time, so he automatically assumed that I cared about his dad. When really it was his mom and grandmother who annoyed me. He promised to seek revenge, or something like that. However, he was already as mean as he could get to me, so it didn't change anything.

Lastly, when Kyle dated Mary, I really started wishing that I was a regular girl. I never took the steps or ever knew how to be anyone but myself, but I started wishing that I looked like the other girls. I thought that perhaps Kyle would have dated me if I had been 'normal'. I started imagining this normal version of me. Tan, thinner, pulling my hair in the tight ponytail that all the other girls had. I imagined a girl who didn't make people laugh that much, had good grades. A soft typical small town girl with no wild imagination. I had to find some way to be like that. Mary eventually dumped Kyle. She only dated him because Mary needed to complete her collection. Kyle was really upset for a few weeks. And then Mary's cousin, who was also in our class, Kayla took interest in him. And he seemed to be into her as well. So it was back to square one with me being jealous. I started looking at all the girls who flirted or simply were nice to him as competition. And so, the unhealthiness that became me – began.

if you want to read what i have written up to this point, here you go. 

PART 17 - http://tinyurl.com/y77unlng

PART 16 - http://tinyurl.com/yadpsv8c

PART 15 - http://tinyurl.com/yb3lt6k5

PART 14 - http://tinyurl.com/yb4cfedq

PART 13 - http://tinyurl.com/yalanq9s

PART 12 - http://tinyurl.com/yc79mw94

PART 11 - http://tinyurl.com/yc9qhj84

PART 10 - http://tinyurl.com/yb734w24

PART 9 - http://tinyurl.com/yc2t6vfw  

PART 8 - http://tinyurl.com/ybl37utq

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

[baker-street-irregulars-recs]

Vol. 5: January Recommendations

Aaaand, we’re back for another month of irregular recs! Click below for the list!

The Pure and Simple Truth by 221b_hound  | @221b-hound

Rating: Mature

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John

Summary: The truth wasn’t always beautiful, but it was theirs. The truth of Sherlock and John and Mary; the truth of siblings and the terrible things they did. It wasn’t pure or simple, but it was what it was.

Crickette’s Note: I know I’ve rec’d other stories by 221b_hound. I absolutely want to visit her Captain’s of Industry AU. I would have to say that her Lock and Key series is probably in my top 5 all time most favorite fan writing in this fandom.

This is a break from my usual rec a fic. I am rec’ing the series. I believe that like her other series 221b_hound will weave masterful storytelling and that after S4 this will be the very series a lot of us will want to glom on to. Her characterization of Holmes and Watson is in my opinion what is going on under the surface of the show. So give it a read, yeah? (Also read Lock and Key, Unkissed, Captains of Industry.) (Do it.) (Right now.)

The Liquid Measure of Your Steps by Mazarin221b | @mazarin221b 

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock/John Watson

Summary: The murder of a young alpha dancer at a posh omega club gives John and Sherlock a peek into the shadier side of the entertainment industry, where young, unsuppressed alphas are left as vulnerable targets to any omega intent on using their own bond compulsion against them.

Crickette’s Note: So this story is from Alpha/Omega Universe. I adore this. None of the issues with consent. The banter between Sherlock and John is some of my favorite. It reads real. “Animate Cock!” I just wanted to say that. Anyway, I have read this story more than once. This story might be my go too when I read bad A/O and I need eyeball bleach. I wanted to rec this because I really enjoy the universe that she creates and would love to see more from it.

Where the Good Things Grow by Anchors

Rating: Mature

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson

Summary: "I have a magic garden."

As come-ons go, John's heard worse.

Crickette’s Note: Hands down this story is magical and lovely. The writer uses bright descriptions that make you visualize exactly where you are. Plus it’s magic tea. I love tea. Especially magic tea. The writing is very lyrical and I enjoyed it. I keep thinking. It was beautiful.. Sorry you’re going to have to read it to understand. I can’t quite capture it and that is a good thing in this case.

Fire and Ice by Laur | @notesoflore

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson

Summary: They hadn’t seen each other since Autumn, when John’s power had been fading and Sherlock’s growing. Now that it was Spring, the balances were shifting again, and Sherlock drank in the signs of John’s increasing vitality. The Summer King’s hair, dulled silver during the cold Winter months, was beginning to sprout threads of gold again; the skin peeking out of his warm clothing, too pale still, was regaining its bronzed tones.

“It’s been a long Winter,” John accused, his words billowing into the air. Sherlock inhaled deeply, pulling that damp, Summer-sweet cloud into his lungs. “Your eyes are as icy as ever, but I swear,” he pulled a hand from his coat pocket and reached up, “every Spring, when I touch you…” His burning hot fingertips brushed Sherlock’s frozen cheek, and the Winter King gasped, a shudder rippling through his body as his gaze bore into John’s, “…they melt.”

Crickette’s Note: Lymphadei and I talk a lot about this list and we usually start the month off with.. Well this is what I’m thinking… and Oh yeah that’s a great fic, have you read this one? When I got the notification that this was posted (I subscribe to Laur and you should too!) I told myself to wait because I was working on something. But then Lymphadei linked me. So I took it as kismet and read it. As soon as I finished I sent her a message. I CALL DIBS IT'S MINE! I’M REC’ING IT!!! It’s all ok because I think she has a Laur story she is rec’ing this month too! The magical realm this is set in it just perfect. I love the idea of them as these fey creatures. I would love to see more from this universe. Especially if there is more Johnlock. It's hard to explain without giving total spoilers.

Like Relationship Counseling (But with Bruises) by PoppyAlexander | @fuckyeahfightlock

Rating: Mature

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Summary: "God, you filthy bugger."

Crickette’s Note: I actually told a friend that this story was so fucking hot that everyone should read it and cuddlefuck it. Yep. Cuddlefuck this. The banter is perfect, the back and forth between John and Sherlock is sexy as fuck. Oh and it's switchlock at its very best. So fun for everyone. I absolutely adore PoppyAlexander’s work.. I tend to try and savor her work, so I stop myself from binge reading each thing, its more like I find it when I find it and then remind myself not to go crazy. I do reread a lot of her stuff… One day I will have read it and I will be sorry. You can’t go back and read something for the first time all over again. But you? You should binge read everything she does. Its brilliant.

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The Seafarer; or, A question of Time by DoubleNegative | @onethousandhurrahs

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: “Put two ships in the open sea, without wind or tide, and, at last, they will come together. Throw two planets into space, and they will fall one on the other. Place two enemies in the midst of a crowd, and they will inevitably meet; it is a fatality, a question of time, that is all.” - Jules Verne The Indian Ocean, 1880: John H. Watson, MD, meets Sherlock Holmes and is deduced.

Lymphadei’s note: Anything written by DoubleNegative is, in my opinion, a gift from the Johnlock gods. Throw in a bit of history and forbidden romance, and I am living! If the sexual tension is not enough to get your blood pumping, then a good villain and background sapphic romance should do the trick. The build-up is slow and pleasure is deferred, but the story is well worth the wait.

The OtherWorld by Laur | @notesoflore

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: Dealing with a personal loss, the grieving Holmes family moves to the Pink Palace Apartments, out in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock hates it - the boring house, the weird neighbours and especially his newfound stalker John. But then he's lured through a secret passageway to a whole OtherWorld, where nothing is ever boring and everything is as it should be, and embarks on an adventure that could mean leaving the real world behind forever. A Coraline fusion.

Lymphadei’s note: Soooo, I love Coraline??? So when I saw this, I screamed? Like, is that even normal? Obviously, Laur’s works have become quite a favorite for Crickette and I. The writing is always beautiful and the plots, intriquing. The OtherWorld was no different. Laur simply took a brilliant movie and made it her own in a quite a clever and enjoyable way. The more I gush, the more I give away, but if you’ve seen Coraline, then you’ll have a basic idea of where the story goes. Just don’t get too comfortable.

W.A.T.S.O.N. by nondeducible | @nondeducible

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock has been called a cold, calculating and heartless machine throughout his adult life. It’s only fitting that he finds his first true friend in an Artificial Intelligence.

Lymphadei’s note: I can’t even begin to say how sweet I found this story… Okay, well obviously I can, but seriously! I love this story. Being a strongly empathetic person, sometimes to my detriment, fics like these just pull at my heartstrings. Sherlock was so alone and once again, as in every story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, only one man (or machine) was capable of being his conductor of light. If you’ve nothing on, go read this right now. It’s a lovely AU that will leave you wanting more.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep by Cyphernaut

Rating: NR

Pairing: Sherlock/John, Greg/Mycroft

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock charges Mycroft with John's safety while he's off tearing down Moriarty's web. Mycroft takes this a step further and brings John home with him, using what he knows of Sherlock and John's (non-sexual) ageplay relationship to create an impromptu "happy family" with Greg.

Lymphadei’s note: Look, I’d just finished rereading the Wee Doctor series by Americanjedi and I needed some daddy Sherlock. I was not disappointed. It’s mostly platonic save for a bit when John is “Big.” Then, I put my slash goggles on. I would say it’s up for interpretation. For the most part, we get to see a sweet side of both Greg and Mycroft, and a John that is too cute for words. Once again, it is proven that Sherlock is willing to do anything for John, so if you’re still reeling from TLD like me, this is a wonderful read.

Perpetual Motion by Fay (Orphaned account)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Summary: Everyone thinks that they're a couple, but Sherlock's self-sexual and John's straight, so they're never going to fall in love, are they? Even if neither of them can imagine life without the other. **** Sherlock hadn’t been in the least bit cold, but he felt warm through and through when John snuggled in beside him. He wondered idly if they could stay like this forever; cuddled up in front of the fire with nothing more complex to solve than the mystery of the box in John’s pocket. “You said that had a present for me,” he murmured with his lips almost touching John’s earlobe. “A small present,” cautioned John. He reached into his dressing gown and drew out a flat box wrapped in unadorned royal blue tissue paper. “Still it’s the thought that counts.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “And what thought was that?”

Lymphadei’s note: So, a majority of fics I’ve recced today are fairly innocuous. Yeeeeah, not this one. Here be lots of sex. Lots. We get a bit of interesting background on Sherlock as well as front row seats to witness the developing relationship between our Baker Street Boys. There’s no “bromance” to be found here, but pure, explicit gay sex and romance between men. If that doesn’t hook you in, I don’t know what else will.

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That’s all for today, folks. See ya next month!

[dazzledbybooks]

As a young ballerina in Paris, young adult novelist A. K. Small studied at the famous Académie Chaptal and later danced with companies across the US. Inspired by the dancers from her childhood, Small weaves a vivid story of a fiercely competitive female friendship in her dazzling debut, Bright Burning Stars (Publication Date: May 21, 2019; $17.95). Following two teens fighting for center stage and a spot in the Opera’s prestigious corps de ballet, this page-turning novel explores the lengths it takes to turn talent into a career. A gifted new writer, Small brings the reader into the passionate world of ballet all while telling an engrossing story of female friendship. Kate and Marine have trained since childhood at the Paris Opera Ballet School where they formed an intense bond after respective family tragedies. Their friendship seems unshakeable until their final year when only one girl can be selected for a place in the Opera’s company. The physically demanding competition takes an emotional toll, and their support for each other starts to crumble. Marine’s eating disorder begins to control her life as she consumes less and dances more, and Kate discovers the depths of depression and the highs of first love as she falls for the school heartthrob—who also happens to be Marine’s dance partner. As rankings tighten and each day is one step closer to the final selection, neither girl is sure just how far she’ll go to win. With nuance and empathy, the intense emotions of teenage years are amplified in Small’s debut as the girls struggle with grief, mental health issues, and relationships, all set against the glamorous backdrop of Paris. With the incredible success of the film Black Swan and dance reality TV shows today, dance seems to be more popular than ever. Kirkus Reviews praises the debut as “addictive, angst-y, and heartfelt” while Entertainment Weekly.com calls out that Bright Burning Stars is “notable for the way it tackles sensitive topics such as mental illness and eating disorders”. In Bright Burning Stars, debut author A. K. Small pens a stunning, propulsive story about girls at their physical and emotional extremes, the gutting power of first love, and what it means to fight for your dreams. Praise: “Bright Burning Stars is the compulsively readable story. I was breathless and battling tears up until the very last stunning turns onstage and beyond. A dazzling, heart-wrenching debut.” — Nova Ren Suma, #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Room Away from the Wolves “The fascinating, competitive ballet world may get the YA novel it deserves with Bright Burning Stars...Pitched as an immersive, propulsive story into the world of ballet, Bright Burning Stars is also notable for the way it tackles sensitive topics such as mental illness and eating disorders.” —EntertainmentWeekly.com Review: Normally I don't put a warning on books but I felt like this one needed it. This book has a lot of dark themes. They aren't all handled well. Proceed with caution. Bright Burning Stars by A.K. Small is told in a dual POV.  Kate and Marine are best friends. They became instant friends their first year of training together. Due to the ruthless and cutthroat nature of the ballet school, these two deal with a lot of insecurities and disorders. Then of course you have to have a male student that they both crush on. There are a lot of difficulties to this friendship. I felt like the plot was a little all over the place. I felt that thee was a lot of story arcs that weren't wrapped up so cleanly. I felt like the characters were extremely shallow. Here are my thoughts. It is great that A.K. Small wanted to tack all of these dark subjects but it would have been nice if we only have a couple vs the sixteen different dark themes. I also thought that the dark themes could have been handled better. Things magically being fixed and going away isn't practical so it would have been nicer to have a more realistic process for the issues. A.K. Small definitely brought issues to the for front of readers minds. I just don't feel like she did anything but glorify the issues. The book itself is a pretty fast read and the characters are easy to get to know as they are pretty shallow. I do like dark themes being address just wish there was more substance and resolutions for them. Excerpt: 1. Marine We stood outside the circular studio in the apex of the dance annex. Some of us obsessively rose up and down in first position to break the soles of our shoes, while others, like the boys, tucked their t-shirts into their tights and cracked their necks for luck. I didn’t do anything but clutch Kate’s hand. Kate and I always held hands before the weekly générales. But before I could ask her what she thought the new ratings would be, who would outshine whom on The Boards after only a week and four days of ballet classes and rehearsals in our final year at Nanterre, my name was called first. A bad omen: in six years of dancing here, the faculty had never switched us out of alphabetical order before. Isabelle The Brooder always started. I danced third. “Break a leg,” Kate said in English before I stepped into the studio, which made me smile because saying things in her mother tongue was Kate’s way of showing love. Inside the vast round room, three judges—judging deities really—sat erect behind a long folding table. Valentine Louvet, the director, was on the left, her dark hair twisted into a loose knot and rings adorning her fingers. She would sometimes look up at the giant skylight and I would swear that her lips moved, that she discussed students with Nijinsky’s ghost through the thick glass. Francis Chevalier, the ballet master, an older man with sweat stains radiating from under his arms, was on the right. While you danced, he rhythmically jabbed the tip of his cane into the floor. In the middle sat The Witch, aka Madame Brunelle, in glasses and a tight bun. When she disliked a student’s movement, which was almost always, we all whispered that worm-like silver smoke seeped from her nostrils and her ears. I didn’t look them in the eyes for fear of turning to salt. Instead, I hurried to the yellow X that demarked center, taking note of all the mirrors that wrapped around me like gauze. I tried not to criticize my reflection, how I was one kilogram fatter than when I’d last performed in May. I’d found out earlier this morning, courtesy of Mademoiselle Fabienne, the school nutritionist. Weigh-ins here were like random drug tests. You were called and asked to step onto the beastly scale whenever faculty felt like it. Now, all I could do was suck my stomach in and pray it didn’t affect my score. I placed my right foot on the tape, my left in tendu behind, then waited for the pianist’s introduction. As I offered the judges my most heartfelt port de bras, I concentrated on the ivory of my leotard, an atrocious color on me, yet a coveted symbol of my new elite rank. Seven other sixteen year-old rat-girls and I had risen to First Division. The variation we were to perform today was obscure, from The Three Musketeers, but I didn’t mind. Actually, I preferred low profile dances. The pressure somehow felt less. I also liked the three-count waltz, the way the notes filled up inside me, the rush of the C major melody, all making me zigzag across the studio. Music was why I kept going, my ticking heart. As the piano filled the air, my arms felt fluid, my balances sharp, and my leaps explosive. Even my hunger diminished. I steered myself from left to right then from front to back. My spirits lifted and my nerves calmed. Vas-y. I can do this, I thought. And then I remembered to give the judges my stage smile. Maybe I’ll rise from Number 3 to Number 2. During a slow triple pirouette, I held my foot above my knee, balanced, and stuck my landing in perfect fourth position, the number 2 floating like an angel’s halo above my head. But then I forgot to anticipate the piano’s shift in keys, the sudden acceleration. Realizing I was an eighth of a note off, I skipped a glissade to catch up to my saut de chat. Ne t’en fais pas, I told myself. Adjust. Yet, at once, The Witch stood up and snapped her fingers, silencing the music. “I thought you were here because of your auditory gift, Duval,” Madame Brunelle said. “Don’t students call you The Pulse?” I looked down at my feet. I hadn’t gone through three fourths of the variation. “They must be wrong. Would you like to have someone else come in and demonstrate? Teach you whole notes from half notes?” “No,” I whispered. “Miss Sanders,” Madame Brunelle yelled. Kate poked her head inside the studio. A joke, I thought. Kate was a dynamic ballet dancer but well known for her lack of rhythm. “Mademoiselle Duval needs help with her waltz tempo. Would you run the variation through for her?” What? Kate nodded. She tiptoed into the studio, setting herself on the X the way I had done earlier. “Shadow her, Duval,” Madame Brunelle ordered. She snapped her fingers and the pianist began again. I danced behind Kate. We moved in unison, gliding into long pas de basques, arms extended. Kate seemed weightless, her heels barely touching the ground. A genuine smile fluttered on her lips. Her ivory leotard fitted her long narrow frame like skin. Blue crystal teardrops dangled from her ears as she spun. They glittered like fireflies. All of Kate glittered. The afternoon sun poured in from the skylight, lighting her up like a flame. The variation lasted a million years. At every step, my face grew hotter. The studio door had been left wide open, so I saw in the mirror’s reflection that other First Division dancers were peering inside and watching our odd duo. A wave of humiliation nearly toppled me. Madame Brunelle did not stop the music this time. She waited for Kate and me to finish with our révérence, then she dismissed us with a flick of the finger. I ducked out of the studio into the stairwell and didn’t wait for Kate. I could have sought refuge in the First Division dressing rooms but that was too obvious a hiding place so I rushed down three flights of stairs and into the courtyard. A mild September breeze blew. I fought back tears. It would have been easier, I thought, if The Witch had picked someone else. Anyone else. But Kate? Pitting me against my best friend? I wished I could keep walking past the trees, alongside the fence, out of the gates, down L’Allée de La Danse, to the metro, all the way home to the center of Paris and my mother’s boulangerie. There, inside with the warmth and the sugary smells, I would find a tight hug, an, “It’s okay, Chérie. You don’t have to do this unless you want to.” But I knew I wouldn’t. I’d have to go back to the dorms to change into street clothes or at least take off my pointe shoes and then I’d see Oli’s battered demi pointes on my bed. Plus, I’d come this far. Hadn’t I? Only 274 days until the final Grand Défilé. Judgment Day: when everyone, except for two strikingly gifted students—one female, one male—got fired in the top division. I plopped down into the middle of the courtyard and found the sky. How could I have messed up on tempo? I closed my eyes and inhaled. “Hey!” Kate yelled a minute later. I started. She stood at the entrance of the courtyard, breathing hard. “Do you think you could have gone a little faster?” she said, crossing her arms. She was still in her leotard, tights, and pointe shoes. Her neck flushed bright red from running. Wisps of blond hair framed her face. “You hurtled down the stairs like a bat out of hell, M. I thought you were going to tumble and fall.” Bat out of hell? I nearly corrected her and said that here we used comme un bolide—like a rocket—but instead I replied, voice sharp, “Too bad I didn’t.” “You don’t mean it,” she said. “Mistakes happen. You’re only human.” Kate sat down beside me. She smelled woodsy, even after she danced. We watched as pigeons flittered around the bright white buildings. On our left were the dorms with their common rooms at the bottom. In front, the dance annex loomed. It was known for its grand staircase, bay windows, cafeteria, and Board Room where all big decisions were made. On the right was the academic wing with classrooms and faculty offices. Little pathways led from one building to the others with awnings in case of rain. If I turned around, I could peek at the high concrete wall hidden between oak trees. Sometimes I wondered if the barrier was there to keep rats from fleeing or strangers from trespassing. Kate squeezed my ankle then flashed me her best smile. “The Witch is an asshole. Seriously. Don’t sweat it.” At her touch, my eyes filled. The tempo mix up hadn’t been Kate’s fault. Only mine. I quickly wiped the tears with the back of my hand. “Have I told you that I dig wearing ivory?” Kate said. “Last night, I called my dad and tried to explain it to him. How good it felt to parade around in this sublime color. I said it was like receiving the freaking Medal of Honor but he didn’t get it.” “Of course not.” I shook my head. And just like that, the weird moment between us, the resentment I’d felt at having to dance behind her, passed. I was about to tell her that after what had happened in the circular studio I would probably never wear ivory again, when younger rats came out into the courtyard, disturbing our privacy. Everyone always whispered about everyone else while waiting for ratings. Within the hour, the Board Room would open. Rankings would be posted on the wall. Rats who were rated below fifth place might be sent home. Now and again, I’d see a parent waiting by the school entrance and the wretched sight would make me flinch. But Kate, who was always at my side, would loop an arm around me and say, “Face it, M. Not everyone is cut out for this.” Her thick skin soothed me today. “God, I can’t stand the sitting around,” Kate said. “Let’s play Would You.” “I thought you and I banned that game,” I replied. Kate laughed. “Things don’t go away just because you want them to, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Or because the stupid rules say so.” I slapped her shoulder. “Ouch. Loosen up. I go first,” she said. “Would you die for The Prize?” The Prize. What every rat girl and boy was after: the large envelope with a red wax stamp on the back, a single invitation to become part of the Paris Opera’s corps de ballet. The thought of seeing that envelope made me dizzy with possibility. I almost said yes but she cut me off. “If I close my eyes,” Kate said. “I feel the envelope’s weight in my hands, the warm wax beneath my thumbs. It’s damn near euphoric.” I looked away. Kate’s hunger for success, for being the Chosen One was sometimes so acute that it frightened me. “Are you asking because of Yaëlle?” The Number 3 rat from last year, a sweet girl from Brittany, once our roommate, had been found in her tiny single, lying atop her twin bed, in her ballet clothes, bones protruding at strange angles, eyes sunk deep in their sockets, dead a few days before Le Grand Défilé last May. She’d starved herself in the name of The Prize. Ever since, we’d all been on edge. Summer hadn’t changed the mood. If anything, getting back together after a few months away had heightened the sense of dread. “You’re not answering my question.” “No,” I decided. “I wouldn’t die for The Prize. Would you?” “Yes,” Kate said. “Absolutely.” There was no hesitation in her voice. “I’ve got another,” she said. “Would you hurt The Ruler for The Prize?” Gia Delmar, the Ruler. Always Number 1 on the boards, she was our biggest rival but this wasn’t the time to think about her. Not before rankings. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said, then I added, “Would you rehearse night and day?” “Yes. But would you do drugs?” “Would you?” “Rehearse night and day, sure. Drugs? Maybe.” “Kate!” I said. “Would you try to suck up to Monsieur Chevalier?” “No. But maybe Louvet.” Kate laughed. “I know. Would you sleep with The Demigod?” The Demigod? I shivered. Like The Ruler, The Demigod was off limits. As a rare conservatory transfer, he’d magically appeared in Second Division one sunny day last February and had outdone everyone. I didn’t want to think about the leaders, the rats most likely to succeed, even if they were supremely sexy. “No,” I answered. “Of course not. Would you?” “Maybe.” “That’s sick,” I said. “Sleeping with someone to climb the ladder?” Kate lowered her voice. “The Demigod is different, M. You know. Everybody knows. Even faculty. Look how they gawk at him. His talent is greater than the sun and the stars combined. Proximity to him is—” she paused, searching for her words. “The key to everything. Think of it as Lee Krasner, Jackson Pollock’s lover, collaborating with him on a canvas. Except that our canvas is four dimensional, made up of flesh, of bodies. Lee’s paint strokes had to intensify, right? The Demigod’s balletic gift, his glow, rubs off like glitter on his partners. Haven’t you noticed? Anyone who spends time with him in and out of the studio shoots up on The Boards. M, he is The King. You know what dance is? The art of the sensual. Electricity, entanglement, ease. You partner with him and you will blow the roof off this effing place. Plus,” she sucked in her breath, kept me in suspense. “He’s got the hottest quads in the universe.” I imagined Cyrille flying into splits, his thighs stiffening under silver tights, what his hands might feel like clasping mine if I was ever asked to partner with him. My whole body warmed. Kate was right. The Demigod was like food, like one of my mother’s pastries. You knew that eating it was bad for you, but you just couldn’t help yourself. I was about to warn Kate that the Greek demigods, as attractive as they were, ate their young and their lovers when Monsieur Arnaud, the groundkeeper, walked over to the old fashioned bell and rang it. The wooden doors creaked open and all the dancers scurried inside the Board Room. I still sat outside, frozen. What if I was ranked fifth or lower and got sent home? I thought of Oli. My promise to dance for him no matter what. Failing was not an option. Kate snagged my hand and pulled me up. “Come on, sweetie,” she said. I reluctantly followed her in. About the Author: A.K. Small was born in Paris. At five years old, she began studying classical dance with the legendary Max Bozzoni, then later with Daniel Franck and Monique Arabian at the famous Académie Chaptal. At thirteen, she moved to the United States where she danced with the Pacific Northwest Ballet for one summer in Seattle and with the Richmond Ballet Student Company for several years. She’s a graduate of the College of William and Mary and has an MFA in fiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When she’s not writing, she spends time with her husband, her puppy, and her three daughters, and practices yoga. Bright Burning Stars is her first novel.

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