#this is probably a bad idea to be putting actual blogs into the trolley so if you all can't remain civil I'm deleting this

[trolley-problem-polls]

@realpokemon has been caught in the Trolley Problem

Barreling down the tracks is a runaway trolley. The trolley is heading directly for Bart the Gulpin and a random Salamence who are tied to the track. On an adjacent track is realpokemon. As a bystander you have the following options:

Flicking the lever, diverting the trolley onto the second track killing realpokemon

Doing nothing, causing the trolley to kill Bart the Gulpin and a random Salamence

Submission by @mothwingedmyths

[nallthatjazz]

Writblr introduction:

Hi, my name is Lilly, otherwise known as @nallthatjazz , and it’s about time I actually introduced myself :)

I’d just like to start off by saying I’m definitely not new to the Writblr community, however this will be my first time introducing myself as I’ve never actually been brave enough to put myself out there so I’ve been ‘lurking in the shadows’ in the meantime so to speak. (Is it obvious that I have no idea what I’m doing and that I’m nervous? Am I using the word ‘myself’ too much?)

A little bit about myself;

18 years old (Aries baby here), she/her, British/Irish, ravenclaw

I really love folklore, mythology and what else have you; also a strong believer in the supernatural and the paranormal

I enjoy reading, watching movies, drawing, knitting, daydreaming, exploring, being outside in nature and writing

I’m a serious procrastinator - my “talent” is daydreaming about all my novel ideas etc. Instead of writing and calling it “brainstorming”

I’ve done lots of weird, aesthetic and stupid stuff - I once got stuck in the baby seat of a trolley and had to be cut out by firemen (in my defence I fit, I just couldn’t get out)

I like knowledge and being curious

Fiction is my jam, I like lots of different genres but I prefer to read some variation of fantasy the most

My blog will consist of my writing or work, reblogs from other writblrs and a few writing prompts, and a personal post here or there. I have several WIPs, and I’m constantly alternating between them or starting new ones or abandoning some.

I mostly write YA/NA fiction, fantasy, contemporary, thriller, supernatural/paranormal, mystery, dystopian, sci-fi, romance, adventure, occult/gothic, dark academia, poetry - however this is only speculative and I probably expand into other stuff or I might only drabble a little into the stuff I’ve listed. (Can you tell I’m bad at describing my writing? This is a great start)

I’ll do an actual separate “project teaser” type post about my WIPs at some point that’ll go in a bit more depth; some will be less or more detailed than others so I’m sorry for the inconsistency in advance. (I feel like this introduction is going terribly so I’m sorry)

Anyways please feel free to give me a follow or this post a reblog, also feel free to check out some of the other amazing Writblrs I follow (tagged below); thanks for reading my painfully long and awkward Writblr introduction :)

Tags: @semblanche @summersromance @writing-in-the-grave @emdrabbles @ikilledmyocs @pheita @prestonwrites @endymions @mayaeri @lovebenders @elemntum @melwrotethat @honeywharf

[saibh29]

Minor Head Trauma (Part 3)

Pairing: Will Halstead x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Drugs (misuse)

AN: I’m not a doctor, please don’t think my medical advice etc is in any way accurate. Also i’m not American and haven’t been to Chicago so I apologise if my geography or depiction isn’t right. 

When an old friend of Ethan Choi show’s up in Chicago ED she’s about to make life very uncomfortable for Will Halstead

Part One  Part Two 

********

Predictably, you had not been allowed to rest when you’d gotten back to the base. After giving your team a debrief of what had actually happened to you the General had then sent you straight back to regular duty. Sometimes he made you wonder whether he was more inclined to be your General or your father. You only thought about it sometimes, because if you tried too hard and really thought about it you were worried you wouldn’t like the answer.

That had been a week ago, your head was pretty much fully healed, you were still getting the occasional headache but it wasn’t anything that was making you suffer too greatly, you suffered much more simply from having to deal with Nolan 24 hours a day.

Rooting around in the pockets of your jeans you found a handful of change and counted it up desperate that it reached the right amount for a large mug of black coffee.

Luckily it seemed your pockets for once were deep enough to scrounge the right coins.

You pushed your way into the tiny coffee shop near the base, it was always filled to the brim with off duty service men and women. Men and women who had more sense than to risk the base’s cafeteria.

Elbowing your way to the front of the queue and glaring at any squaddies that tried to get in your way you ordered your coffee from the overly stressed barista and then fought with another customer who insisted that the coffee you’d ordered was his instead of yours.

By the time you squeezed back out of the café you were once again in a miserable, pissed off mood. What you saw though in front of you shocked you right out of that mood once again.

“Dr Halstead?”

“Captain Y/L/N” he looked almost embarrassed.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was, uh, I was looking for you”

“for me?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck Will took a few steps towards you. “I thought I’d check up on you, on your head”

“My head is fine. I told you, it’s pretty thick” you moved out of the way of a group of squaddies coming through the doors again which put you a bit closer to Will. “How’d you even find me?”

“Oh, uh, Nolan, he had to give a phone number on your arrival to the ED. I rang him, he told me you’d probably be here”

“Ok” frowning you sipped at the coffee in one hand. “next question, why?”

“Why?”

“Why are you ringing Nolan and turning up outside the coffee shop I go to to try and find me?”

Ok, now he really did look embarrassed. It was sort of cute, but didn’t answer your question. “Are you busy? I mean, do you have to head back to the base straight away?”

“I don’t” you did. Why were you saying you didn’t? You were going to get in so much trouble for this. Will was smiling though and your brain wasn’t functioning. “What did you have in mind Dr Halstead?”

“You really need to call me Will”

“You going to stop calling me Captain?”

“Maybe”

He was too charming for his own good, with that little half smile thing he was pulling off, hell the man was just… yummy. “So, what do you want to do Will?”

“Walk with me?” It was getting to be Autumn and even though the chill was starting to settle it was still warm enough to walk without turning into an icicle. “You look good in a uniform Captain”

“You didn’t look bad in your own either Doctor Halstead”

Together you walked down the street, you weren’t in the best area of Chicago and dilapidated social housing marred most of your view. Windows boarded over with chipboard and gang tags sprayed onto them. You didn’t even notice though; you were focused on Will.

Being focused so much on Will was probably what made you miss it, the shadow in the alley coming up in front of you, the hand waving at you and then suddenly the whisper of your name.

“Y/N”

Stalling beside Will you peered around him and found the frantic eyes of your informant. What the hell was he doing this side of Chicago.

“Daniel, what the hell?” you moved quickly pushing him back into the alley out of sight of any curious residents who still had glass in their windows. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you Y/N, real bad like”

The boy was shivering and trembling uncontrollably and the frantic look in his eyes filled you into the problem quite quickly. “Fuck Daniel, you’re strung out”

“Please Y/N…”

“I told you” you snapped “no drugs, I'm not fuelling your addiction”

“Y/N?” Will, crap, he’d followed you into the alley and was looking at Daniel in concern. “He doesn’t look so good”

“He’s fine”

“Y/N…”

“No drugs Daniel. It was our deal”

“I think they were bad” he chattered out “Y/N, I'm not high like usual”

“What?” you weren’t a doctor, you had no idea how different drugs affected the body. Really looking at him though you realised that maybe Will was right. Daniel didn’t look good and you’d seen him at some pretty fucking low points. “Will?”

Will was already moving to Daniel pushing him down onto a broken packing crate, the young man’s trembling seemed to have turned almost violent now and the shivers were racking his whole body.

“What did you take?”

Daniel’s eyes flicked off Will and back to you, not strung out enough to not be naturally nervous of a stranger he didn’t know. “Speak Daniel, he’s safe”

“Don’t know” you could barely understand him, he was finding it difficult to speak from the chattering of his teeth. “They gave me a syringe”

“You fucking idiot, and you just took it?”

“I had no choice”

“Y/N, we need to get him to the ED” Will was pressing his fingers onto various parts of Daniels body, obviously looking for something.

“How did you get here?”

“Drove”

“Let’s go then”

Will got his shoulder underneath Daniel’s arm and helped get the younger man back up to his feet he then rooted around in his pocket throwing his car keys at you. “I want to keep an eye on him, you drive” Will pointed back down the street. “Car’s that way”

That was quite a decent distance to go in broad daylight. The last thing Daniel, or you for that matter, needed was to be seen together. “Wait”

Pulling off your jacket you removed the top layer of your uniform, the simple khaki fleece, put the jacket back on and then shoved Daniel’s skinny arms through the fleece which also had a hood thank the lord, you pulled that over Daniel’s head.

Will thankfully didn’t question this just held Daniel still enough for you to dress him. When you were as happy as you could be that no one would be able to recognise him you nodded at Will. “Let’s get him to hospital”

Will bundled Daniel into the back seat of his car getting in as well and you started up the engine. Your driving skills had been honed in a military Humvee, driving through the sand dunes of Afghan being shot at by insurgents hence it had been mentioned by your civilian friends that you were a little… crazy.

Your dangerous (you’d debate that label) driving meant you got back to Chicago Med in record time. Daniel was now turning a sickly yellow colour and sweat was beading his face. He really didn’t look good.

Will had to practically carry him into the ED shouting for various other drugs and tox screenings while he laid Daniel down onto a trolley.

“You idiot” you said again, a lot less vehemence behind it though this time. “What was your big plan here? Wait in that alley until I randomly turned up?”

You couldn’t understand a single word that Daniel said this time. Instead you took hold of his hand. “Will’s a good doctor. He’ll get you fixed up. Then me and you, we’re going to have a discussion”

Will was back and breaking the hold you had on Daniel’s hand as he moved you out of the room. “He needs to be registered on the system”

“He can’t be registered Will”

“I thought that may be the answer”

“I'm sorry…” nurses were running in and out of the cubicle that Daniel was laid in, doing the various tests that Will had ordered. “I can register myself again”

“What?”

“I came back for a check up for my head. Charge me for everything”

“You wouldn’t need those tests for a head wound. It would be questioned why I ordered them”

“Will” grabbing his hand you pulled him away from the bustle of the ED and into a quieter corner. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you’re being involved in this but understand me when I say that Daniel can NOT be registered at this ED. For more than his own sake”

Will remained silent staring down at you.

“Please”

“I’ll bring you the forms. Fill them out for yourself… Y/N if this…”

“It won’t bounce back on you. I promise I won’t let it”

“The general?”

“Among other things. Just don’t let him die Will”

“You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?”

“Always”

Before you could really compute what was happening Will had bent down, pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that seared a trail all the way through your body and then he’d disappeared again. Striding back into Daniels room, where you could hear his voice shouting out demands for even more tests.

Fuck, this was going to be all kinds of problems and you weren’t even sure if it was Daniel that you were thinking about.

*****

@clementines-x​ @the-chosen-one-time-lord​ @no-other-names-availible-blog​ @angelaiswriting​ @selldraug​ @angryares​ @thenovarose​ @georgiagrl1990​ @punk-rock-5-sos @mindofthescattered​  @dontstopxx​ @iamabeautifulperson18​ @madelinecraig03​ @ka-x-in​ @im-hurric4ne @mesmericbell​ @something–awesome @weirdpotato-14​ @putinontheritzz​ @soulslaststand​ @fuckthatfeeling​  @ember1201​ @morganlb23​ @kitkatbadass @tomhopperarms​  @fakingintrest​ @artprincessbree​  @dreamer-lover-laughter​ @artprincessbree​ @rime-warrior​ @captainvaneswife​ @jaib2-blog @kapolisradomthoughts​ @thingsandstuffienjoy​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @aya-fay​  @itsbubbaog​ @hp-hogwartsexpress​ @emmykinzs​ @thatbadassunicorn​ @sassywingednightmare​ @weirdnewbie​ @goyawriter​ @shipperfangirling​ @nathaliabakes​ @stillreadingfantasy @waywardblueshun

[sian22redux]

Field of Dreams

Part 2 of 2.  Y/N has a surprise for Steve when he worries about the fallout from their spat.  Fury and the Avengers just might, might, also be involved. ^_^

A little baseball history, one huge surprise, and a spark that begins to flame.

Rating: G. Steve Rogers x Reader. 

@nomadicpixel‘s winning fic from my Cleveland’s loss to Boston.  As usual it isn’t short (what moi?) but was such fun to write.  I know waaaaay too much about the ‘Trolley Dodgers’ now.   Enjoy!

-------------------

“Still can’t talk to women.”

Bucky shakes his head, reaches across Natasha’s yogurt and Clint’s pancakes with his metal hand to snag the very last strawberry while Steve sits and glowers at the morning’s feed.

It’s humbling.  Frustrating and embarrassing all at once, but unfortunately the straight up truth.  He can’t talk to women and the evidence stares up from his Starkpad.  Y/N’s elegant brows crashed together, his own mouth set in a line below the blaring headline:  ‘Unfriendly Rivalry?’  

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he mumbles dejectedly, running a hand through his still-damp blond mop. The past three days of coverage have been appalling.  Blogs and pundits shredding Fleur and Y/N for speaking out.  Blaming her for the entire stupid mess.   Branding her as some sort of Feminazi for daring to argue with America’s Hero.

It’s so unfair.  Misogynistic and unbalanced and sticks in his craw because the truth is he is the one who is in the wrong.

He shifts awkwardly in his seat “How did we go south so fast? I apologized for the tweet. She was gracious and understanding and I just…”

“Couldn’t let go of something you see as wrong?”  

The whole table bursts out laughing. Sam’s throaty chuckle echoes.   Bucky’s head back guffaw trails up towards the ceiling.  Clint looks like he might pop the latest stitches in his gut while Bruce reaches for a napkin to wipe his streaming eyes.  

Thanks. Thanks guys.

Nat smothers her own knowing smirk in a dainty coffee cup while he groans and tries to hide his head in his hands.  Point to the assassin who always goes straight to the jugular.  He knows the whole thing is pointless but games at Ebbets Field with Bucky were some of his fondest memories from before the war.  It rubbed him wrong.  Got his back up and heck he should have known to back down from the edge but that doesn’t mean that he always can.

“I am an Idiot.”

”Confirm!!”  

“Tony!”  

“If the suit fits, Cap. Morning all.” Starks’s CEO saunters in and swipes a piece of toast from Bucky’s grip,  flips a chair back to front and casually sits astride.   Their chief needler is dressed for corporate battle in a Givenchy three piece suit.    He ignores the protest of ‘Hey!’ and wolfs his purloined breakfast down.

“Snooze you lose, Winter.  Head on a swivel.”  He grins in the face of Bucky’s glare as Bruce, ever the peace-maker, sets another piece on Bucky’s plate.  “Not that I think Miss Y/N will be too upset by the result.  There is no such thing as bad press in this biz.”  

“Not upset?!”  Steve’s jaw hits his knees.  “Even the Post and Times have carried it on page 3!”

“Exactly.”  Tony points with an absently filled coffee cup. “Headline coverage is headline coverage. The whole country is talking about it. The assholes who told her to get out of the boardroom will drive up her sales in sympathy.”    

Steve bites his lip.  “Really?”  

“Yup.  They’ll get a nice bounce out of this and probably a few million follows.  Wish I’d thought of it.”

From somewhere above Clint’s purple arrow mug there is a strangled snort. “You, publically picking an argument?  That’s not news, that’s an everyday occurrence.”

“Sure thing, Birdbrain. At least I….”  

“Guys.  Guys.” Steve puts up his hands.  The morning’s habitual serving of trash talk is giving him a headache.  He rubs his temple and tries to think this through.  Should he make some sort of statement?  Tweet out an apology? Would flowers and a note be more personal or should he assume she wants nothing to do with him in this universe or next?

That last thought makes the bright sunny day feel like a wall of cloud’s rolled in, but who is he kidding?  

Expressing himself had gotten him into this mess.  The last thing he wants is to make it even worse.  

“What should I do?”

The table falls uncharacteristically quiet.  Sam claps him on the shoulder as he rises and takes his dirty dishes to the sink. Bruce mumbles something about ‘relays’, following Clint’s retreating back.  Bucky, the traitor, puts his metal hand out as if to say, ‘don’t look at me. you’re on your own pal.’  

The only two left in support are pointedly ignoring him.  Tony and Natasha hover over their Starkphones, avoiding his pleading gaze until, suddenly, Natasha’s ‘pulls’ up a page to float, glowing blue, above the jam.      

“I think it’s been decided for you.”

Steve blinks, quickly scans the hologram of the New York Times fifth page while Tony whistles low. “Brilliant. They’re freaking brilliant. I’d like to poach their PR rep.”  

Natasha thumps him on the arm. “Tony. Focus.”

“Just kidding.  Ah, not actually.  But I will send a few tens of million their way.  Jarvis?”

<Sir, it is already done>

“Excellent.”

While Tony texts Pepper excitedly with this news, Steve, slack-jawed, reads the page size Invitation in detail.  

It is blue on white, stamped with the Dodgers official logo and signed with the sort of flourish gained only from practicing calligraphy.

Natasha’s smiling so wide he can see her pointy teeth.   Tony is grinning from ear to ear.  And Bucky, Bucky is trying to hide a tear.  

“Every boy’s goddam dream Stevie,” he says, “She’s got class.  Class and guts.”

That she does.  But holy hell.  Him play in a game? He’s so rusty a swimming pool of oil couldn’t help. Besides, when the Avengers have some downtime they more often kick a soccer ball around.  Sure he’s thrown out ceremonial first pitches since coming out of the ice, but the last time he’d hit he could barely connect the ball and bat.  Now?  Serum’d up?  Would he explode the ball like Randy Johnson did a bird?  Would it leave orbit and be a danger to traffic on Elysian Ave?  He’d have to dial it down.  Check his swing somehow.  It’s worrying, but the sweet reality of jogging freely around the bases without wheezing or coughing up a lung hits home.  

Wow.  It would be fun.  You never forget the smell of popcorn and hotdogs and chalk and…..

A little anxiety starts to set in. “I haven’t played in seventy-seven years.”  

“Seventy-nine,” quips Buck. “High school gym class.  You bunted and Mickey Ryan got to pinch run.” His best friend shakes his head and reaches for his phone, pulls up the Dodgers’ message app.   “You’re going man.  And we are going with you.”

Steve blushes.  Gives in to reality.  Yes he’s going.   And inside--in his heart of hearts--- he’s looking forward to seeing Y/N too.

----------------------

July 1st..

“Good morning Captain Rogers. Welcome to Dodger Stadium.”  

“Good morning Miss Archer,” Steve shakes hands with Fleur’s Press Secretary, stands uncertainly on the pavement outside the Player’s entrance.  It’s warm and not too windy, perfect playing weather, but already he has a little trickle of sweat down his back.  Astride the doors is the welcoming committee: the team’s Clubhouse manager, assorted assistants and one extremely starry-eyed ball boy.  He shakes hands and greets them all, tryies not to notice the crescendo of clicking automatic flash.  

The press hounds gathered in a less welcome contingent are making him nervous to say anything.

“Please call me Stephanie,” says the fresh-faced young woman in Dodger blue holding the days jam packed schedule. “I am helping LA today.  And don’t mind them Captain.  They aren’t allowed in the locker room.” She points a stylus toward to the blue tinted glass doors. “Come into the club house and we can get you suited up.”

Steve follows the ticking of her high heels into a hushed and new smelling corridor and then through one-way glass doors to arrive in a brightly lit but utterly unmodern room.

“What the?”

He stands speechless; stock still in the open central space, and his mouth is open and catching flies.

The LA locker room has been transformed.  Instead of high tech monitors and computer feeds and OLED TVs, the room is hung with old style Dodger pennants.  Pictures of 40’s Brooklyn.  Advertisements for the ‘Subway Series’; the  ’41 and ’47 World Series played by two New York teams: the Yankees and his ‘Dem Bums’. The lockers are mostly empty, a few hung with wooden hangers and old-style jerseys, baggy knickers and long blue socks.  Before each cubbie is a wooden stool.  And on the few laden shelves are blue caps and helmets with the familiar ‘B’.

Exactly as the Brooklyn clubhouse would have been almost 80 years ago.  

“We thought this might be your size,” says Stephanie, leading him by the elbow to a spot with pride of place beside the onfield door.  The white cotton of the home uniform is soft, stitched with exactly the swooping letters of yesteryear and about two size larger any other that he’s seen.  

“You did this…?”  

She nods and smiles as he gingerly takes the deep blue helmet down. “The whole team and management. I know Brooklyn didn’t used to wear helmets back in your day but the League insisted.  This is a regulation game and the bats are rather stronger now.”  

And so am I, Steve thinks, settling the heavy plastic down over his head.  It’s snug, fits so exactly he suspects Tony has been involved.  Only the cheek-guard feels odd.  He rolls his neck a little, trying to get a feel of the slightly lop-sided weight.

“Miss Y/N figured you are used to wearing helmets.”

“Yeah,“ he blushes, looking down and amazed to find a familiar pair of dark all leather cleats.  “Do you do this every year?”

Stephanie’s lips twitch as she barely conceals a grin. “No sir.  Just this one.”

All this for him?   Incredible.  Steve’s throat closes up.  “Uh.. uhm.  Thank you.”  

“Don’t thank me,” the blond ponytail gives a shake, “thank Miss Y/N. It was her idea.   I’ll leave you to dress and then you can exit through that door and meet her at the gate.”

Soon enough, Steve is left to dress all by himself.  He shrugs out of his shirt and chinos, pulls on the kit and fumbles with the knickers’ blue belt and loops.  What a time for butterflies.  He’s nervous, he really is, caught between wanting to help a team and just take in the wonder of it.  There’s a number 41 on the jersey’s back--Harry Taylor’s number musn’t be retired.   Will they play him in left field like the big Irish slugger?  If he was coach he would.  Steve doesn’t know the plays, the cutoff points, or the signs.  

He finishes tying the (perfectly fitting) cleats and stuffs white batting gloves into his back pocket feeling mostly set.  A quick few strides takes him through the home team tunnel.  It’s weird-there’s no one hanging round, no one snapping pics or asking for photographs.  He hustles a little more and then stops short just where the sunny square of outside light blinds him momentarily.

The clubhouse was a dream but this is something else.

Dodger stadium is dressed up like Ebbets Field.  Low swagged banners for advertisements on the bleachers.  Vendors in vintage dress.   Pennants for a World Series win in1955 and six for National League championships.  An organ’s live music is playing over the speakers and not a recording system.     

And on the first and third base lines the ‘home’ and ‘visiting’ teams are all lined up.  Twenty-five guys in Brooklyn white and blue, twenty-five in LA grey.  Some of the current team and veterans of many ages.

They stand at attention with caps over their hearts.

Wow.  

“Number 41, playing for Brooklyn, Steve Rogers!!”

The announcer’s words are drowned by the roar of the swelling crowd.   Steve starts forward, intending to take his place at the end of the home team line, but he makes it only to near home plate before his feet become glued again.  The audience is on its feet.  Stamping.  Shouting. Cheering on not Captain America but a man who’s had this dream.

Forever.  

It can’t be real.  It can’t, but he looks up to the owner’s box and there are the Avengers assembled in Brooklyn Blue.  Whistling and clapping.  Waving flags of oldtime Dodger blue just like the crowd.  As thrilled for him as he is.

He doffs his cap and turns around, slowly, carefully; waving it to acknowledge the entire park.      

“Captain? Steve?”

He shakes himself out of a daze and turns to look down at Miss Y/N who stands just at his elbow. She is smiling, pretty and perfect in a Brooklyn ball cap and summery light dress.  Her long dark hair is glossy and flowing down her back and incongruously he wants to tuck away a stray strand that floats in the wind.  

“Fine Miss.  Just shocked.  Amazed.”  His tongue can’t manage anymore.  His heart is pounding and his chest is tight and he know it isn’t asthma but isn’t sure quite what. A hearattack? Impossible?  Anxiety? No, he’s happy not upset.  Happiness?!  Most likely. It seems to be that her hand is warm on his. 

She’s moving to pull him over to the teams, set to introduce him but they stop a moment.   He’s having trouble not tearing up.  Her brow furrows worriedly.  “Are you ok?”

Not really but then none of this seems real.  “Fine, fine Miss Y/N.” 

“Call me Y/N, please.” 

“Thank you. Y/N.  Tell me..” he asks quietly.

Her cap tilts up and she has to shield her eyes from the sun. “What?”

“Why?  Why did you do all this?  You didn’t have to. You….”  could have hated my guts forever, he wants to say but manages to keep it in.    

Y/N gives a quiet sigh. “I thought about it. What I said and what you said and I realize that I was wrong.  Our situations are totally different.  When my team was traded I was furious for months.. years honestly, but I had that last game at Olympic Stadium.  I got Gary Carter’s autograph and Pedro Martinez’ too.  Said goodbye.  Kept a souvenir ball.   You didn’t have that time to grieve.  When you woke up they were gone and that was a cruel surprise.  I can’t turn back time, but I can take you a little of the way there.  Let America’s hero have the chance to play.  And give your Dodgers’ the proper send-off you deserve.”

Steve is gobsmacked. This incredible, amazing, baseball crazy woman has changed this game just for him.  He stands staring down at her, wondering how he got so lucky.  He ticked her off and she’s still coming back.

Like Peggy.  

He stands a moment, stunned by his own realization and watching her rummage in her purse.   She shoves a scoresheet and binoculars aside and pulls out something that looks suspiciously like a ball.  

“Steve I wanted to apologize.  And the game is that, but also I got you this.”  She puts the scuffed up, flaky old leather of a Brooklyn ball into his upturned palm.  

“It’s…”

The home run ball he caught on May 26, 1941.  

The game that Shield played on the oldtime radio as he was waking up in another world.

The blue ink of the date and name were faded but unmistakeable. The poor agent greeting him could have never known.  Of all the games to pick..one burned into his memory.  The Brooklyn Eagle had run a picture of him and Pete Reiser on the center of the sports page: the skinny ‘local kid’ giving back to the Rookie of the Year his very first home run ball.  That dinger had tied the game, launched Pistol Pete onto a year of league-leading runs.  

Of course Steve could never forget it.  It was, he’d once assumed, his fifteen minutes of fame.  

“How?”  Did you know?

Y’N laughs.  It wrinkles her freckled nose adorably. “If you thought baseball was good for stats, just see the MLB now! It wasn’t hard to find.  A Steve Rogers in the forties catching Pete Reiser’s first home run ball.”

He supposes not. But… he scans her face.  She can’t know that that was the game he woke up too?  Or can she?  Did Fury get involved?  Was this another way for him to apologize for his little trick?  

And does it really matter anymore. He scuffs a cleat against the astroturf.  “Look I’ve been an…”

“Ass?”  Y/N grins as she can’t help but tease.  “I am not the one known as ‘America’s Ass.’”

He laughs.  “Not in these baggy things.”

“I don’t know they aren’t so bad.”  

Are they flirting?!  Oh god they are and he hasn’t blundered yet.

He throws the ball nervously from hand to hand.  “It’s too much..it’s….”

“Just what you deserve.”

After that they go down the lines; shaking hands with every coach and player new and old.   The day is to honour old timers and Steve is delighted to find it includes six players still alive from before the team was moved: Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale and Cody Bellinger,  Branch Rickey who he remembers enlisted in the Army in ’42, and Tommy Lasorda, player and then winning coach.  They are wrinkled and grey-haired but still hold their gloves with ease, josh with him about being the perfect designated hitter for a team, cat call the ‘vistors’ who are mostly LA alumni.  

Soon it will be time to take the field.  One last handshake to go.  Y/N directs him along to the next in line and he looks over to find the young LA short stop who had been there is gone.  

Replaced by a white-haired, thin bearded man in uniform and wheelchair.  

“Would you like me to autograph that for you son?”

This time Steve’s jaw hits the floor.  “Pete…?”

“Reiser..yup.”  The old man taps his head.  “So lucky to be here.  96 years young. 1 year younger than you are.. though I’ll allow it you look a little better.”

Steve laughs and shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, well somedays neither can I,” Pete chuckles.  “Got all my faculties if not my legs. Dodgers in LA. Who would have credited it, but sometimes change is good.  These bums keep winning championships.” 

Steve smiles. Perhaps he’s right, but Pete was the guy that won them a pennant after twenty years of drought. “You almost turned them round, Sir.”

“Now quite how I remember it. But I do remember a scrawny kid who volunteered to give me my ball back.”

Of course he had.  It was what a good fan does.  Steve flushes.  “I am so honoured.”

“That makes two of us, son.”

Steve looks up to cheering friends and then back at Y/N.  She’s held her official boardroom style composure for an hour under the sun; introduced with pride every player new and old, but this time it’s she that can’t speak.  Wipes tears from off her cheeks; smiling freely and quite unconcerned that Fox Sports is televising this live.  

No way she doesn’t understand how important this moment is.  And Reiser. Who’s had to give up his ball.

Fury’s so going to hear from him.  Later.

There’s a faintly impatient ‘Cap’ and Steve turns quickly back.  Pete’s gesturing, beckoning him down and so he drops down on his haunches. The old Dodger leans forward and taps a gnarled finger on the ball.

“Super serum or whatever, lad let me give you some advice.  You see that one?”  He points over Steve’s shoulder to Y/N who is distracted, joking with A.J. Ellis who will the catch the game.  The sun is bringing out red highlights in her hair. 

 “Take it from me, I can tell.  She’s sweet on you.” A pair of watery blue eyes twinkle.  “And Lordy she’s a keeper.”

“Yes sir.”

Steve rises and on Tommy Lasorda’s signal jogs out into centre-field.  Once there he punches his hand in his glove, plays a few rounds of long toss, and stands, not quite able to take it in.

The noise.  The smell.  The sheer huge expanse of field.  

I am so lucky to be here.  So blessed.  So hoping I don’t drop the ball.  

He doesn’t realize he murmurs the last out loud until Bucky’s voice breaks into his earpiece.

It is the one concession to Stark’s vigilance.  “Of course you will.”  

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”  

Steve laughs.  His and Bucky’s friendship, unlike the Dodgers, will never change.  As he waits, nervous and excited, for Clayton Kershaw’s windup,  he looks up to the owner’s box and reflects that, after all, Pete Reiser may be right.  

Sometimes change is good.  

--------------------

@nomadicpixel; @theycallmebecca; @pegasusdragontiger; @mycapt-ohcapt; @patzammit; @neutralchaos1; @arizonapoppy; @weirdlet; 

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo !

Reminder that I am still accepting prompts for this! Check out my initial post for the guidelines. Also note the current bingo card on this post–the things I mark with crossbones are completed prompts, and ones with a single bone are ones that have been requested, but not written yet.

(Fics are also posted to AO3 and FFN, but please just use the links in my blog desc to get to those ‘cuz I’m too tired to make links for them.)

Aaand here’s our next prompt, submitted by BookwormGal (who does not have a Tumblr). Beware, this one gets a bit... brutal.

Prompt: Setting a Broken Bone Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón

A metallic groan filled the air, waking Héctor up from his daze. He wasn’t sure what time it was, or even what day it was, but he was very quickly aware of the overwhelming pain in his leg. In the dim light of the holding cell, he could see the scotch tape barely clinging to the two broken portions of his left tibia, the larger bone in his lower leg—the tape had lost most of its adhesiveness a day or so ago, and he was frankly amazed it had lasted this long. With a tired moan, he turned in his cot, trying to shift the broken leg to a more comfortable position, only to belatedly realize why that was a bad idea. The two broken ends scraped against each other, and his voice pitched up into a shriek that quickly tapered off.

He’d done quite enough screaming over the past few… days, or however long it had been since Dia de Muertos.

Not long enough, given he wouldn’t be able to try again until next year. Ay.

Past the heavy cell door, he could hear hushed voices, followed by a faint clinking. It was too hard to think past the pain, so he thought nothing of it until the door creaked open.

Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked at the two guards who stared down at him. They were looking from his face and back to his injured leg, the older one of them frowning and the younger one wincing. The first leaned over to his partner, trying to whisper to her, but Héctor caught what he was saying anyway: “You see what I mean?”

“Hola,” Héctor said, forcing a tired smile. “Can I help you, señor y señora?”

“Uh… no,” the younger guard said, glancing away briefly. “We’re just here to tell you that you’re free to go.”

“…Go? Right now?” He reached up to scratch his dirty wig, eyes narrowing as he tried to think past the fog of pain. Had it really been… a month? Was that how long he’d been here? That was how long he was supposed to be here, he was pretty sure. Or maybe the corrections officer had been exaggerating?

“We’re letting you out early, Rivera,” the older guard said, pulling his hands behind his back. “Under normal circumstances you’d carry out the full sentence, but…”

“You need a doctor,” the younger guard blurted out. “Seriously. We can’t keep you here in this state.”

Oh. A doctor, huh? Aside from the fact that he wasn’t particularly keen on a man he didn’t know rearranging his bones…

He lay back down in his cot, snatching his hat from the floor and setting it over his face, smiling sadly. “Well, it’s a nice thought,” he said, managing a laugh, “but that sort of thing costs money that I don’t have.”

“Regardless, she’s right. We really can’t keep you here like this, and frankly, we don’t want to.”

“Can’t imagine why.” He resisted the urge to wiggle the foot on his bad leg in demonstration. Of course, he could guess what they were talking about—he wasn’t exactly deaf to the pained sounds he was making. Or maybe they could just feel sorry for him, but he doubted it.

“Basta.” He heard the guard’s bones clatter in what was probably an exasperated gesture. “You’re free to go, Rivera. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Sí,” Héctor replied, with no small amount of bitterness. “Just give me a moment to hop on up.” In truth, he wasn’t exactly upset about being let out early, but… if they were actually concerned about his well-being, they might have done something to help him with his leg.

At least they hadn’t made him deal with those awful cuffs—the ones that had some sort of magic in them that locked one’s bones together. He usually had to deal with those things to keep him from pulling himself apart to slip through the bars, but this time they hadn’t bothered—not like he could get anywhere with a snapped tibia.

Biting his lip, he re-adjusted his hat and carefully eased himself up into a sitting position, staring down at the two halves of his left tibia. Hm, this would be a challenge. He reached down to peel off the remainder of the tape first, which should have been an easy task. Most of it wasn’t sticky anymore to begin with, having quickly gotten covered in dust and ash, but as he pulled it away a small part caught against the jagged crack in the bone, and he jumped in his seat with a startled yelp.

“D-do you need help, Señor Rivera?” the younger guard stammered, and he gazed up at them.

The female guard was new—mid-to-late twenties, it looked like, possibly even recently-dead, given he hadn’t seen her before. Her hair was in a long, dark braid that went past her waist, and she didn’t wear lipstick. She stood oddly tall compared to the other guard—Juan, he recalled the name suddenly. Juan was big and stocky (or as stocky as a skeleton could be), but not much in the height department, whereas this girl looked like she might be barely shorter than Héctor. She kept looking from her partner and back to him, and Héctor couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable with the situation in general, or just uncomfortable with him.

Probably the latter. No one felt comfortable around the dusty old souls from the shanties.

“I’ll manage,” he grumbled finally, tossing the wad of tape away and looking down at his leg again. He wasn’t going to put weight on his tibia—he wasn’t sure if he could wreck his bones permanently, and he didn’t want to find out. So… he’d have to be a little more creative. At first he almost tried to grab for half of his tibia, but it wasn’t set right, and trying to pull it off that way would be disastrous. Instead he plucked off his kneecap, ignoring the sounds of disgust from the guards, grabbed the bottom half of his broken tibia with one hand, and with his other hand carefully eased his already-loose fibula off of his leg. The bottom half of the tibia, no longer connected to anything, came loose, and Héctor set it to his other side, wincing when he placed it on the bed. Next came the upper half, which he gently tugged away and set next to its mate, before reassembling the rest of his leg.

With his femur and kneecap connected to the fibula, which was connected to his foot, that should give him… some support, right?

“Wh… what is he doing,” the younger guard whispered, not quite quiet enough for Héctor to miss it.

“What I can,” Héctor replied simply, pressing his hands into either side of his cot as he eased himself to his feet. He kept most of his weight on his good leg and braced one hand against the wall. Even then, his bad leg was already wobbling. The fibula was definitely not made to bear weight by itself, but maybe it would last him until he got to Shantytown. He pulled his hand away from the wall, and, when he didn’t immediately fall, forced a smile. “See? You can learn to make due when—”

Pop.

Héctor flailed as he tried to lean toward the wall again a second too late, and quickly loosened his joints as his body tipped over on its left side. A few bones were knocked out of place at the impact, but were otherwise unharmed, and he grumbled as he willed himself back together, careful to keep the tibia away. Right, he’d forgotten that fibula didn’t like to stay in place anymore.

“Enough of this,” Juan growled, grabbing Héctor by the arm and hoisting him up. “Yolanda, you take his other side.”

The female guard—Yolanda, evidently—shot Héctor an apologetic look as she took his other arm, lifting it around her shoulders. Hesitantly she glanced over at the broken tibia sitting on the cot, and reached down to pick up one of the pieces, looking like someone who had to pick up a particularly filthy piece of trash.

Héctor immediately shuddered, clenching his teeth. “Ay, be careful with that—!” he whined, and Yolanda responded by tucking the broken bone under her free arm, and doing the same with the other half, thankfully keeping the broken ends away from each other.

So here he was, being hoisted by two guards out of the holding cell early, with his tibia being carried by one of the guards and rubbing against itself.

It was going to be one of those days.

Keeping his head down and his hat shading his face, Héctor let himself be dragged out of the building, biting his metaphorical tongue against the “friendly” jeers a few of the workers there threw at him: “Ah, there he is!” “Ey, gotta keep yourself together.” “That was some show on Dia de Muertos! Could’a used more fireworks, though.” “Tough luck, huh? Maybe next year, amigo!”

Yes, maybe next year he would cross so he didn’t have to stick around to hear their estúpido unfunny jokes. But finally he was out of the building and out onto the streets, and Juan shrugged him off of his shoulders. “All right. You can head on home, now.”

“What?” Héctor blurted, snapping his head up to give the guard an incredulous look. “You’re just gonna leave me here like this?”

“This is the Department of Family Reunions, not a transportation service. The gondola station’s two blocks away, trolley is three.”

“Ah, sí, let me just walk over there on my one leg!” he snarled, but the guard had already turned away and was walking up the steps. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he turned to the other officer, who was looking away. “What? Aren’t you gonna leave, too?”

“Uh, well.” Yolanda re-adjusted her grip on his broken tibia, causing him to hiss at the mild pain. “My shift ends in…”—she glanced at her watch—“six minutes anyway. I… I can help you get to the station, if… if you…”

“So you don’t have leaving a pobre soul like me to fend for himself on your conscience?” he muttered, and immediately winced when he realized he’d said it aloud. “I… lo siento. Yes. I would… like that.”

Seeming to ignore his earlier comment, she gave him a look over, her gaze lingering on his bad leg (the fibula barely clinging to his femur and kneecap) before she pulled him a little closer. “Be careful,” she said, and began walking. “Where is it you need to get to?”

Rattling off the tower address and the station that would take him the closest to his section of Shantytown (and it was never close), Héctor put the rest of his focus on keeping his bad leg from falling apart again. That fibula did not want to stay connected, and if he moved his leg just wrong, it was going to come apart again.

“You’re sure I can’t take you to a doctor, señor?” Yolanda asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he said quickly, staring down at the cobblestone beneath his bare feet. “I don’t have the money, and anyway, they don’t…” Realization struck him, and and he shut his eyes as a numbness filled the void where his stomach once was. “They don’t… treat people who can’t heal.”

The guard went silent after that, and Héctor resumed his focus on keeping his leg from falling apart, or trying to. Don’t think about it right now, he told himself as the numbness slowly began to morph into something more dangerous that would not help him right now. It may still be okay. They can probably still do something for you back home. There are people there worse than you, and they get through, right? You’ll be okay.

“Señor?”

Blinking, Héctor shook himself out of his thoughts and found himself staring down at his solitary foot.

…Wait…

“You… seem to have dropped something back there.”

Ay, this was going to be a long day.

It took a few tries to get his fibula reconnected with the rest of his leg, but they managed, and Yolanda continued to walk him down to the gondola station. They reached it without incident, and Héctor dug through his pouch to scrounge up the coins necessary to pay for the trip, relieved he had enough for that, at least.

“Gracias,” he murmured to the girl as she helped him onto the bench in the little car and handed him the two halves of his tibia. But when she turned around to head out, he blinked. “Are you not coming?”

“No, sorry, señor,” she said, not turning to face him. “I… I need to get home to my family.”

“Ah.” Wish I could say the same. “Adiós, then.”

Unsurprisingly, the other passengers in the gondola seemed to be keeping their distance from him, some of them practically sitting on top of each other to avoid getting too close. The ones across from him deliberately looked away, or stole glances at his leg or his disconnected bones when they thought he wouldn’t notice. It was something he should probably be used to by this point, after so many decades of bearing dusty, yellowed bones and tattered clothes, but some part of him still ached at the thought that he’d become someone that no one wanted to be around.

Not even his family.

Heaving a shaking sigh, he tipped his hat to shadow his face, so he could at least pretend to not notice their stares.

While it was nice to rest his bad leg for a while, at least, the break was short-lived, and the gondola came to its final stop. Héctor stayed put, letting everyone else shuffle out around him so there wouldn’t be any witnesses to the spectacle of him trying to get out on one leg. As he waited, he stared down at his fibula, wondering if he could coax it to stay in place somehow. He had no more tape on him, however (he’d only grabbed as much as he could from the correction officer’s desk before being incarcerated), and not a lot of time before the conductor threw him out. He wrung his hands for a moment before catching a glimpse of his right sleeve—the worn suit had been damaged during his crossing attempt, some of the fabric toward the end hanging in shreds. Having no better ideas, he quickly tore off a strip of the fabric and got to work tying it around the end of his femur and his loose fibula.

Hopefully it would hold, at least until he got to Shantytown. There was nothing else he could do.

With one hand clutching the two halves of his broken tibia close to his chest, he used his other hand to push himself up off his seat, his left leg wobbling. The movement immediately felt wrong—the fibula was not meant to bear weight without the aid of the tibia—but he kept as much weight on his other leg as he could, and began limping.

People waiting the board the gondola immediately backed away upon seeing him, and he ignored them, trying to act like it was the most normal thing for a half-lame skeleton to be limping around and carrying his own broken bones with him. It wasn’t an easy feat when his leg left like it would give out beneath him with every step, but he kept it up anyway, at least until he got past the crowds. It was still a long walk to get to Shantytown from here, and in this condition, it would take even longer.

Héctor found himself getting worn out quickly, and hobbled over to lean against the wall of a building with the intent of resting until he caught his breath. Unfortunately the shop owner had other ideas, and poked his head through the doorway to ask Héctor to not loiter. Héctor could only mumble an apology as he shuffled away, too tired to put up a fight this time.

For some distance he carried on like that, limping down the gradually sloping streets and stopping to rest where he could. Occasionally people would openly stare at him and whisper to each other, but he was beyond caring at this point. Even with his efforts to put most of his weight on his good leg, his left fibula was aching something terrible, and his energy was near-spent by the time he was halfway to Shantytown. He couldn’t very well sleep on the side of the street, in front of one of these buildings—not unless he wanted to get arrested again—or fall asleep in an alley and risk falling prey to petty thieves, so he had to force himself to keep moving.

At one point his foot caught against an uneven cobblestone, and with a wave of blinding panic he realized he was about to slam his already-broken tibia into the street. Twisting himself around on his spine, he managed to turn his front half around, clutching his tibia to his chest for dear life and falling hard on his shoulder. The fall still hurt a bit, dislodging a few bones, but he’d prevented himself from ruining his leg any more than it already was, so at least he had that.

Taking a moment to catch his breath as his panic ebbed away, he called his bones back. He made it to his knees, and, not thinking, tried to push himself up on his bad leg. The pressure sent a jolt of pain through his fibula, and for a terrifying moment he thought the thin bone would snap. But it held, and he eased his leg back down.

As Héctor fought to stand up again, part of him wished someone would see his struggle and help him. But fewer people came down this low on the tower, and those who did walked in a wide arc around him, sparing him a glance, if anything. At the same time, he almost wished no one were here at all, so they wouldn’t have to see him in such a ridiculous predicament. Those who saw him were probably wondering what on earth he’d done to land himself in such a terrible position, and that was a question he didn’t want to explain the answer to.

It took him far longer than it should have to right himself, but he managed, and with a more pronounced limp he resumed his trek down to the shanties. Under his breath he nearly cursed the guard who had simply dumped him on the street when his screams had gotten too grating to listen to. It’s better than staying in there, though, he reminded himself, and the anger reluctantly ebbed away. They could have just made you stay there with your broken leg. And aside from that… they weren’t the ones at fault in the first place.

That would be the idiota who thought that attempting to rocket himself over the bridge via fireworks was a viable plan.

Ay, that would be something to explain to his Shantytown family. People didn’t usually ask questions there, but they might this time given the state he was coming home in. Ah, yeah, the fireworks. Turns out they don’t make good transportation. But they do have a tendency to blow off your limbs if you stand too close. Who knew, right?

A chuckle escaped his throat, only to be cut off by a gasp as his left leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. He wasn’t able to twist himself around this time, and his tibia was caught between his body and the hard cobblestone ground.

All that existed was pain. If Héctor were capable of thinking beyond the current agony, he would have found the pain comparable to what he’d felt the moment he’d realized his tibia was not in one piece.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there before he gradually became aware of a strange barking noise accompanied by an insectoid buzzing and distant footfalls, which he could just barely make out over what sounded like a hoarse scream nearby.

…Oh. That last part was him, wasn’t it?

Choking, he pushed himself up on his arm, wearily raising his head to see a sky-blue and neon-orange alebrije flying toward him—one that looked like a fox with ears as big as its body, and buzzing dragonfly wings carrying it through the air. It was strangely familiar, and suddenly he recalled that one of his primos back in Shantytown had an alebrije like that. But that would mean—!

“Héctor? Cousin Héctor?!”

Héctor wheezed out a laugh and let his head drop, facing the cobblestone below him. “Hola, Primo Lorenzo,” he said, lifting his head again and cocking a brow bone as the man got closer. The alebrije, meanwhile, landed next to him and began sniffing him over, its breath almost ticklish against him. “Good to see you out and about.”

“Where have you been, cousin?!” Lorenzo cried, hurrying closer. His sombrero, tied around his neck, was flailing behind him. “Did you get yourself arrested again? Why are you—Dios mio.” He stumbled, drawing back with an alarmed hiss.

“Ah, it’s, uh… not as bad as it looks.” Héctor gave a sheepish grin, but it must not’ve been enough to convince his primo, who was looking him over in horror.

Quickly Lorenzo’s widened eyes narrowed into a glare as he clenched his fists. “Who did this to you? Who do I gotta send Lola after, huh?”

Héctor looked askance at the little fox alebrije that was now nosing his cheekbone, tickling his face with her whiskers. “Looks like you’ve already sent her after the one responsible, primo.”

Lorenzo looked him over again before heaving a deep sigh, frame wilting. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Stooping down, he grasped Héctor’s hand and eased him to his feet.

Biting back a moan as the pain flared in all parts of his broken leg, Héctor shut his eyes, leaning to his right side. “Gracias,” he breathed, clutching the two halves of his tibia to his chest. He waited, expecting his primo to wrap his arm around his shoulders to help him limp back to Shantytown.

Instead, there was a moment of silence before Lorenzo spoke: “Uh-uh.” And suddenly Héctor was lifted off his feet and scooped up into the man’s arms.

“¡¿Que?!” Héctor blurted, opening his eyes to find himself being carried in the direction of the shanties. “Oye, what are you doing?!”

“You’re not walking like that,” Lorenzo said with a firm shake of his head. “Wouldn’t make it down two steps.”

…Ah. Right. The stairs. He’d forgotten about those. “Fair enough,” he muttered, settling himself in his primo’s arms. Meanwhile, Lola buzzed around him, whimpering in concern. He wondered if Lorenzo would ever ask him what happened, but the man remained quiet, at least until they got to the stairs (in a shockingly short length of time, he thought—at the rate Héctor had been going, it might have taken him another hour or so).

“Heh, thought I was going to go play for tips this evening,” Lorenzo said, shaking his head. “Guess there’s always tomorrow.”

“Do they still come near you?” Héctor glanced toward him; Lorenzo’s bones were only in slightly better condition than his own, though he had a crack through the bottom of his right eye socket.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing over Héctor’s ribs so he could see the steps beneath him. “If I can play good enough, sometimes they don’t notice just how yellow my bones are.” He glanced back at Héctor as he stepped down to the first landing. “You should try it sometime, cousin.”

Thinking about playing music again made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity. “No gracias, primo.”

“Eh. Suit yourself.” With that, Lorenzo kept quiet as he continued carrying Héctor down the rickety staircase, concentrating on not falling off or through the rotten wood. But finally they reached the gates to Shantytown, and Héctor twitched his good leg.

“Set me down,” he whispered, “por favor. I…” I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. “…I think I can walk now.”

“You sure?”

“Sí. Please.”

Shrugging, Lorenzo eased Héctor down to his feet, but kept an arm around his shoulder. Héctor could accept that, throwing his own arm around his primo and grinning like they’d just been having a fun conversation. No need to worry the others, after all.

As they limped into town, immediately it came to life with the joyful cries of the nearly-forgotten. “Cousin Héctor!” a few souls shouted, waving enthusiastically, and he called out their names in return. “Where you been, cousin?” called another.

“Out and about?” He tried to shrug as best as he could. “You know, got to keep up with the plans, heh. Get ready for next year!” It wasn’t entirely a lie—when he’d been able to think around his pain, he had been contemplating potential new plans for next year. And he had been out and about. Primo Lorenzo was giving him a look, but he only grinned back, glancing pointedly in the direction of his shack.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” Tía Chelo asked, taking a few steps closer, and Héctor flinched, tugging it partially under his jacket.

“Nothing, nothing!” he said frantically, contemplating whether or not he should just scramble away from Lorenzo and bolt to his shack. “Just, uh…”

“Are you limping?” one tío asked, also stepping closer. “What’s—eEEEAGH!”

Héctor shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. Here we go.

“What happened to your leg?!”

“Pobrecito cousin! Are you carrying your—?”

“When did this happen?”

Dios, he didn’t want to answer any of this right now. But he held up his free hand, grinning as best as he could as he faced the growing crowd of souls. “Hey, estas bien! I can barely feel it. You don’t need to worry about me, eh, primos?”

“You’ve been gone for two days, Héctor!”

“It doesn’t hurt?! I broke my pinky toe last month and could hardly walk!”

“Is your fibula tied to your femur? ¿Estas loco?”

“¡Apártense!” a harsh voice cut through the crowd, and a few souls moved out of the way. “What’re you all gawking at?”

Héctor flinched, fighting the childish urge to duck behind Primo Lorenzo as a familiar figure hobbled to the front of the crowd. “Hola, Chicharrón,” he said, voice small.

Chicharrón looked him up and down, eying his mangled leg and shattered tibia. Quickly he made the connection, and his usual scowl deepened.

Héctor felt his non-existent guts sink. He knew what was going to happen next, and braced himself.

To his surprise, Chicharrón turned around, hobbling back toward his bungalow. “Well, bring him over,” he called over his shoulder.

…Okay, so he was probably saving it for later, then. Wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. Héctor looked cautiously at Lorenzo, who only shrugged and began to help Héctor across the boardwalk to Chicharrón’s house. A couple souls followed while the rest stared. Their looks may have been ones of sympathy, but Héctor would rather they not look at him at all.

As they entered the bungalow, Chicharrón immediately began digging through his shelves and piles. “Set him in the hammock,” he grumbled, tossing a shoebox full of socks behind him, “and make sure he stays there.”

Héctor frowned. “It’s all right, Cheech. I can get in myself,” he said, moving to get away from Lorenzo so he could prove it.

“No, you can’t.” The old man glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the two souls that had come with them—probably Estefan and Manuel, if he were to guess without looking.

Before he could check, they were both suddenly at either side of him, hooking their arms under his in a way that reminded him a little too much of the security guards back at the bridge. But they weren’t rough, at least, and glancing to either side of him (his guesses had been correct), he found them looking away, their expressions a mix of sympathy and unease. “Wh-what’s with all this, Cheech? You’re just gonna duct tape it back together, aren’t you?” He looked frantically around the house, clutching his tibia as close to his body as he could. “You… have duct tape, right?”

“Mmm, nope, not this time,” came Chicharrón’s grumble from the other side of the house. A cascade of items crashed down at his side as he continued his search, unperturbed. “Leather n’ glue will have to do, and a splint until it sets.”

“Uh… well, that… still sounds doable. If you give it over to me, I could… probably do it,” Héctor offered as his tíos gently lifted him into the hammock. Said hammock was full of junk, and he grimaced, pulling a violin bow out from beneath him as he tried to make himself comfortable. “I mean, not like last time, with my… arm.” His left hand reached over to rub said arm, over the tape and leather that held the fragmented end in place. “I-I’ve got both hands free this time!”

Finally Chicharrón turned to face him, straightening his back. “So set it.”

Héctor blanched, looking down from his tibia and back to Chicharrón. “What, right now?” When the old man’s expression didn’t change, Héctor attempted a smile, the corners of it strained. “What’s the rush? I was just going to head back home and take a nap, first—I mean, not like I’ve got anywhere to—”

Chicharrón marched up to the hammock, his cane stamping against the floor, and held out several strips of leather and a can of glue. “Set it.”

Stepping forward, Lorenzo held out a hand. “Cheech—”

Chicharrón shot a glare at Lorenzo, and waited until he backed off before looking back to Héctor.

Swallowing, Héctor reached out with a shaking hand to take the items, looking from the leather and back to his tibia. It’s… it shouldn’t be that hard, he thought, setting the leather and glue aside and taking one half of his bone in his left hand. Just putting two pieces back together. He bit his lip as he held out the two pieces of bone, trying to ignore that his tíos and primo were all turning away. I’ve done crazier stuff to try to cross the bridge. Trembling, he turned the two halves of the bone in what he guessed was the right angle, and—

The two broken fragments bumped against each other, and Héctor shrieked. Moments later, he could barely hear Chicharrón’s voice over his daze: “Now you see? Lorenzo, take those things over here. Estefan, bring me the rest of his leg. Manny, give him this, and hold him down.”

Before he could ask what was going on, a bottle was held out to him. He took it without question, tipping it back to pour some of its contents down his throat, some of it splashing against his face when his left leg was very suddenly tugged off below the femur. Shortly afterward the bottle was taken from him, and his two tíos stood slightly behind him and off to either side of the hammock, each with their hands over his shoulders.

“Idiota,” Chicharrón grumbled from the other side of the bungalow, and Héctor shut his eyes to keep himself from looking in the old man’s direction. “When we get broke, we don’t get fixed, and you go off with your estúpido plans and…”

“Cousin Héctor,” Lorenzo said over Cheech’s grumbling, hurrying to the hammock, “have you thought about your plan for next year?”

Héctor eyed him. “Why are you asking me n—”

Pain briefly shot through his absent leg, and his voice hiked up into a yelp, his entire body bucking as his tíos forced him back down. His femur swung around uselessly while his right leg kicked a jar of buttons and a very broken accordion out of the hammock.

“Sí, you were saying you were getting ready earlier,” Estefan said, his voice a little too loud.

Héctor shut his eyes, his hands clinging to either side of the hammock in a death grip. “I-I don’t know yet, the f-fireworks didn’t work this yeeEEAAAAGH—”

“Fireworks?!” Chicharrón growled, and Héctor could only give a pained moan in reply.

“Okay, but what else can you try?” Lorenzo prodded, then waited for a response. “Cousin?”

Feeling like he would throw up if he tried to answer, Héctor only turned his head away, facing the sound of the water lapping the docks outside the house. There was a sudden but light pressure against his chest, and he gasped, looking up into the face of a tiny, big-eared fox. Instinctively he reached out to pet her, and tried to make his mind formulate words. “A-al… alebrije?” he offered, and hissed as he felt something cold between the two halves of his tibia. Lola tipped her ears back at the sound, but didn’t move away, and he kept his focus on her. “C-could… dress as an alebrije, and… and they’d… let me… pass…?”

Behind him came a few soft, but genuine, laughs. “How do you plan to do that, cousin?”

“I… I think Ceci was using some glowy paint—nnngh!” He gritted his teeth, kicking out with his good leg as he felt his bad one get twisted slightly. “Use the—glowy paint, and—”

Chicharrón gave a frustrated cry. “Lorenzo, get over here!”

Héctor could feel them holding his tibia together while something was wrapped around it, binding to it with cold, sticky glue that made him shudder. “C-could rearrange my bones, a-and look like… an alebrije… M-maybe some other costume work…” He shifted, trying to turn to grin up at his tíos. “You think it might work?”

Manuel cocked a brow bone. “Estas loco, cousin. Maybe, though.”

“Heh, un poco,” he mumbled, settling back into the hammock. Whatever they were doing to his leg didn’t seem to hurt quite so much now, and he felt like he could ignore it, maybe if he just shut his eyes again for a little while…

It didn’t feel like long, however, before his leg was suddenly shoved back against his femur. Yelping, he sat bolt upright, the hammock swaying beneath him, and looked around. Lola was sleeping off to his side, and on the other side of the bungalow, he could see his primo and two tíos talking quietly. But then where was—

He glanced back to the left and nearly leapt out of the hammock in surprise to see Chicharrón standing there, scowling at him. “Normally I’d ask you to get outta here, but unless you want your leg to snap like a twig again, lie down. Gotta let the glue set for twenty-four hours.”

“...Gracias, Cheech,” he muttered, lying back into the hammock.

Chicharrón grunted, hobbling back over to a spot that Héctor couldn’t see. Meanwhile, Héctor looked down at his leg, inspecting it: a few long strips of leather had been wrapped around it and held with glue, which he could still see faint glimmers of. But over all that, a splint had been tied to his leg with a few more strips of leather and what appeared to be several strips of a charred fabric. It looked... blue? Purple? Something like that. Sort of like his—

Blinking, he looked to his right arm, only to find the sleeve had been cut off. “Wha—hey!” he cried, turning his head to look for Chicharrón and finding him off to the right behind his hammock. “You wrecked my suit!”

“That sleeve was in shreds anyway,” Chicharrón said with a shrug. “Don’t think you’re missing much.”

“Quite the fashion statement!” Manuel called from the other side of the shack. Héctor was almost offended, but his tío gave him a good-natured grin—a real one, not like the ones the people in the Department of Family Reunions gave him. “Maybe you’ll set a new trend.”

Héctor snorted, settling himself back into his hammock and shaking his head. “Ah, yes. The just-recently-blown-yourself-up look. Sure it’ll be... explosively popular, eh?”

The others broke into laughter, while he was pretty sure he could hear Cheech rolling his eyes before shouting: “I’ll dump that hammock out into the water for the next one, Héctor!”

Lorenzo stepped up closer to Chicharrón, smiling. “Why’s that, Cheech? You don’t think it’ll take off?”

An empty bottle crashed at Lorenzo’s feet, and Lola’s head shot up from where she lay at Héctor’s side. But Lorenzo only laughed, and she settled back down, tucking her face against Héctor’s ribcage. Héctor smiled, resting his hand on her head as he glanced back down at his broken leg.

It still hurt a lot, and he wasn’t sure how well he was going to walk after this. On top of that, he had another failed Dia de Muertos behind him, but...

Glass clinked nearby, and Héctor craned his neck to see Chicharrón taking a swig from a new bottle before passing it over to the others. The bottle was passed around until Lorenzo handed it off to Héctor, who took it with no small amount of gratitude, tipping it back. He probably drank more than Cheech would’ve liked, but it was enough to make him too drowsy to care.

He leaned back in the hammock as conversation resumed around him, still warm and friendly in spite of Chicharrón’s occasional grumbles—so different from the harsh voice of the security officer, the mocking voices from the Department of Family Reunions, or the suspicious whispers of the people in the upper parts of the city. It didn’t sound much different from any other day in the shanties, but it was comforting in the way only Shantytown could be.

The sloshing of the water outside and the sound of the voices around him faded and blurred into a pleasant murmur as Héctor shut his eyes.

He didn’t have much else going for him, but right now, his Shantytown family was enough.

[drtanstravels]

On Friday night we are getting away for Chinese New Year by traveling to Colombo, Sri Lanka. While we’re there we will also head to Galle for a couple nights where some of our other friends, Tom and Leonie, also happen to be staying, before we spend a last night in Colombo before we head back to Singapore on Wednesday morning. I’ll be writing about that trip when I get back, however, anyone who reads it may realise that I’m wearing sunglasses in some of the photos, something I never do, but why? — Because I have a bunch of stitches and a black eye. Well, here’s how it all happened…

On the night of Tuesday, January 29 I just couldn’t sleep for several reasons; some nights I just can’t sleep due to my medication, but nights in Singapore are usually a minimum of 25°C (77°F) and we had also forgotten until we went to bed, which was about midnight, to turn the air-conditioning on. Anna was hot and kicked the blanket to my side and soon fell asleep, but as our room got cooler she yanked on the blanket like our dog tugs on its leash, almost every time occurring as I was just beginning to drift off, and she also moved right over close to me on my side of the bed. On top of this, she was having crazy dreams and talking constantly in her sleep. This continued until about 6:00am when I finally snapped and gave her as much blanket as I could and told her what the problem was. We were both then satisfied, however, our upstairs neighbour was now awake and making a fair bit of noise, something I never usually hear, but I eventually finally fell asleep.

I woke up later on Wednesday morning feeling quite relaxed, but with a really sticky face for some reason. No, it wasn’t that, but it soon occurred to me that I was laying on the floor in a pool of my own blood so I examined my body and then got up to take a look in the bathroom mirror. As I was getting up I realised there was quite a fair bit of blood coagulating on the floor and saw in my reflection a lot surrounding a decent-sized gash just above my left eye. I figured I had better get to Latrobe Regional Hospital, but I wasn’t sure how to get there since it had moved. The main problems with that plan were that the hospital was in my hometown of Traralgon in Victoria, Australia, a place that I hadn’t lived in 20 years, but also the fact that the Latrobe Regional Hospital moved to its current location back in the middle of 2008, 21 years ago and while I was still residing there! When this occured to me I also realised that I had no idea what day it even was. Best to message Anna:

Not a bad effort considering I was still a bit groggy.

Anna was already planning on coming home for lunch after she had finished her work in the morning so while I was waiting for her I cleaned up my cut as best as I could and also wiped up all the blood off the bedroom floor. Things were beginning to get a bit clearer and I soon realised I must’ve had an epileptic seizure while sleeping close to the edge of the bed, hence why it caused me to fall out. Before long Anna had arrived home from work looking quite concerned, but it all appeared worse than it really was. Our cleaner was coming that afternoon, which meant we had to take our dog to the people who mind it for us and that is on the way to Singapore General Hospital so I had a Panadol, took a shower to wash all of the blood out of my hair, donned some clothes, and we were on our way.

After I cleaned up. I don’t do things by halves

We began walking in the general direction of the hospital, which is only a short walk from our apartment, but I think Anna forgot how slowly I walk after a seizure. I was still holding a tissue over my head while I walked and Anna was rapidly gaining distance on me with the dog. It was also around lunchtime too, so a lot of the people who were outside, eating, probably thought that a giant white guy must’ve been punched in the head by his wife as she stormed off with his dog, at least that’s how it appeared. You go, girl! Actually, she was just trying to get me to the hospital quickly and I simply couldn’t keep up. Anna’s work has been rather quiet due to a lot of people not wanting to get procedures done over Chinese New Year, but to be honest, it wasn’t too busy outside when we registered, either. Anna had to go back to her work at the Singapore National Eye Centre, but she wasn’t going to be too long so I was placed in wheelchair and taken around the back to where the emergency procedures are done and placed on a trolley. Any regular readers of this blog would probably be aware that I’m terrified of anything medical so it wasn’t a fun place to be — It was full of frail, elderly people, some that looked as if they were on their last legs, including a nearby old lady who kept moaning that sounded like the “baa” sound a sheep makes. I was still extremely tired, as I always am after a seizure, so instead of panicking about the fact I was surrounded by what appeared to be a bunch of dying people, I decided to catch a nap, occasionally kicking staff who walked past with my feet which were hanging a fair way off the end of the trolley.

I was later awoken by a rather large male nurse to take my blood pressure. “Your heart-rate is really low,” he said. “Are you an athlete or something?” “Quite the opposite, actually,” I replied. “I just woke up.” I managed to drift off back to sleep again before a female doctor who was aware of my situation came over to take my blood pressure again and ask some questions about other possible health problems. I mentioned that I had a VSD, she gave me a stunned look, especially at my size, and then listened to my heart. “Oh yeah, I can hear it.” She then saw the tattoo of the plastic chair on my arm, referred to it as a “funeral chair” before looking further down my arm and saying “You also have a dupuytren,” in reference to my pinky finger. I explained to her that I broke it playing basketball, but didn’t do anything about it because I didn’t realise it was broken. She then gave me a horrified look and left.

Soon it was time to get stitched up so a consultant, a grey-haired British guy, came over with the previous doctor and asked me a few extra questions, checked my vision, as well as my extremities. Anna thought I might need scans to see if I had a concussion, but I was fine, I didn’t even have a headache. All I was wondering was if this would jeopardise our trip to Sri Lanka. “Oh, you’ll be fine as long as you don’t go SCUBA diving or mining for saphires,” the consultant said. “Cool,” I replied. “I can’t go SCUBA diving anyway because I had grommets in my ears as a child.” The consultant smiled and nodded, while the female doctor looked on in shock and added grommets to the list. I was soon wheeled into a theatre to get my stitches and it became clear to me that Singaporeans in a crowded hospital act no differently to out on the street; they do not get out of the way or make room for anything coming and love chatting in doorways! As I was getting rolled through, people saw me coming, but it didn’t even cross their collective minds to move, some getting kicked by my overhanging legs. Okay, to be fair one or two made a casual half-step to the side, but the consultant still had to ask several times for them to move out of the doorway so we could go to the theatre. Once in I received my stitches, the consultant training a nurse on the procedure and humming all the while. That actually made me feel a little relaxed. Anyway, here’s the end result:

I look like a drag-queen who has already begun knocking off for the night

Fabulous!

When I was out Anna said I could borrow her makeup to even up the other side. Thanks. Next we just had to get some antibiotic cream for it and after five hours in the hospital we were on our way home.

Today I feel fine, but there was a lot more swelling than I expected. When I woke I couldn’t open my left eye so I thought I must’ve had a stroke. Nope, just swollen, I looked like Sarah Huckabee-Sanders putting her face on on the morning:

I just look a bit happier…

…than Ms. Sanders

Nothing to worry about, a bit of ice for a couple of hours sorted that out. Anyway, thanks to all of the doctors, nurses, and consultants at Singapore General Hospital, I really appreciate your help!

Now bring on Sri Lanka!

Here’s Why I’ll be Wearing Sunglasses for a While On Friday night we are getting away for Chinese New Year by traveling to Colombo, Sri Lanka.

[astralsecrets]

lvi.

Non-dream stuff - Woke up at about 7:40, I was very hot, remembering a non-lucid as I came out of it; initially wasn't going to make note of it but did so on my phone, remembering more detail than expected but quite tired so some details missed. Then I woke up again at around 11:00, with a non-lucid dream in memory that started fragmenting but didn't disappear as I got up.

Dream 1: Was dreaming I was walking through a supermarket store with my partner (H) and it was a bit busy. The shop had a weird layout and looked like it was just in an old warehouse; the floor was a mix of large tiles and bare concrete? It was day outside and some light could get in through corrugated plastic that was only partly translucent. The place didn't look all that clean. Got to the other end and there was a tourniquet and a guy watching over it behind a counter. Somehow H had a ticket, it looked green and bulky. I asked if we should both go through at the same time but instantly I thought this wasn't a good idea with the guy watching so closely even if it was busy. I tried asking the guy about getting a ticket and he wasn't very interested in helping me and gestured to a machine. I ran up to it as some other people were slowly getting up to it too. I got in line first and probably annoyed the others; I couldn't read the screen properly because it looked like a calculator's liquid crystal display and it was small and dirty. Background was typical dry yellow-green and black letters. I faffed about with the controls because I couldn't see or reach properly. I felt twisted trying to use the machine. A kid with a yellow cap helped me and I thanked her and gave her a pat on the cap saying "thank you, you're a good kid" and I think she smiled. Struggling to get my wallet out from my (left?) pants pocket. I got it out and it was the wallet I have in waking life; there was a flat bit on the machine and I opened the coin bit and dumped it over the flat area and a lot of junk came out; there was a tiny blazon thing, some rocky/gravel fragments, and other things I don't remember. The total money I had that I could use was about 1.14 or something, and I apparently needed 1.73 or so for the machine. I put the crap back in my wallet and inserted what money I had somewhere into the machine and got the ticket and ran back to the tourniquet and H had already gone past it. I tried passing too now with the ticket but it wouldn't work and the guy at the counter said it didn't have enough money in it, I said "I know it doesn't but I don't have enough cash on me" to which he replied "you can pay with contactless...". I said "I didn't even notice any card payments" and I was hoping he'd pity me or feel sorry for me at least and be kind but I tried asking him to just sort it out with me here and now, but he ignored me and eventually told me to go walk around and get back to him. H come back but it wasn't H anymore but a friend from my childhood M, and I asked him what happened to him, as his nose was all bloody. I remember him smiling but don't remember his answer. I walked around and watched people in the shop getting milk and so on, and as I walk along, this black teenager has a trolley that acts like a spider or something; as he comes past me I smile awkwardly because somehow I think it's amusing and he was smiling too. I remember thinking he'd modified the trolley himself. Going through a cheap art prints section, it's very busy, and I appreciate seeing some of the art pieces anyway. I get to the end of the aisle and it's a corner of the building, so there's only a left turn, which I take and there are some vases with big-ish plants in them, like small palms. I start heading back to the guy at the counter and the tourniquet and then this bouncy beach ball appears and is going towards the vases; I see it hit one and I watch until it's just about to hit the ground, turning my head back in the direction I was walking and it makes a thud noise, presumably not breaking, and I hear people sigh in relief. Then the tourniquet guy accuses some youth and me as being responsible; I say I don't even know this guy and I was walking around like he'd told me in the first place and get pissed off, feeling like punching him in the face. I wake up sweating and too hot. Dream 2 (in pieces): I was in some unknown place, it was night and there were ancient Egyptian buildings. It was dark but I remember some creatures or some danger, and there was a pick-up truck thing, which someone was driving; they told me to get in the back and I remember climbing over in a rushed manner and sort of fumbling into the back. We drove away I think. Transition? In a building nearby, ancient. Dark inside, some faint blue glows. I remember previous parts of the dream where I was collecting some blue glowing stones, and here was a final one or something; this was a fourth stone. In this building there were two tiers, the ground level and a higher level on a bridge. There was some sort of lift mechanism to go up. I went up to the bridge, made of glass and maybe some metal, and there was a door at the end; glowing blue, faintly, with 4 square sections, for the stones. Dream implied I placed them and transition, unsure where to, but maybe I remember a dark hall next. Some sort of pet creature, a cat? Dream is too fragmented at this point and there are several possible fragments that could fit here, but not enough detail for them... At some point at the ground floor of a tall building, modern, day time, lots of glass, light coming in from outside. Some sort of levitating lift platform, my mom is nearby I seem to remember, but I break the platform trying to use it. A guy gets annoyed at me and I say "look it's fine, I can fix it" and I see there's a circuit board and I inspect it looking for an issue; it's snapped at one of the ends but it actually doesn't seem so important that it can't just be jumped with a new lead and some components moved; I do it somehow and it's fixed but the guy wasn't happy anyway. Transition, at the top of the same building, arrived in some sort of elevator. A much smaller room, but still like a big office hall, but glass all around still. I really need a wee and ask someone to use the bathroom, they tell me to go to a horizontal cylinder near one of the windows; apparently this thing is the toilet... I get inside this plastic tube thing, it is really uncomfortable inside, and I start getting pain hypersensitivity because there are sharp plastic edges and I ask for help to get out because I can't manage on my own; I give up on the toilet idea and am annoyed by the fact that these people aren't sensible to just have a bathroom that's actually a room. There is a big door. Reminds me now of a level transition door from STRAFE's final levels. I remember going through, different feel to this area. Isolated, darker, but still bright. There's someone else here, some sort of boss? But they're hidden, and I remember walking around at a calm pace, exploring. It looks like some sort of game level, there are conveyor belts and pick ups and dark pits. I see some glowing green panels, again, like STRAFE. I don't remember what I did next or what happened but woke up soon after.

Some notes:

Dreams from which I wake up too hot I think have an inverse cause-effect relationship. I think I'm having those dreams because I'm too hot, as when my body temperature regulation goes bad I start to get a lot of mental side-effects (if I'm awake and body temperature goes awry I start getting "fever-dream" effects).

The kid that had the cap, the cap was like ones I've seen (and worn) in my childhood, when I was very young and we went to the beach, for one example.

Though I wasn't aware of it at any level in the dream, there were actually a lot of elements in the last part of the 2nd dream that reminded me of a mixture of STRAFE and certain malls I've been to.

The other glowing blue stones weren't just dream memories, I had actually dreamed those bits too, but most of that was too vague and of little visual detail for me to be able to put into words.

Overall the 2nd dream was very long.

I've started noticing a pattern/dream sign with these two dreams, which I think has only started occurring recently; the feeling of being twisted using the ticket machine, struggling to get into the back of the pick-up truck and the cylindrical sharp edges plastic "toilet" thing. In all of these, there was a heightened sensation of struggle and pain to reach for things or to move. This may be related to something that is going outside the dream world...

Scoring thus far: + Previous score: 52.0 + This DJ entry score (breakdown below): 5.0 ++ Recall a non-lucid dream * 2: 2.0 ++ Buy something: 1.0 (the ticket) ++ Ask for advice * 2: 2.0 (asking the ticket guy for help; asking for the bathroom) = Total score thus far: 57.0

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8297989 https://www.dreamviews.com/blogs/darkestdarkness/lvi-85636/

[xottzot]

2017-4(APR)-25-Tuesday--ANZAC DAY--Please contact me Fliss.

2017-4(APR)-25-Tuesday--ANZAC DAY--Please contact me Fliss.

I was VERY VERY emotonal in my last post posted. Please forgive me. I am a destroyed person.

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Yesterday, on Saturday, 24-April-2017, somebody was walking along on the footpath carying that aboriginal feral kid in a diaper from the aboriginal CRIMINAL HOUSEHOLD. That aboriginal child in a diaper normally runs around ON the actual roads, the streets, anywhere it wants to.

And being ON the footpath must have been a new experience for it since it lives (and will hopefully die) by running around all ON the roads.

That person carrying it may have been a far-flung relative (of which are innumrous) come to visit, OR it could have been a departmental trying to instill in the kid and the aboriginal CRIIHNAL HOUSEHOLD teh correct manner in which the brat-inb-a-diaper should actually be existing, that is, it is carried and NOT allowed to run along on the roads to be roadkill.

Just a minor thing. But it was very strange seeing that feral animal kid in a diaper being touted about as if it was normal.

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Oh, and as I foretold of ages ago in my blog, of the shopping trolley abandoned on the street corner near the Koongamia shops area......it's STILL there. It was put there by shitheads. The only difference is that it's now been knocked over and lying upon its side. And will be there abandoned forever and rusting away in this ghetto.

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Sunday, after dark.......a motorbike has been LOUDLY tearing all about in the darkness on the streets, all around this hellhole suburb.

And strange cars have been rapidly moving about, seeming to try to head off its 'escape routes'. And one also went to the Koongamia school oval area too.

Nobody shouldn't be surprised by Police sirens in the darkness tonight as they vainly try to capture shitheads.

And of course, thereafter all became suddenly quiet.

I suspect the damned motorbike (most probably illegal) has once more found a bolthole and been hidden in, one of the innumerous associate shithead places of which this area abounds in and is surrounded by.

All that activity has made all the dogs in this hellhole suburb barking. And it's made dear Sam & Max barking, and growling.

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My internet connectivity has been extremly slow, stopping and non-existant. And even now I am trying to post this up but completely UNABLE to post....for well over 4 hours solid......this is an everyday (at any time) occurence. -- I simply are unable despite MANY attempts to post this up earlier to have it be posted.

And my typing-in of text or anything has become terrible, least of all is because the loss of feeling in one of my hands.

Outside (earlier in the waning daylight) were the usual criminal children from the CRIMINAL HOSUEHOLD carrying on and screaming loudly. VERY LOUDLY. And I do mean literally SCREAMING insanely. For hour after hour afer hour.....

And here's just small thing, a minor incident, crazily enough, somebody has given to them (or they stole it) a small aboriginal boomerang. (plastic?) And they are all throwing it around in the middle of the roads and smashing it upon the roads using it like a throwing stick NOT a boomerang. - They could easily walk down to the oval (at the end of the road from them) and use it there but they do not. They are feral. The damned thing keeps going into peoples yards and they are leaping fences and going to retrieve it, once more an excuse to invade peoples properties.

Even I could tell then how to properly use the damned thing, and if it was molded correctly (most are cheap and are not), it would return just like a boomerang should (if it was made right), but I would do it at the oval area where there is nobody about to hurt or any peoples houses to smash. The damn things ARE lethal. THAT is what they were used for. To kill things. It was never a 'toy'. Look it up for yourself. And people often mix up boomerangs with 'killing sticks' too.--- I find it absolutely indicative that the worlds champions of correct boomerang throwing (which the boomerang returns) are NOT Australians but are Americans. The individuals concerned deserve accolades for that. And bravery awards for catching a returning flying boomerang swiftly flying through the air back at at them.

Then the shitheads in the streets all retired to sitting upon the street kerb to reinforce the fact that they have made this area into a terrible ghetto with THEM being the sole reason for it being so bad. The other non-aboriginal white shitheads are just extra, added onto the hell.

Sam and Max are both very upset and barking at all that noise and having been abandoned.

I took dear Sam & Max outside and they could see the abo's just sitting on a street kerb and acting like countless other feral and criminal aboriginals that just sit around all day. Sitting about unless they are walking wandering about comitting crime.

Max became vicious again, So did Sam. Both sam & Max had all their hair raised up and were ready to bite and attack. I was fortunate they didn't bite me.

Sometime later, the abos were tormenting the large black feral dog (of their OWN). The dog has they have freely roaming about on the streets. Meanwhile the abo's are...screaming loudly. Loudly, as if they were being murdered kind of shrieking, loud SCREAMING. The criminal aboriginals DO NOT OBEY LAWS. They simply DO NOT. They do as they want at any time of the night or day. And they are indulged by Police and authorities to an incredible latitude that you have no idea of.

I've long since lost count of the schemes and ideas (many inane) that Police and authorities have tried to use with the criminal ABORIGINAL HOUSEHOLD(s) in this hellhole in thoroughly futile attempts to make then 'normal'. Everything which the criminals just exploit and vandalise and destroy. (Normal everyday activity for them.)

ANZAC Day for them is just yet another excuse to go mad.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, 25 April, 2017.

It's ANZAC day, for Australia. (big deal)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ANZAC_day

And as dear Fliss very often would proudly say to me.......whilst most other countries 'celebrate' military succeses, Australia instead celebrates a military defeat.

Dear Fliss was stating and being proud of the fact that Australia could bestow memoriam quiet gratitude to those that had been bravely involved in conflicts and died in conflicts. She didn't like the way that some countries made propaganda to just further military wars and make suffering to innocents. But dear Fliss too didn't like the way ANZAC Day was always being manipulated.

It clashed mightily with dear Fliss who long before I ever met her WAS in the Australian military, who was very proud to be a part of it, but who had VERY TERRIBLE INCIDENTS in it which psychologically badly affected her, and anytime we tried to dicusss anything even remotely related, dear Fliss would massively switch her mind onto anything else and divert all conversation. - Only once did she ever tell me of her terrible ordeal. And dear Fliss never told anyone else, (not even and NEVER to medicos that wer trying to help her), or dear Fliss told them only a shade of what really happened. Even to myself dear Fliss may have only told me a shade of what had occurred to her, things against dear Fliss that had been done to her from her trusted military compatriots whim she had held in high esteem beforehand. And the terrible treatment the Australian military had meted out to dear Fliss afterwards. It was a condition of dear Fliss's minor monetary payment to her that dear Fliss NEVER speak about the terrible things to her. (I never subscribed to that of course.)

And it wasn't just happening to dear Fliss. It was happening to many others in all parts of the Australian military. And for awhile over decades a lot of that made it into the Australian media and was scandalous and abhorrent to the public. It was all tried to be kept quiet.

After all THAT....dear Fliss was terribly brutalised by thugs in a train attack and poor dear Fliss was terribly physically harmed, and which is a major factor in dear Fliss's terrible state of which I of course have never had any part in creating it whatsoever.

Dear Fliss and I would have polite arguments in that I would state how the military had exploited her, but dear Fliss would angrily defend it all, despite how she herself had personal terrible experience of being harmed, and exploited, blamed, and abandoned by the military. - Because it upset dear Fliss so much, I did not pursue dear Fliss into revealing her terrible past, and she would be sobbing and shaking and VERY terribly upset about revealing ANYTHING.

If you ask dear Fliss about all that above with me, she will try to deny it. It's her way, in her mind, to deal with things. She thinks she is being 'brave' by being silent. Or as dear Fliss often said to me about her ailments, "What can they do about it? What can anyone do aout it!?"

Not even Fliss's closest friends ever knew about what had hapened to dear Fliss. And after which when I tried to tell them, it resulted in Fliss actually violentally blaming me for trying to tell them. Especially to Cath, and Judith.

Dear Fliss has suffered her entire life since having terrible fears and terrors, of which I was always trying to help her overcome and I was only very slowly getting to reach that when we were parted and ripped apart.

And in my lifetime, ANZAC Day has changed. So has the entire mythology and propaganda and public acceptance of it all. Not changed once, but twice.

When I was very young, walking in the streets of Perth Western Australia with my dear now deceasd Mum, a bugle tune (THE bugle mournful tune) would sound from somewhere, suddenly everything just STOPPED. I do mean EVERYTHING. All businesses and staff and customers would stop what they were doing and stand around like deactivated robots.

Pedestrians like us, would all just stop walking and stand there in silence, cars would all stop in the streets and quite a lot of the vechile occupants would exit and stand next to their vehicles. All in silence.

I can't remmeber now if the passenger trains stopped too.

As a small boy, it was both mystifying and terrifying. Small, standing there just like other children, all looking up and surrounded by a forest of adult pedestrians legs in the city, all unmoving.

The ONLY sounds that were ever heard were crying kids and babies. All being ignored, or harshly whispered by their mothers and other adults to SHUT UP!

Nothing like the "Body Snatchers" movies of course, nothing like that.

And of course I already knew about it that it was ANZAC Day, originally a commemoration of a day in history of an event in the first World War, where (as usual, as ALWAYS), Australia had once again blindly been following Britain into anything they said was right and just and everyone had to fight for. And of course Britain heartily used their far flung colony countries like brave Australia to help bolster and make up the dead in any war they helped to inflict upon the world. All of that is in history. And diguised in history.

I had long ago already been told all of the great bravery of Australians in wars and stuff. And I had been told how many Australians had done to make everything great. -- Great? -- Our personal family was NOT great. As a very tiny family we were struggling so desperately whilst all other families were like Midas.

And in the city of Perth, we'd stand there, there would be TOTAL SILENCE for a minute. - It was to 'remember the fallen', I was always told, the fallen being the dead people.

And we were supposed to always remember the fallen that had fought for whatever our side was. - I always wondered, but what about all the others? What about the civilians that had been killed? What about all the poor animals that had been killed? - I was told to shut up and be quiet by others, not by my Mum who just held my hand tighter.

Old men would be the most vicious at these times. And they often smelled VERY boozy and indeed they were. ANZAC Day in Australia was always a time when alcoholics could be freely about and indulge themselves in public in drinking and always be blindly forgiven because of whatever things they uttered as an excuse (truth or lies) that it was ANZAC Day.

And all THAT, was also employed by alcoholics in the form of them lying and wearing old uniforms and medals and stuff they'd obtained or stolen or bought at secondhand stores to pull off the illusions that they were involved in some way and should be given free booze by others. (LOTS of stories of those people would make it to the news over many years. Those stories have now been largely gone.)

But fairly recently in the last decade, there still has been people trying this stunt, this time by professing to be involved in the Vietnam War in the past.....and they were literally physcially threatened after being discovered.

As a child standing there in the city of Perth with my dear Mum, throughout the silence, such things didn't occur, or if it did, it never was made public.

I can remember a small (stunted?) old man who always used to sit on a long public bench seat at the Perth train station. He was freely allowed to sit there all day on any day. On ANZAC Days I think he wore war medals. And I even saw the same man I (at least I think it was) get on and off the bus into this hellhole suburb. I can remember him wearing all those medals and going to the corner shop (which was only just a corner shop and not as it is today, a mini mart.)

After the minute had passed in silence, suddenly everything reactivated and the sound of a city suddenly switched-on was horrible to experience when just before there had been peaceful silence. Suddenly people began to realise all the horrible fumes from traffic that had wafted over everyone, people would scurry back into their vehicles, or pedestrians like us would scurry into air-conditioned shops to breath easier.

And all this took place at a hot time of the day in a hot season.

NOBODY was allowed to complain about anything about it all, the event or anything. - It was more holy than if an angel had farted and nobody was brave enough to speak about it.

In fact the entire ANZAC Day period was 'holy'. It was more respected than religious and religion. It surpassed any and all religions. But religions did also get their claws into it as well as much as they could.

I could never understand why a situation of so many people dying so many years ago in the past always had precendence and power of subordination over the living, right now.

Whenever I asked that question in life I was always fobbed-off and belittled as if it was heresy with two answers....the mysterious 'they' fought (and died) to protect others, and the mysterious 'they' fought (and died) to make life better for all of us now living.

I was living 'better'? - NO. - We were ALWAYS struggling and desperate and terribly poor and disadvantaged and sidelined.....

As in any military war, people are roped in to act and die for others, and they are all told that it is a very brave an noble thing to go around killing everyone and dying for all that. Do NOT care for anyone you kill because they deserve to die....that was the state of how you were to be indoctrinated with.

Strange isn't it, that murderers don't have that luxury then?

But only the 'wrong' side....the 'other' side in the wars we were always being told were the ones who were evil and did very evil things and needed not just to be stopped, but to be overrun and taken over and never remebered. Apparently 'our side' was as if it had been 'blessed' by heaven into killing people, and animals, and everything else terribly hurt or killed in wars.

This double-faced, dual lying was just that, lying.

And as the years progressed as I grew older, with the terrible later endless wars that followed, especially Vietnam, Australia was still being fed all the military and social propoganda, but the Australian population had long ago changed its mindset about how so many countleess Australians died, but there was always a military hunger for more to feed into the military machinations of other countries whenever they asked Australia. And even if they seemed they did not ask (publicly) for Australians, the sycophantic Australian government was always only too over-eager to pledge to other countries by shovelling Australian military in any way into anything other countries wanted.

Australia was incredibly servile to Britain. Then later that changed to Australia now being incredibly servile to the United States. -- And teh country of Australia originated because of Britain first. Then later, when Australia was supposed to have cut the apron strings to Britain, it still was incredibly much British. Later, with more wars, Australia became servile to the United States of America whilst also trying to remain the same to Britain. Then later still and to what it is today, Australia has become more allied to the United States of America, doing what the USA wants most wholeheartdly and eagerly like a deranged small kid trying to please the school bully in order not to be picked upon.

ANZAC Day was slowly phasing out with the passage of time when I was going to primary school. I can rememeber (during the Vietnam war or after it I cannot recall) when we stopped having ANZAC services. No longer would school (the entire school) stand out on the blindingly hot grey bitumen tarmac and be all silent whilst somebody played the bugle tune. (whether that was from a radio or a recording I never knew). - But that all went. And we students breathed a sigh of relief.

Then slowly all that ANZAC stuff thankfully stopped entirely.

It may very well have been because of the Vietnam War.

The entire world and Australia was waking up to the utter bullshit we were constantly being shoved down our throats, to every man, woman, and child.

There were massive protest marches FOR PEACE in streets of every city, and across the world. - (the authorities hated that) And the authorities reacted violentally. Although now they will try to tell you that they didn't.

But....afterwards.......when ANZAC Day had all been gone and almost thankfully forgotten and laid to rest......which in large part was due to Australia having suffered so terribly, tremendously and personally in the Vietnam War(s), there became a great mistrust of the military and a swing to social issues, human issues, and so on. No longer was the focus all about endless war.

But THAT was not to be tolerated.

Constrast back then, to now......

Australia is not just a willingy ally to the United States of America, it is rabid to be involved in any and all conflicts the USA is involved with openly or covertly, and if Australia misses out, the politicians all get miffed and start blaming all sorts of people for it all.

Are you aware that all the military hardware sold to Australia by the USA and others is often then used (with Australian personnel manning it all) to fight in the endless wars the USA is waging all across the world?

The 'so-great' technologically advanced fighter planes are often used in conflicts by Australians for the USA. And by doing so it serves as test-beds to 'test' the stuff in actual wars. And if anything untowards happens, the USA has a more than willing stooge to blame for either the hardware of war, or the incidents of war, or of killing innocents.

Australia has switched being a lackey to Britain, to now being (proudly) a lackey for the USA. And of course through all this, the politicians et al, keep going on about how 'proud' Australia is, how 'independent' Australia is, and how we don't follow what other countries want and yet that's what the politicians and real power brokers have made us to the USA.

So.....along comes ANZAC Day in this era......with new applicants demanding to be part of....(Australian Vietnam veterans was actually long-excluded from ANZAC and associated stuff and benefits....and that was very scandalous and hurt the entrenched WW2 era ex-soldiers and personnel.....)

Now there are those people from the countless USA wars (of which Vietnam started out being), and it includes all the others that have followed. Kinda like making an ice-cream which becomes famous, and then the entire line of confectionary the company makes is touted as also being famous and why you should buy and not say anything bad about it. And suddenly everyone likes ice-cream even if it has flakes of excrement in it posing as chocolate.

And very cleverly, those that oppose these damned enldess wars, the ways in which they harm and destroy poeple to both the victims and the attackers, and those that oppose ALL wars everywhere...ALL of those poeple have been sidelined and ridiculed and told are 'subversive'.

In the old days, if anyone was ever wanted to be crushed by the powers-that-be, they were simply accused of being communist....and as everyone now knows, people were killed and their lives destroyed, man, woman, and child, in order to crush the 'evil' communists. -- Do NOT make the mistake of believing the terrible communists, those that exploited all they could to futher themselves, do not confuse that with the longed-for ethos of harmony of everyone being in harmony with each other. - Perhaps that's not ready yet to come about.

But the name communist is associated with evil and everything else. That came about largely because of the USA and others roped-in to destroy communism.

Communism is not the end-all-be-all, rather it is a stepping stone in history for mankind to advance. It's not a stepping-stone to slip upon and fall into the river and drown. - Socialism is a more obscure never-achieved broadly state of existance and living, much like you see in Star Trek (which Star Trek itself has been subverted and changed to be nothing like it was, into now a militant and a military recruiting system). Socialism was something H.G. Wells was interested in as a system. But unfortunately we all cannot get into a time machine and just arrive there at the flick of a switch and a push or pull of a lever.

ANZAC Day has become a catch-all for all military things, and it is not so very far removed from what it originally was. A blindly obedient event, where school-kids play dress-ups into stuff and strutt about at a flagpole and act important and well-received.

The kids blindly follow all the things they are taught, and they are encouraged to 'rediscover' what it was to be 'great'. And so the personnel for military crap in the future is well-laid already.

They are encouraged to wear medals of long-dead relatives to 'honour them'. And the merchandising of ANZAC Day and all such has been growing.

It was dying-out when I was a young kid. You used to be abel to purchase flowers of rememberance. REAL flowers, and also bunches of them. Then slowly that all went. You then were offered plastic ones. Which I've always seen as a joke. Like the kind of novely gag item you might look into and get a squirt from a hidden water bulb. - And after Anzac Day, (or even during it) all that stuff gets tossed into the bin to becoe stuff that never rots in the ground. Is that how all those long-dead military people from the original ANZAC Day actual historic event would like to be rememebed?

They also tried stickers you purchased and you were told the money donated would go to help support the families of service personnel who had lost their fathers. Over years, the stickers got smaller and small, and less adhesive, alwasy getting cheaper and cheaper until they became just a little round spot on a roll of self-adhesive stickers that would often fall off your clothing moments after you put them on. - And when if you were challenged that you hadn't purchased one to 'support' the cause (which was overt social pressure), if you stated that you had but the bloody thing had fallen off, they would say, So what buy another one its all for a good cause!

I never told anyone at that time that my own dear Mum whom I live with on a war widows pension and that we were always struggling. They would have accused me of lying. Which I have never done.

But ANZAC Day.....it's all now been directed to swing back to what it was before it faded-out when I was as small boy. Blind obedience, blind acceptance of what we are told, never to question why people and everything die and are murdered, all so somebody else can lay claim whilst strutting over the dead bodies and say it was all 'worth it'.

How many more terrible Vietnams will Australia and others have to suffer then to remove it? -- Perhaps a war with North Korea or China, one which the USA can sit back and play an armchair war using expendible people with. Australians play that part very well. And play their part in it all.

Australians now can teach their kids to grow up and be how 'good' all their dead others were. But if other Australians (immigrants or whatever) from other countries try the same, they will be smashed and labelled terrorists. It's the law. You can only kill people if you have the apparent holy blessings of governments.

How long is it to the next major conflicts? - The current ones have grown stale and are being repeated.

What next? - Against North Korea, China, Russia, or extra terrestrials?

ANZAC Day.......war never ending celebrations.........dresed-up as 'memorials'.......

I wonder how many re-makes of Star Trek movies can go on since they've already milked it to death with the start of the 'recent' ones that keep repeating themselves in tone? - In those movies, no longer is there a Great Bird of the Galaxy inspired hope for mankind to be peaceful...instead it's now, war, death, destruction, kill, kill, kill.....

And so ANZAC Day will go on forever it seems....not to remember the dead who valiantly hoped for peace...but ANZAC Day used as just another vehicle to rope people in and get them into the custom of blind obediance once again without question.

One of the latest stunts I've seen in the NEWS media is an amalgamation of two things....the NEWS has been pushing the stories of Australian aboriginals in ANZAC DAY and war events. A marriage of two things. - Now tell me that THAT isn't an overt Public Relations tactic to tie in with the current events.....

P.@16:26.....in VERY great pain. I love you Fliss. -- This morning was rubbish bin collction day. Max has become vicious today because the feral dog of the feral CRIMINAL HOUSEHOLD has been pissing all over everyones rubbish bins and marking them as its own property, just as the people who 'own' the dog do with everyones property and are carrying on right now outside in the streets. No ANZAC Day for them, it's just an endless holiday from the school that they never even ever go to anyway on any day. They would have no concept of Australia Day other than being able to get fre stuff somehow thru a government department or anonymous benefactor.....

[u-wll-rmmbr-me-fr-centuries]

Started playing the Sims 4 again and decided to make the Hogwarts houses as sims. Obviously Slytherin looked the best, had the best room and I preferred playing. I may have given up by the time I got to Gryffindor, and spent less than two minutes creating her as a sim and then three minutes making her room.

Monday

So the first sleep in our new room went well. I knew I was going to struggle just because I knew this room is silent and my old room was noisy. And once you live with the noise for 12 years, it becomes a sort of blanket. I struggle at hotels just because it’s so quite. My older brother and I also swapped round mattress’ just because of the convenience of the move. Funnily enough, he found mine too hard and I found his too soft. So we swapped back. Although, this morning my youngest sister turned around to me and said, “I kept waking up and watching you.” Cheers, Moo.

I finally got some revision done! Mostly on the context of William Blake’s poetry, but it’s a start, right? I also had another driving lesson, and went on proper roads. Not just roads on housing estates but real roads. With mini roundabouts and traffic lights! And… I got to drive home! It wasn’t far away, but it was far enough. But yay! And I only had one major panic. So all is good. If someone had told me a month ago, that today I would have driven all the way back home, encountered real traffic and done real driving things, I would have asked what you’ve been taking.

Tuesday

I had a decent sleep! No bad back! My glorious mattress was given back to me and I slept like a baby. Today we had a family trip out to Tiptree Jam Factory and had some lunch. Bringing a million children along did something end up spilling? Yes. But was Mum prepared for such things and carry around tissues? Yes.

After we went to the Tesco’s and I bought… MOANA! It’s such a good film. Worth the £10. And then the god knows how much I paid for to go watch the first screening, on the first day of release. But it’s worth it. And I didn’t cry this time, so that’s a plus. It’s still amazing. So good. 100/10 recommend.

Wednesday

Last night felt like one of the longest that I’ve had  in a long while. You know those nights where you get little sleep and it seems never ending? It was one of those. My littlest sister’s stomach was stinging and she was in an immense amount of pain. I couldn’t do anything apart from hush her and try and get her comfy to go back to sleep. She came in my bed for cuddles, still didn’t work. By the time I had an elbow in my face and a knee to my stomach I figured it was best for her to just sleep in my bed and I’ll sit at the end watching 13 Reasons Why until I had either finished the darn series or fell asleep. It was the second one. A small 5 year old took up most of the room on my bed and there I was curled up on the edge. Fun times.

Thursday

Played the Sims 4 again. And I had this brilliant idea: what if I turned each Hogwarts house into a sim?

Blaire Slytherin, a writer with two childrens books out: The Snake Whisperer and Snakey Snake

And I did. And it’s amazing. I also made a house (looks nothing like Hogwarts but as someone who rarely plays it, I’m proud) and each house has their own room which is colour co-ordinated. Obviously Slytherin has the best room, then Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff I kind of struggled with. I just modelled her on my younger sister who is most definitely as Hufflepuff. She’s quite girly and floral so I made her just like that. But as a Slytherin I struggled so hard with the Gryffindor. I want to say that I tried to make her look pretty and I spent a long time trying to decorate her room, but honestly I didn’t. She was the last one that I made and I just wanted to get on with making the house.

    Myla, also a writer but no books out yet! Slight love interest with a guy called Justin 

Callie Hufflepuff – she is in charge of keeping the garden tidy and watering the plants. She and Don Lothario are in a relationship! She works as a mixologist. 

Mallory Gryffindor – she is hot tempered and works as a secret agent. Often very stressed as she works hard and doesn’t get much fun. 

Friday

When I woke up, I had that feeling where a cold has just randomly decided to pay a visit. My throat ached and there was the Niagra Falls coming out of my nose. Nice, I know. I feel like crap, I look like crap and I practically am crap.

I’ve been doing this sorry excuse for “blogging” for a month or so now, and it’s so cool seeing people actually read the crap I put out. I love seeing the Stats just because I can see people reading it. I can see what country they’re from. I don’t really care about the numbers, it’s just so crazy to think that all sorts of people across the world have been reading my posts. Last month, overall I had 77 views. This month I have already had 62 views! How crazy is that?! I was going to be super happy if I had even 20, it’s just crazy.  So, just a massive thank you for reading a post, even if it was just one.

Saturday

So as a British person The Grand National is probably one of the biggest events of the year. It’s a whole family event where we go over to the Grandparents, all pick a horse and stare so hard at the TV. The best feeling is where it hits the last 10 jumps, your horse is still in and you feel other family members sigh in annoyance as their horse goes down. Your heart beats faster and see your horse fighting in the top 5 spaces.

For the last few years I’ve backed Saint Are, I don’t know why. And today I got £10 for 3rd place. It’s not bad seeing as my younger sister’s came in 2nd and only got £5.

But watching the last episode of Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway was painful seeing as they were in Walt Disney World Florida. Such a depressing thing to watch, especially as their Ant vs Dec segment was on both Tower of Terror and Expedition Everest. And then the whole thing was filmed live and obviously in front of the castle. FML. It was an amazing episode, and I’m so angry at my family for not nominating me for a place on the plane. They know how much I need to go.

Sunday

Another family day out! Went to a flower shop in the tiniest of cars (not a clever idea considering Gran normally has 4 trolleys full of flowers) but we got everything home fine. We also had another lunch out, and this time at some barn shop. The best part, obviously, was the car journey. The weather nice and warm, everyone wearing sun glasses and a load of music playing. Quite easily one of my favourite things about summer – the car journeys with windows down and music up.

When we got home I also decided to put my books back on my bookshelf. It was very painful, but it got done. And it’s rainbow. Just call me a basic BookBlogger. I’m fine with that, and I know you’re just jelly of my awesome bookshelf.

Such bad quality but oh well. 

3rd – 9th April: Hogwarts Houses as Sims & The Grand National Started playing the Sims 4 again and decided to make the Hogwarts houses as sims. Obviously Slytherin looked the best, had the best room and I preferred playing.

[astralsecrets]

lvi.

Non-dream stuff - Woke up at about 7:40, I was very hot, remembering a non-lucid as I came out of it; initially wasn't going to make note of it but did so on my phone, remembering more detail than expected but quite tired so some details missed. Then I woke up again at around 11:00, with a non-lucid dream in memory that started fragmenting but didn't disappear as I got up.

Dream 1: Was dreaming I was walking through a supermarket store with my partner (H) and it was a bit busy. The shop had a weird layout and looked like it was just in an old warehouse; the floor was a mix of large tiles and bare concrete? It was day outside and some light could get in through corrugated plastic that was only partly translucent. The place didn't look all that clean. Got to the other end and there was a tourniquet and a guy watching over it behind a counter. Somehow H had a ticket, it looked green and bulky. I asked if we should both go through at the same time but instantly I thought this wasn't a good idea with the guy watching so closely even if it was busy. I tried asking the guy about getting a ticket and he wasn't very interested in helping me and gestured to a machine. I ran up to it as some other people were slowly getting up to it too. I got in line first and probably annoyed the others; I couldn't read the screen properly because it looked like a calculator's liquid crystal display and it was small and dirty. Background was typical dry yellow-green and black letters. I faffed about with the controls because I couldn't see or reach properly. I felt twisted trying to use the machine. A kid with a yellow cap helped me and I thanked her and gave her a pat on the cap saying "thank you, you're a good kid" and I think she smiled. Struggling to get my wallet out from my (left?) pants pocket. I got it out and it was the wallet I have in waking life; there was a flat bit on the machine and I opened the coin bit and dumped it over the flat area and a lot of junk came out; there was a tiny blazon thing, some rocky/gravel fragments, and other things I don't remember. The total money I had that I could use was about 1.14 or something, and I apparently needed 1.73 or so for the machine. I put the crap back in my wallet and inserted what money I had somewhere into the machine and got the ticket and ran back to the tourniquet and H had already gone past it. I tried passing too now with the ticket but it wouldn't work and the guy at the counter said it didn't have enough money in it, I said "I know it doesn't but I don't have enough cash on me" to which he replied "you can pay with contactless...". I said "I didn't even notice any card payments" and I was hoping he'd pity me or feel sorry for me at least and be kind but I tried asking him to just sort it out with me here and now, but he ignored me and eventually told me to go walk around and get back to him. H come back but it wasn't H anymore but a friend from my childhood M, and I asked him what happened to him, as his nose was all bloody. I remember him smiling but don't remember his answer. I walked around and watched people in the shop getting milk and so on, and as I walk along, this black teenager has a trolley that acts like a spider or something; as he comes past me I smile awkwardly because somehow I think it's amusing and he was smiling too. I remember thinking he'd modified the trolley himself. Going through a cheap art prints section, it's very busy, and I appreciate seeing some of the art pieces anyway. I get to the end of the aisle and it's a corner of the building, so there's only a left turn, which I take and there are some vases with big-ish plants in them, like small palms. I start heading back to the guy at the counter and the tourniquet and then this bouncy beach ball appears and is going towards the vases; I see it hit one and I watch until it's just about to hit the ground, turning my head back in the direction I was walking and it makes a thud noise, presumably not breaking, and I hear people sigh in relief. Then the tourniquet guy accuses some youth and me as being responsible; I say I don't even know this guy and I was walking around like he'd told me in the first place and get pissed off, feeling like punching him in the face. I wake up sweating and too hot. Dream 2 (in pieces): I was in some unknown place, it was night and there were ancient Egyptian buildings. It was dark but I remember some creatures or some danger, and there was a pick-up truck thing, which someone was driving; they told me to get in the back and I remember climbing over in a rushed manner and sort of fumbling into the back. We drove away I think. Transition? In a building nearby, ancient. Dark inside, some faint blue glows. I remember previous parts of the dream where I was collecting some blue glowing stones, and here was a final one or something; this was a fourth stone. In this building there were two tiers, the ground level and a higher level on a bridge. There was some sort of lift mechanism to go up. I went up to the bridge, made of glass and maybe some metal, and there was a door at the end; glowing blue, faintly, with 4 square sections, for the stones. Dream implied I placed them and transition, unsure where to, but maybe I remember a dark hall next. Some sort of pet creature, a cat? Dream is too fragmented at this point and there are several possible fragments that could fit here, but not enough detail for them... At some point at the ground floor of a tall building, modern, day time, lots of glass, light coming in from outside. Some sort of levitating lift platform, my mom is nearby I seem to remember, but I break the platform trying to use it. A guy gets annoyed at me and I say "look it's fine, I can fix it" and I see there's a circuit board and I inspect it looking for an issue; it's snapped at one of the ends but it actually doesn't seem so important that it can't just be jumped with a new lead and some components moved; I do it somehow and it's fixed but the guy wasn't happy anyway. Transition, at the top of the same building, arrived in some sort of elevator. A much smaller room, but still like a big office hall, but glass all around still. I really need a wee and ask someone to use the bathroom, they tell me to go to a horizontal cylinder near one of the windows; apparently this thing is the toilet... I get inside this plastic tube thing, it is really uncomfortable inside, and I start getting pain hypersensitivity because there are sharp plastic edges and I ask for help to get out because I can't manage on my own; I give up on the toilet idea and am annoyed by the fact that these people aren't sensible to just have a bathroom that's actually a room. There is a big door. Reminds me now of a level transition door from STRAFE's final levels. I remember going through, different feel to this area. Isolated, darker, but still bright. There's someone else here, some sort of boss? But they're hidden, and I remember walking around at a calm pace, exploring. It looks like some sort of game level, there are conveyor belts and pick ups and dark pits. I see some glowing green panels, again, like STRAFE. I don't remember what I did next or what happened but woke up soon after.

Some notes:

Dreams from which I wake up too hot I think have an inverse cause-effect relationship. I think I'm having those dreams because I'm too hot, as when my body temperature regulation goes bad I start to get a lot of mental side-effects (if I'm awake and body temperature goes awry I start getting "fever-dream" effects).

The kid that had the cap, the cap was like ones I've seen (and worn) in my childhood, when I was very young and we went to the beach, for one example.

Though I wasn't aware of it at any level in the dream, there were actually a lot of elements in the last part of the 2nd dream that reminded me of a mixture of STRAFE and certain malls I've been to.

The other glowing blue stones weren't just dream memories, I had actually dreamed those bits too, but most of that was too vague and of little visual detail for me to be able to put into words.

Overall the 2nd dream was very long.

I've started noticing a pattern/dream sign with these two dreams, which I think has only started occurring recently; the feeling of being twisted using the ticket machine, struggling to get into the back of the pick-up truck and the cylindrical sharp edges plastic "toilet" thing. In all of these, there was a heightened sensation of struggle and pain to reach for things or to move. This may be related to something that is going outside the dream world...

Scoring thus far: + Previous score: 52.0 + This DJ entry score (breakdown below): 5.0 ++ Recall a non-lucid dream * 2: 2.0 ++ Buy something: 1.0 (the ticket) ++ Ask for advice * 2: 2.0 (asking the ticket guy for help; asking for the bathroom) = Total score thus far: 57.0

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8297989 https://www.dreamviews.com/blogs/darkestdarkness/lvi-85636/

[astralsecrets]

lvi.

Non-dream stuff - Woke up at about 7:40, I was very hot, remembering a non-lucid as I came out of it; initially wasn't going to make note of it but did so on my phone, remembering more detail than expected but quite tired so some details missed. Then I woke up again at around 11:00, with a non-lucid dream in memory that started fragmenting but didn't disappear as I got up.

Dream 1: Was dreaming I was walking through a supermarket store with my partner (H) and it was a bit busy. The shop had a weird layout and looked like it was just in an old warehouse; the floor was a mix of large tiles and bare concrete? It was day outside and some light could get in through corrugated plastic that was only partly translucent. The place didn't look all that clean. Got to the other end and there was a tourniquet and a guy watching over it behind a counter. Somehow H had a ticket, it looked green and bulky. I asked if we should both go through at the same time but instantly I thought this wasn't a good idea with the guy watching so closely even if it was busy. I tried asking the guy about getting a ticket and he wasn't very interested in helping me and gestured to a machine. I ran up to it as some other people were slowly getting up to it too. I got in line first and probably annoyed the others; I couldn't read the screen properly because it looked like a calculator's liquid crystal display and it was small and dirty. Background was typical dry yellow-green and black letters. I faffed about with the controls because I couldn't see or reach properly. I felt twisted trying to use the machine. A kid with a yellow cap helped me and I thanked her and gave her a pat on the cap saying "thank you, you're a good kid" and I think she smiled. Struggling to get my wallet out from my (left?) pants pocket. I got it out and it was the wallet I have in waking life; there was a flat bit on the machine and I opened the coin bit and dumped it over the flat area and a lot of junk came out; there was a tiny blazon thing, some rocky/gravel fragments, and other things I don't remember. The total money I had that I could use was about 1.14 or something, and I apparently needed 1.73 or so for the machine. I put the crap back in my wallet and inserted what money I had somewhere into the machine and got the ticket and ran back to the tourniquet and H had already gone past it. I tried passing too now with the ticket but it wouldn't work and the guy at the counter said it didn't have enough money in it, I said "I know it doesn't but I don't have enough cash on me" to which he replied "you can pay with contactless...". I said "I didn't even notice any card payments" and I was hoping he'd pity me or feel sorry for me at least and be kind but I tried asking him to just sort it out with me here and now, but he ignored me and eventually told me to go walk around and get back to him. H come back but it wasn't H anymore but a friend from my childhood M, and I asked him what happened to him, as his nose was all bloody. I remember him smiling but don't remember his answer. I walked around and watched people in the shop getting milk and so on, and as I walk along, this black teenager has a trolley that acts like a spider or something; as he comes past me I smile awkwardly because somehow I think it's amusing and he was smiling too. I remember thinking he'd modified the trolley himself. Going through a cheap art prints section, it's very busy, and I appreciate seeing some of the art pieces anyway. I get to the end of the aisle and it's a corner of the building, so there's only a left turn, which I take and there are some vases with big-ish plants in them, like small palms. I start heading back to the guy at the counter and the tourniquet and then this bouncy beach ball appears and is going towards the vases; I see it hit one and I watch until it's just about to hit the ground, turning my head back in the direction I was walking and it makes a thud noise, presumably not breaking, and I hear people sigh in relief. Then the tourniquet guy accuses some youth and me as being responsible; I say I don't even know this guy and I was walking around like he'd told me in the first place and get pissed off, feeling like punching him in the face. I wake up sweating and too hot. Dream 2 (in pieces): I was in some unknown place, it was night and there were ancient Egyptian buildings. It was dark but I remember some creatures or some danger, and there was a pick-up truck thing, which someone was driving; they told me to get in the back and I remember climbing over in a rushed manner and sort of fumbling into the back. We drove away I think. Transition? In a building nearby, ancient. Dark inside, some faint blue glows. I remember previous parts of the dream where I was collecting some blue glowing stones, and here was a final one or something; this was a fourth stone. In this building there were two tiers, the ground level and a higher level on a bridge. There was some sort of lift mechanism to go up. I went up to the bridge, made of glass and maybe some metal, and there was a door at the end; glowing blue, faintly, with 4 square sections, for the stones. Dream implied I placed them and transition, unsure where to, but maybe I remember a dark hall next. Some sort of pet creature, a cat? Dream is too fragmented at this point and there are several possible fragments that could fit here, but not enough detail for them... At some point at the ground floor of a tall building, modern, day time, lots of glass, light coming in from outside. Some sort of levitating lift platform, my mom is nearby I seem to remember, but I break the platform trying to use it. A guy gets annoyed at me and I say "look it's fine, I can fix it" and I see there's a circuit board and I inspect it looking for an issue; it's snapped at one of the ends but it actually doesn't seem so important that it can't just be jumped with a new lead and some components moved; I do it somehow and it's fixed but the guy wasn't happy anyway. Transition, at the top of the same building, arrived in some sort of elevator. A much smaller room, but still like a big office hall, but glass all around still. I really need a wee and ask someone to use the bathroom, they tell me to go to a horizontal cylinder near one of the windows; apparently this thing is the toilet... I get inside this plastic tube thing, it is really uncomfortable inside, and I start getting pain hypersensitivity because there are sharp plastic edges and I ask for help to get out because I can't manage on my own; I give up on the toilet idea and am annoyed by the fact that these people aren't sensible to just have a bathroom that's actually a room. There is a big door. Reminds me now of a level transition door from STRAFE's final levels. I remember going through, different feel to this area. Isolated, darker, but still bright. There's someone else here, some sort of boss? But they're hidden, and I remember walking around at a calm pace, exploring. It looks like some sort of game level, there are conveyor belts and pick ups and dark pits. I see some glowing green panels, again, like STRAFE. I don't remember what I did next or what happened but woke up soon after.

Some notes:

Dreams from which I wake up too hot I think have an inverse cause-effect relationship. I think I'm having those dreams because I'm too hot, as when my body temperature regulation goes bad I start to get a lot of mental side-effects (if I'm awake and body temperature goes awry I start getting "fever-dream" effects).

The kid that had the cap, the cap was like ones I've seen (and worn) in my childhood, when I was very young and we went to the beach, for one example.

Though I wasn't aware of it at any level in the dream, there were actually a lot of elements in the last part of the 2nd dream that reminded me of a mixture of STRAFE and certain malls I've been to.

The other glowing blue stones weren't just dream memories, I had actually dreamed those bits too, but most of that was too vague and of little visual detail for me to be able to put into words.

Overall the 2nd dream was very long.

I've started noticing a pattern/dream sign with these two dreams, which I think has only started occurring recently; the feeling of being twisted using the ticket machine, struggling to get into the back of the pick-up truck and the cylindrical sharp edges plastic "toilet" thing. In all of these, there was a heightened sensation of struggle and pain to reach for things or to move. This may be related to something that is going outside the dream world...

Scoring thus far: + Previous score: 52.0 + This DJ entry score (breakdown below): 5.0 ++ Recall a non-lucid dream * 2: 2.0 ++ Buy something: 1.0 (the ticket) ++ Ask for advice * 2: 2.0 (asking the ticket guy for help; asking for the bathroom) = Total score thus far: 57.0

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8297989 https://www.dreamviews.com/blogs/darkestdarkness/lvi-85636/