#there is noone on the floor with enough fucks and power to enforce this

[uraandri]

trying to figure out how the fuck they're gonna enforce this

"it's strictly forbiden to sit on the radiators" alright, bet?

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

Hello. I am, as you know, an American. I turned eighteen in 2014, voted in my first presidential election in 2016, and voted in my second presidential election last week via early voting in the state of Texas. 

I’m reflecting right now on the difference between those experiences. This is going to be a very self-indulgent essay. 

The 2016 election was in my third and final year of undergrad at Texas A&M University. At the time, I was living with a roommate who grew up in a town of 2,000, all of them members of her church. I loved her very much, but she was the most sheltered person I’ve ever met. 

I was only a few years ahead of her. My home growing up was deeply liberal about many of the things that counted, but deeply conservative on equally important things. For me, leaving for college was a radicalization speed-run.

I, a good Memphis girl, moved to Texas and encountered for the first time in my life white homogeny and everything that comes with it. I made most of my friends at A&M through a Christian orientation camp that I attended, then worked at. I went to school at a history department that was overwhelmingly male and war-obsessed. 

My second semester, I was randomly sorted into a writing seminar on the American Civil War and Reconstruction. There were eight other students in that class, all of them Texans. By day two I had gotten into a open fight with one of my classmates after he used the phrases “one of the humane parts of slavery” and “the secession declarations are moving and beautiful appeals, if you read them,” and “well I’m not going to criticize my own state.”

We got into at least one yelling match per week from that point forward. It was a formative experience for me-- not just him but the seven other students that took his side every time because they just couldn’t conceptualize anything outside of their own experiences, and frankly, I couldn’t either. 

It rocked my world to be surrounded by people who told me, among other things, that their high schools flew the Confederate battle flag or Lee was their all time role-model (because he actually didn’t want to secede! He didn’t believe in it, but Virginia did, so he put his own qualms aside and served his country, and that’s what we all have to do). I ran a survey once by knocking on every door in a dorm hall and asking the two people inside why the Civil War happened. 

I feel like you can guess the most common answer I got. Only two said slavery. Six didn’t know what the Civil War was. 

The last week of the semester, my class read a collection of recorded oral accounts of freed slaves during Reconstruction. My nemesis told me that he “didn’t realize black people actually had it bad.” At the same time, I was struggling with my sexuality, my relationship to my religion, my relationship with my parents, and a handful of newly-diagnosed but long-existing mental illnesses. I wasn’t having fun. 

Over the next three years, I tried my hardest to humanize the people that said disgusting things about minorities, poverty, and me personally. I barely won on that one, and I’m actually really proud that I did, even if it took me a few years. I can trace the biggest change in me directly to my nemesis from the history department, the kid that made me so mad that I started arguing back. I was too scared to do that before. 

By 2016, I was in full existential spin-out-- a very suddenly liberal kid fighting my whole family, all of my classmates, and most of my friends in an explosive political climate, the first I had ever participated in. 

I voted by Tennessee absentee ballot in 2016. On election night, I ordered takeout for me and my roommate, who I knew had voted red. Confident, like pretty much everybody, that Clinton would win, I was trying to show her that I didn’t hate her. She went to bed after dinner, also so certain that Clinton would win that she didn’t bother to stay up. 

I sat in front of my laptop sewing a birthday present for a friend (Kenza, actually), while the votes came in. I wasn’t super alarmed when the map turned red. I just figured the blue states hadn’t finished counting yet. 

The map didn’t get any bluer. By 1am, I knew what was about to happen. They called it an hour later, while I was sobbing on my floor. I threw up in the bathroom out of pure anxiety. I got two anonymous messages telling me the asker was going to commit suicide. Neither of them responded to my replies. I don’t actually know what happened to them. 

I remember riding the bus to class the next morning and distinctly seeing that most of the racial minorities there had swollen eyes from crying. The girl with the pride stickers all over her laptop didn’t show up that day, and I’m kind of glad she didn’t, considering the way some of our classmates in the back were loudly talking about “the gays.” Hope she’s okay.

My roommate came home completely unaware that Clinton lost. I was crying in my room when that happened. I remember showing her a demographic map of who voted which way. She got visibly upset when she figured out what races how. I think she really did feel guilty. 

That Thanksgiving, one of my cousins tweeted, “I can’t wait to go argue with my liberal cousin today. The wins. Keep. Coming,” an hour before he walked into my house. Inauguration day was January 20, 2017. I decided to go to law school a week later, the day the president signed the Muslim ban. That’s when I figured out for the first time just how much power the courts have. The last three years have only enforced that. 

I got angrier and angrier during law school, egged on by a few friends but more than anything just... finally conscious of exactly how the American system works and exactly who’s behind it. I still live in Texas, farther west now, and I’m working my first legal job. I’m going to be a licensed attorney next week. 

I went back and forth for months about how this election was going to shake out. I knew there wasn’t going to be an overwhelming red majority this time, but my big fear was an election close enough that the Supreme Court could take it. That fear doubled last month, at RBG’s death. 

I was hoping for a blue enough victory on election night that there wouldn’t be a week of uncertainty, but that was unlikely, and it didn’t happen. I obsessively refreshed my election map all of Wednesday and Thursday, aware that at least some states would flip after mail-in ballots came in, but unsure which would. 

Again, my great fear was a blue victory held down by only one state. Given (I would say “any” chance here, but I don’t mean “any” chance because genuinely jurisdiction or facts or legal merit don’t matter to the Supreme Court) an opportunity to make one (1) decision that hands over a red election, please know that a conservative supermajority would take it. I cannot emphasize enough how true that is and how important it is for all of us to grasp that. 

Watching Georgia flip was one of the best experiences of my life, and it’s a little hard for me to articulate why, but I’m going to give it a shot here. I’m southern. I’m from the South, and for this conversation it’s really important that I’m from Memphis, a black city and a center of black music and culture. 

When people think about the South, they think of the white South, and on some level, they should. It is absolutely essential to understand the white South in order to understand American history. Let me be 100% clear here. That is not a good thing. American majority history is not good. We are not a good country. 

It’s near-impossible to understand why that’s true without knowing exactly what happened in the white South and exactly what is still happening there now. With that, however, is another truth that most folks don’t get. 

The SouthTM is white and needs to die. The South as it actually exists is partially white yes, but it is also everyone else that lives here, particularly black folks. Southern culture is black, not white. Georgia flipped because the people that have always, always been there finally got to crack apart the conservative machine holding the South hostage. 

That’s amazing. It’s fucking mind-blowing. I watched it happen at 3:30 in the morning days after Election Day, and holy shit holy shit, Georgia flipped. Atlanta won. Holy fucking shit. 

I would be terrified right now if only Georgia flipped, because SCOTUS would have found a way to throw out a few thousand votes. Inevitable. Absolutely certain on that one. 

With a few states of buffer, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I really do think it’s over. 

I came home after work on Friday and immediately went to sleep because I hadn’t really done that since Tuesday. I woke up at noon today, checked the map, checked my messages, and saw what happened while I was gone. After that, I went back to bed until 5:30pm. I’m really just getting up now, after most of 24 hours asleep. 

I don’t know if I would say that I’m happy right now, but I am overwhelmingly relieved. I’m under no illusions that a Biden victory will solve everything, but I also do think this is a real thing to celebrate. I’ll take suggestions on how to celebrate right now, actually, since I’m finally awake. 

I’ll be angry forever, I think, but this is a good thing, and I’d like to enjoy it. If you’re happy right now, hey, tell me about it. I’ll be thrilled with you. I want to hear it. Congrats to all of us. Love y’all. 

[shardclan]

There was a lot that Riley already knew as she waited at Thunder's March to be cleared for passage to the mainland. That the Lightning Liaison, for example, was some love-burned old battleaxe with the sense of humor of a salt lick. That she was the one who made the rules, but her primary enforcer was Paradise, who would most certainly have remembered Riley and probably taken the opportunity to have a little power trip. Good-natured or not, a mother like Paradise wouldn't forget someone who price gouged them for information on where their seemingly kidnapped child was. 

Riley was careful to have her glamour up well before she arrived at the ugly as hell copper customs check, and even though nobody in the old clan had ever seen her glamour before, she had dressed as unlike herself as possible. Her naturally harsh, angular face and beady eyes aside, she bore almost no resemblance to the Riley that was once a part of Clan Shard. And while it was an immense annoyance to be covered in flowers and lace like some prissy grandma, it had the effect she wanted.

Like a rat released into an unsuspecting silo of the finest golden grain, Riley was granted passage into the idyllic sunlight of a perfect late summer day in the Sunbeam Ruins.

Ostensibly, her primary target was the new heir. But it would be incredibly obvious to walk in and go right for her. There'd be someone eyeing her if she came on too strong. Better to make a day trip of it. Maybe update some of her long out of date records of the old clan members and see if there was anything interesting to be sniffed out among its newer members. 

The experience wasn't without its certain kind of nostalgia. As she smoothly dodged the welcome center at Noon Point, she saw a young, blindingly blonde imperial male and knew he was one of Saber and Galbana's even before she saw him happily fussing over a luscious looking cake. Her tongue flicked in irritation; their family had never given Riley anything worth keeping note of and she had been hoping they would come away a little more damaged. Instead they had another kid that was pretty much a reflection of his surroundings.

Noon Point was bright and warm and unguarded--nothing like the foot of the Focal Point, which had been dark and easy to skulk in. Here she had to lean in to the mannerisms of a lazily curious window shopper to stay inconspicuous and watch the little things happen. She bought a bauble and some cake, munching and making notes in her book as she went:

Kea, fruits and vegetables dropped off with a pearlcatcher = too many horns and a clearly visible glow. 

Parhelia-turned-pearlcatcher = Old, already-published news

Skydancer that looks on the verge of his seventh major nervous breakdown. Mail dragon. Occult shop next door. Omen’s? 

Not enough sage/inkwells laying around.

 Cloudwhyte and Alchemilla flirting in front of the Sundial Brewery like not a godsdamn thing has changed since the day they first started throwing fuck me eyes at each other. 

Even the prison looks harmless. From the outside. 

Merchant selling weapons.  Huge inventory + small stall = few buyers.

Not a true seller. Listened too hard. Waiting for me to say some keyword. Overcharged too.

A fae with a sewing basket at his stall - something exchanged. She left the basket.

Primsy. Seamstress. Same guild as Fletch/Willowalk. Helping the weapons trade somehow?

Eventually, she had meandered to the edge of the point, well beyond the transient bazaars, to find what she was looking for. The library was tall and stately and warded like a vault. She noted uncomfortably that some soft, not particularly martial-looking serthis (by their species standards, anyway) were visible through the enormous windows on the ground floor. They were speaking with a pearlcatcher that bore an impossibly strong resemblance to a mossy cerdae.

Noisily sucking sugar off her fingers, she ambled up the steps and made her way inside and to the upper floors, padding as silently as possible. She had reliable intel that the mages in the clan were only allowed to practice their magic at the top floor, and the new queen was supposedly well on her way to becoming an archmage, so it made as much sense as anywhere else.

"Does it hurt at all?" a small voice asked.

Riley stopped, and had her notebook and pencil out in a single flick of her hands.

"It feels weird," a much bigger, scratchier voice answered. "Doesn't hurt though. Are you sure you're okay, your majesty?"

Two females, and that 'your majesty' certainly wasn't being directed at Telos. Riley peeked her head above the floorboards, and spotted the large one first. Guardian woman with cherub patterns, deeply red and incredibly messy hair, pink and blue opal. She was holding hands with a small fae girl whose age Riley couldn't quite figure out, but she was wearing a white crown that every now and again flickered with a vaguely pink facet. That would be 'her majesty', the Heiress Rebis. 

Where her hand met the guardian's, there was a deep pink stain in the coloration. But more interestingly, the opalescence was actually growing. Not spreading but jutting out in the distinct pale blue quartz formations distinct to celestine.

"We always thought my opalescence was inert," the guardian said curiously. "Guess not."

Rebis pulled her hand back, and looked thoughtfully at her own hands. "Rubranova, I can't approve of this. We don't know what effect that has on you."

"Sure we do." She reached down the spire that had growing from her forearm and with the brutish strength of a healthy young guardian, broke it off. The sound elicited a small shriek from the heiress, but Riley watched silently with a rapt and almost lustful expression, scribbling as fast as her fingers would go. 

Rubranova flexed her hand and waggled the rod of celestine at Rebis. "You shouldn't freak out like that. I'm a doctor. Or at least, I'm a doctor's daughter. Good enough. Anyway, your eyes are gold again. First time since you came back."

"That's not enough to put you ask risk," Rebis insisted.

"Sure ain't. So we're going to go to Ashes and get me re-checked. See if this is poisoning me or something. At the very least, this means I should be your aide or something. Who else is going to be able to help you in an emergency? Me being there might be the difference between life and death for you, you know?"

Rebis' fins drooped. "You don't...even know me."

"You're the next queen. And I might be able to help you in a way no one else can. Isn’t that enough?"

"You're barely grown!" the heiress cried earnestly. “Too young to be burdened with this.”

Riley watched Rubranova scratch her chin with the piece of celestine that had previously been a part of her body. She seemed more confused than offended.

"So are you."

Riley snapped her book shut and slid down the railing back to the ground floor. She couldn't believe she was lucky enough to have caught all that. A jaguar-patterned bogsneak she didn’t recognize reprimanded her at the bottom.

"A strange choice of place to use as your playground," she remarked with an imperiously raised brow. “Another place will suit your whims better, I think.”

"Sorry," Riley said with a barely contained grin. "I'm just on my way out. Can I ask you something, though? I just saw a beauty of a guardian up there. All red, kinda pinky blue opal? You know anything about her?"

"Rubranova," she answered with a slow nod. "Spare your attempts to woo her. The Tahalils are a family of beauty, but that one has no interest in romance or its pleasures."

“Tahalils?”

“The doctors,” she clarified. 

Haematica’s stock then, Riley thought with a slight needle of worry. One of Haematica’s daughters had married a son of Camellia’s. As Riley remembered it, Camellia had always mated with rarer breeds, but it wasn’t as though that was a rule. She didn’t have any rules. Rubranova might very well be Camellia’s grandchild, and with Heaven supposedly missing, that wasn’t anything she wanted to be caught dabbling in. That meant getting far, far away from Noon Point. 

She took a flight through the southeast part of the territory, admiring just how much like a crystalspine House Betelgeuse really looked. (And truthfully admiring even more that they had convinced the Lightweaver to let such an obvious Arcane structure stand so monolithic on her land. There was dirt there but even she wasn’t stupid enough to defy a deity their privacy. At least not when she wasn’t sure she could get away with it. ) She curved around, peering down at the geometrically perfect concentric columns and arcade of the Court of Five Lights. As curious as she was, that place would be full of familiar faces. And the last thing she wanted was to cross paths with Azricai. House Perihelion and the Leyline Gardens dotted the landscape in the far west, but lacked the grandeur of the central and eastern districts. With no idea where the little imperator of the clan would be, she swung north toward the Shadow border. 

Riley had wanted to visit Bramble Step since the day she first heard about it. And it didn’t disappoint her. 

The fog! The darkness! The dedication of the people to keeping their head down but their ears open! The constant whisper of secrets being exchanged! It was the closest she had ever felt to patriotism. 

“--angry you think she’ll be?”

“This close to leaving and the wedding still in the works? She’ll probably want to throttle the little asshole.”

Riley froze at the familiar voices, and melted easily into the nearest fog bank, squinting busily at her book. Her mind raced, because she thought one of those voices was Atsushi and they had been on terms of a reasonable kind once. Trading him information on where Carnelian was at any given time had once been both a great way to keep tabs on eastern sornieth’s goings on, and an even better way to piss Carnelian off. 

But far more importantly, her adrenaline was racing because she knew damn well the other voice was Carnelian himself. It didn’t make sense. Atsushi was literally everything Carnelian hated. Obsessive, two-faced, self-serving, all but blind to personal boundaries, and a necromancer on top of that. Hell, she had specifically let it slip to Atsushi that Carnelian wasn’t solely into females to make their interactions worse and Carnelian had shown up the very next day and tried to tear her horns off. And now they were chatting? Amicably? What the fuck was going on? 

Something good, the more focused part of her mind pointed out. 

“She wouldn’t do that,” Atsushi said casually. 

“Not a chance. But it would take a saint to not at least consider it. As long as Junior and Jorah are fine, she’ll accept it.” 

“I mean, they were when I left, but I felt Camellia around so they might be dead now.”

“Mmm, something happened at House Betelgeuse so Lutia went out there too.”

“...We might be able to go save them,” Atsushi teased, smirking.

Carnelian snorted, but Riley could see him grinning. “Eleven rest them and you too if you want that suicide mission.”  

 A cloud of smoke scented of sweet tobacco and fiery cindermint joined the fog, turning Riley’s stomach. His choice in smokes was still abysmal. She didn’t dare move, so she strained to hear them as they passed her by.

“So is it technically the Twelve now?”

“Nah, I don’t think so, it’s not like he’s a separate element. Maybe it explains the Arcanist’s constellation though.”

“The Emperor?”

“They don’t call it that anymore, its-- Wait, you’re into astrology?”

“Not really, but whenever Omen pens the horoscope, I pay attention.”

Riley’s mind was reeling. A twin of the Arcanist? She wouldn’t have believed it if Lutia and Camellia hadn’t also been involved. What had happened to it? Where was it now? She was filled with the kind of questions whose answers had gotten her in trouble in the past. And because she had not changed at all, she immediately chased after them. 

The click of her shoes was deafening in the fog. She hadn’t noticed at all that their passing had been entirely silent aside from their voices. They turned back to look at her rather casually. They didn’t seem bothered that they might have been overheard, or followed, but the moment Carnelian parted the fog to see what manner of idiot or lost tourist he was dealing with, he froze. 

Riley tried to look the least like herself possible, but the look on his face suggested there wasn’t a glamour or mask or choice of wardrobe in all of Sornieth that could have hidden her identity from him. So she dropped the bit and lit a cigarillo.

“You two have certainly gotten close~” she called, leering over the smoke. 

Atsushi clearly remembered her--the look of recognition at the sound of her voice was telltale--yet he wasn’t quick to be his candid self. His eyes went to Carnelian, who hadn’t moved an inch and was coolly staring her way. 

The last time they had spoken had been in front of his daughter’s burning corpse. No doubt seeing her face again was bringing back all kinds of bad memories, and she didn’t have a good grasp on what kind of man he had become after all that. He had ripped a pearlsnatcher’s wings off, sure, but that wasn’t much different from the violent imperial she had stalked in eons past. 

Finally, Carnelian gave an indifferent huff, and kept walking. “Anyway, Omen’s horoscopes have probably saved my life at least once.”

“Really?” Atsushi went after him without a second glance at Riley. “I would never have picked you for the superstitious type.”

“It’s about as superstitious as an almanac if a witch writes it.”

Riley stared after them both. Atsushi was one thing, if he had Carnelian’s attention she hardly found it odd for him to have tunnel vision. But Carnelian had just...ignored her entirely. It should have been a red flag, but she took it the way she usually did: as permission. 

She walked right up and before she could even begin to overstep her boundaries, Carnelian had her by the horns. She stared at him, feeling terror well up even as he continued to look at her with complete detachment. Almost as if he were regarding an uninteresting bug.

To yet more of her surprise, he released her entirely unharmed. Atsushi shrugged somewhat impatiently her way when she looked at him for an explanation. “Things change.”

“Enough for you two to be friends?” she spat, as skeptical as she was disgusted.

Carnelian’s brows drew together. He flicked the last of his cigar into an alley, very carefully blew the last of the smoke into Riley’s face, and leaned down to kiss Atsushi. 

Riley’s mind blanked. It was happening right in front of her, but some vital connection between the act and the implications was failing and in its absence it became as if she had accidentally happened on strangers kissing in the street. How else was she supposed to make sense of Carnelian, who could barely be caught giving his own daughter an affectionate gesture, openly kissing someone he had previously hated at least as much as he hated her--in the middle of the street no less?

It was the growl that snapped her out of it. A half-rumbled remark about Atsushi being short before Carnelian abandoned the effort of bending and scooped him up instead. And something about Atsushi’s calves crossing over Carnelian’s lower back sent a bolt through Riley that lasso’d her rapidly disassociating mind back to ground zero. 

“WH-WHA-” she stammered, making a lot of noise but very little sense.

Atsushi surfaced from whatever the fuck was happening, and she was almost glad for the familiarity of the manic look in his eyes. But it quickly took a turn into radiating menace, and he snarled at her with more force than she thought possible from someone so breathless. 

“GO. AWAY.”

At that point, having gotten far more information that she really wanted, she was more than happy to obey, and in fact obeyed her way all the way back through Thunder’s March, taking nothing but her notebook and a bottle of the stiffest alcohol she could find.

On her way out, Paradise wished her safe travels and hoped she would visit Aphaster again. 

Riley closed her eyes and got to work removing the cork. It was going to be a long trip home. 

@boyonetta

[ladysophiebeckett]

the gel thing really happened to me. 

i was stage managing the college’s dance concert. and if you’ve ever done a light design for a dance concert, you know its not about lighting your face, it’s about lighting the body. 

well the local college didnt have a huge budget so no fancy instruments will gels already in them. between each dance, there’d have to be gel changes--but in order to do gel changes you need to have all the gels that are going to be used--organized and in frames and be aware of which dances use the same gels and which gels need to be framed (bc you dont have enough frames bc no money). 

I had ASM’d a dance concert before but it had been awhile and i forgot how i did my gels last time. So i spent an afternoon collecting the frames and the gels and borrowing other gels fm the theater dept. but i was kind of stressed in figuring out how to best organize everything. my own ASM was in class and couldn’t help me at all. I had late afternoon class and it a night off, so the most i did was divide the gels and frames and set the other side of the stage’s gel table. and then i went to class, followed by home. 

the next day, i show up at noon to face my work. and what do i find? my gel table is organized. not perfect. but organized. the gels are in frames. the table is set up for Act 1, with the exception a few stacks which were set up for the final Act 2 dance. but it looked similar to my handiwork. i was so happy, i thought it was my ASM who did it. 

I saw her an hour later, and i asked her if she done it . She said no. 

Well then who? I asked around, all the dance techs said no. I even asked the theater dept. tech director and he said no. 

A general rule in theater is that you dont touch other people’s work. 

I thought i was being pranked on. Who would do such a nice for me? Who? 

What was even weirder tho, was that my ASM’s gel table was exactly as I left it the night before. Why would my ASM fix my table not hers? (that was her argument) 

Okay. Whatever. Let it go right? NO. 

We had a full run rehearsal that night. With gels and everything. It was 5 to 10pm and we have to leave at 10, thats the rule. There’s no time to reorganize the gels for Act1, so the tables stay in Act 2 order. 

I show up the next day morning and my table is Act 1 Gel order. And its perfect. 

My ASM’s isnt. 

Do I let it go? No. I talk about it incessantly the entire time. I ask around. ‘Did you touch my gel table?’ ‘No Alma, why would I do that??’ Why would anyone? Again, the rule is enforced that you’re not supposed to touch anybody’s work. And who would voluntarily organize the gel table??? why?? 

We have rehearsal again and we open the next night. The tables are left in Act 2 order. Call is 5:30 for dancers but for higher ups and myself, its like 4:30pm. 

I show up at the same time as my ASM, the light designer (who’s also running the lights and has keys to the building) and one other tech. It’s just the four of us showing up together. 

the LD unlocks the scene shop and we have turn on all the main lights bc its dim. And then we have to turn on the stage’s main lights...the four of us go to the main stage, I turn on the main light and my gel table is in Act 1 order. 

And ive had it. I tell the three of them--’look this shit is weird. srsly who’s doing it???’ And the thing is, no one could have. Us entering the theater is the first time its been opened since the night before. 

They all deny it. And the next thing we hear are sounds coming fm the catwalk--like wooden creaking. Like someone’s up there but NO ONE’S THERE. 

I can’t deny it anymore--the three of us are in agreement this is it---this is the theater ghost. My ASM is like ‘No. it’s not’. A non believer. And at that point i was adamant that it had to be. There was no other explanation. It’s 3 against 4 and there’s not time to argue. We do the show, we leave again. The gels table are in Act 2 again. I’ve already forgotten about the ghost. Im tired and i wanna go to bed. 

Before I continue with the exciting conclusion---I believe in God and I also believe in ghosts. I think there are spirits and things alike that are never truly gone. I dont think you can believe in one and not the other. But thats just me. I also believe we have the power to unintentionally move the spirits--awake them--without us knowing. 

There two Act 1 dances that went one after the other that maybe shouldnt have been in that order. And its not something i thought about until later. One student dance was dark, they wore black clothes. and a couple wore white clothes. the theme--you can guess--was angels being corrupted in some way. the light design for that used reds and ambers. the make up was dark. the music had certain lyrics about fighting and darkness. 

The dance that was after this one---used soft ambers--they wanted white light. big bright light. (Very easy gel change). the costumes were an orangey red. the music was a song that sounded kind of tribal--lots drum sounds, lots of rhythm--the song was about fighting back, it was about love and belief, and the choreography matched the lyrics--very organized, very clean. everybody was very in sync in their movements. it was one my favorite dances. (like i wish i had a copy to show you)

So anyway, (I think you can see where this is going)--It’s our second show. We all show up at the same time (minus my ASM, so three of us). Me, the LD, and a tech. 

We get to my side of the stage. And yet again, My gel table is not how i left it the night before. It’s in perfect Act 1 order. 

I continue to be flabbergasted, I insist that this is weird. I insist that its the ghost. The feeling of a ghost doing my work---I dont like it. Im suspicious. Ghosts dont do things for free. Dont ask me how I know that. Its just a feeling. Nothing is ever free. What does this ghost even want??? Why? Why anything???

Who and why are they doing this?? Is a thing I verbally said. And have been saying the past 3 days. 

And then we hear it. 

It happened within maybe 30 seconds.  But it felt longer bc I think we stopped breathing. 

There’s only 3 of us there. 

And we all hear it. 

The sound chains rattling from the ground floor. 

And then the sound of what i can only describe of two deep BOOMS clapping against each other from above--literally above. The main house lights weren’t on yet, so the catwalk and the house and stage are still dark. You couldnt see where the sound was coming from. 

The chains rattled back. And sound of BOOMS clapped back immediately (and louder). 

And then nothing. 

But three people looking up and freaked the fuck out. 

And my ASM arrived like a minute later. 

She didnt believe us. 

We did the show and we leave again, for the night. I left the table the same. In Act 2 gel formation. I show up the next day, last day of the show. And guess what? 

The table was the same as I left it. 

Do I think the good and evil spirits were fighting over my soul? Well, it doesn’t help that my name is ‘Alma’ which literally translates to ‘Soul’ in english. And you may question why didnt i take a photograph after each night? i did. But it was after the BOOM sound incident. I did it too late. And it was always my table. Never my ASM’s--who happened to be the only skeptic. The one who didn’t believe. Hmm convenient. 

Anyway, that is my theater ghost story. It was my last show at the college. I have not been there since. 

Make of this story what you will.