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wildflower-alex · 4 years

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The job (CH) part 1

Part 2 and 3 here and here

She was working for them since they got recognition around the world, taking care of their editorials, interviews and their public appearances. Sure, their taste in fashion was strong, yet they needed advice from time to time and generally that was her job, plus other little things that added the pressure to make them feel good in their own skin. However, she liked working with them, because of their work ethic, as well as indulging in silly activities to keep them sane. Sure, it was hard for them to be apart from their loved ones, but living the dream was pretty amazing. She enjoyed spending time with them, they were great human beings, always polite, but still with a temper from time to time.

For her it was hard working around them and then return back to the hotel and thinking of all the things she’d do to him. Most nights, she’d get in the room, strip down all the clothes and pleasure herself with his image in her mind, most times even looking at photos of him while reaching her climax. It was fine just like that, but you would sometimes catch her daydreaming about him, usually when there was a coffee break or she was alone in a room. Her mind would instantly fly away thinking of how it could be. Would he be the same? Would he enjoy spending time with her? She always imagined him as being the same uninterested guy as he was now, but a little more passionate in bed. She liked this image so much, she almost every night fell asleep with this image popping up in front of her eyes. Again, she was fine just the way it was, but the sexual tension she felt in his presence, when her clit slowly heated only by sensing his perfume around her, that was hard to contain.

Yet, for a couple of weeks she was so stressed about their future project, and her tricky mind was occupied for multiple days with something else than his bulge between her legs.

“Is there someone in here?” Calum screamed from across the hall.

“Living room” she replied, never taking her eyes away from the laptop. “Yes! I got it!” she screamed in excitement and clapping her hands. “I know what to do!” she said back to him, knowing he was a step away from the room.

“What do you mean, love?” he asked.

“I know the visuals of the campaign! Come here, it’s truly great!” she playfully said. In front of the pinboard she could clearly see the campaign for their new album, along with their outfits and covers. It was great to finally find the perfect idea and she knew no one would complain, it was far too great to reject it. He came close to her and she pointed to the laptop, then at the board and he saw what she meant. Yes, he liked this new visual, but he always liked her work, so it wasn’t a surprise he came up with that; she was a great individual and he liked her presence.

Calum was, as well, aware of her feelings. He caught this impression of her being a little too restrictive regarding her gestures around him. He also have been seeing her behaving normally with his friends, female and male, but she had some kind of a glimpse whenever he caught her looking at him. He too found her extremely beautiful and wanted to roughly pound her, but he also had a big ego and only talked to influencers, precisely the other side of the spectrum of what she was. She was the girl next door, he was the macho and he didn’t know how to approach her and even so, they worked together and it was something they both avoided. They were so similar, but so caught up with other things they couldn’t realize how good they fit together. Still, he enjoyed looking at her ass whenever she was bending over a table or peeking down at her cleavage the days she was wearing some revealing top. This was one of that days: her tits were perking through the pink corset blouse, showing off her clavicle as well. The skinny jeans were perfectly complimenting her tiny waist and cupping the big butt, he almost felt like pinching her cheeks, seeing if they were real. She looked very pleasant and he felt a sudden rush of blood to his length, making him uncomfortable to stay up beside her.

“It sure looks very cool. How did you come up with that?”

“Mainly Dua Lipa, mixed with CALM visuals, plus these architectural style I found on Pinterest. Phew, I can finally breath free” and masturbate to your pic tonight she added in her mind. She was now aware how close she was to him, smelling his perfume and looking at the veins poking through his arms. She felt the sweat slowly forming on her forehead as she looked at his body bent over her desk, his back heavenly sculpted, showing the strong physique he had. He was a true piece of art and she enjoyed looking at him making moves, showing his flesh in different positions every day, fantasizing about digging her hails into it and feeling the warmth of his caramel tone.

He was doing that on purpose, to make her breath harder that usual, to finally see her pupils getting bigger and her voice pitching a high voice. It made him hard to see her aroused and he loved every second of it.

“You truly are amazing, as usual.The guys will love it, no wonders. I particularly like this black outfit here” he pointed to the casual, yet elegant black outfit she specifically set for him. She knew he would like it. Again, they were the same, but still different and both enjoying each other’s company.

“Thank you” she breathed, relieved by his answers. He then got up and turned around to face her. She was pretty tall, but he was taller that her, almost dominating her anytime they were next to each other. It was something he enjoyed when standing next to her, this dominance installed between them, his easiness to grab her shoulders and pin her to his chest, smelling her hair and sweet perfume. It was for moments like this when he felt he had to taste her lips, upper and lower, to check if they’re as sweet as he always imagined. As he was looking at her, he saw her glistening eyes searching for his and felt a nod in his throat.

“You always do such a good job” he admitted and placed a hand on her shoulder, then slowly moved to her face, stroking her cheek. His mind was saying to stop, but his body couldn’t. He knew it wasn’t good and he should’ve stopped, yet he wanted it for so long that it felt almost natural to do it right there, right in that moment.

Her eyes widened to his touch, not knowing what to say or do. After a second or two she parted her lips trying to say something, but quickly closed her mouth. What could she actually say? Her mind continuously flickered two responses: stop, do it, stop, do it, stop and so on. Her anxiety was slowly kicking in, turning her into a stone, not being capable of saying something. She felt helpless, it was all in the palm of his hands and he got to save her from embarrassing herself.

His delicate fingers slowly found their way to her lips, touching them, feeling the softness of the skin. He then stopped and put his hands into his pockets, realizing what he was doing, but he already had opened the Pandora’s box and it was hard to move on with their previous relationship, that he knew for sure. She remained still, screaming at him in her mind to never stop, but she was so weak and frightened. It was impossible for her to contain herself, goosebumps shaking her spine and slowly getting her temples trembling. Anxiety was on full speed, she wanted to catch his hand and kiss him, straddle him, but her body couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, I…” he whispered and he looked down at his shoes.

She got the courage to ask him “You what?”, almost begging him to give her an answer, to understand something. She felt like screaming, overwhelmed at how crazy that situation was, craving more of his touch.

He stood there thinking of a lie he could make up. In a second he thought about saying he was lacking sex and she was available, but it was degrading, or playing it dumb or simply tell the truth. His mouth opened and, as if it got a mind of it’s own, he said “I like you”. Instead of saying it, he would’ve liked to kiss her lips, but he was afraid he might get rejected, it was better that way.

She was in awe, remained still, her hands feeling heavier than usual and her core bursting into something she never felt, her heart beating so fast he could actually hear.

“What do you mean?” she added, needing more explaining. She couldn’t risk interpreting wrong.

He sighed and rolled his eyes while tilting his head up. Why was she so persuasive? Why couldn’t she let it go just the way it was?

“I mean… gosh, I don’t know…” he paused again, somehow begging for her to finish his sentences.

She was was feeling strange, she felt like he was mocking her. It was hard talking to him, he was so introverted, never showing off his feelings and always playing cool, as if he didn’t care about anything than his persona. The air thickened, but she could hear murmurs down the hall, the band coming in the room. She furiously looked at him and he looked back at her, seeing the anger building up in her and not knowing what to say. He was saved by the bell, as one would say, as the band got into the room and interrupted them.

Part 2 and 3 here and here

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vampirequeenoffan · 4 years

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Intrusive

IDK, just a DP drabble that seized me by the hands and forced me to write it. I haven’t re-read or edited lmao so it’s probably Real Bad but I have other shit to be doing so imma just dump it here, sorry to yalls eyeballs

Tucker pokes him in the shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Danny groans. He’s got his arm slung over his eyes and he’s upside-down on the couch; legs hooked over the back and back pressed into the cushions. It’s not exactly the world’s most comfortable position, but if he eases off the gravity a little it doesn’t actually hurt. Besides, the discomfort is grounding, pulling his brain away from itself and back into the physical world.

“Ghost bullshit,” he grunts at Tucker. He doesn’t bother uncovering his eyes. He doesn’t really even need to, not the way he is right now, with Tucker picked out so neon in his mind that he can almost taste his presence. He doesn’t use his eyes to “see” when his friend sits down beside him, leaning his elbow on the back of the couch and drawing his legs up off the floor.

“That sucks,” Tucker says.

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you wanna?” he asks. “Tell me, I mean. Get it out of your brain.”

Danny contemplates that for a moment, falling so still he nearly forgets to breathe. Then his lungs start complaining, reminding him that he is very much still in human mode, thanks, and that he does need air for more than just vibrating his vocal chords.

Danny sighs.

“Urges,” he says. One-word response.

He still can’t see Tucker, but he can “see” him nod. He’s such a pleasantly warm shade in Danny’s mind right now, a color he can’t describe because humans can’t perceive it. Danny could look at it forever.

“One of the fighting ones again?” Tucker asks. Danny shakes his head.

“I wanna put you in a box.”

It’s a testament to their relationship that Tucker doesn’t freak out about that sentence and all that it could imply. Instead he just pauses, purses his lips in the way that Danny can only vaguely “see” (a slight variation in his color, dipping almost orange on the spectrum), and drums his fingers against the back of the couch.

“Like. . . a coffin?” he asks, tone casual. More casual than it probably should be for the subject matter.

“Not really,” Danny says. “I mean, it’s not not a coffin either, but it isn’t specifically one. My brain just. . . really wants you and Sam to be tucked away somewhere safe where no one else can touch you and I can guard you forever. And ever.”

He pauses.

“And ever.”

Tucker nods, the motion burning brightly in Danny’s mind.

“Creepy,” he comments.

Danny groans again.

“I hate my brain.”

“So do I, you’re not special,” Sam calls from the other room. Danny’s itching under his skin with the urge to go grab her, despite how the walls in between them don’t dampen the “sight” of her in his mind. He presses his arm a little harder down over his eyes, as if that could block out her luminous smear across his consciousness.

“We’re having a private conversation,” Tucker yells back at her. “Me and Danny are bonding. Get your self-depreciation out of here!”

“Then stop talking so loudly, idiots!” Sam says. She’s crouched on the ground, rifling through what Danny knows is a box despite neither seeing nor “seeing” it. It shouldn’t take her that much longer to find Dead Teacher iii, and then she’ll be back in the room. Danny has to keep repeating that to himself.

Tucker reaches down and pokes his shoulder again.

“It’s really bugging you, huh,” he says. “That she’s in the other room.”

“How can you tell?” Danny asks. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t acted on any of his instincts. For all intents and purposes Tucker should just see a normal teenager lying sprawled out next to him, albeit in a somewhat awkward position.

Tucker shrugs. His shoulders bleed color behind them in an echo of the movement.

“Your teeth. They’re always pretty sharp, but right now they look like you could bite your own lip off. You’re not kissing anyone for a while, by the way,” he adds.

Danny’s groan borders on a whine this time.

“My ghost half is ruining my life,” he complains.

Tucker snorts and pokes him again, this time on the cheek. The warmth of his skin, of his presence in Danny’s mind, make Danny shiver. He wants so badly to bundle Tucker up in his arms and never let go.

“Is it just us right now?” Tucker asks. “Do you wanna box up anyone else?”

Danny hesitates, turning that thought over in his head.

“. . .no,” he ultimately concludes, “Not really. My brain’s got my house categorized as safe and mine and that’s where my family is right now, so they’re fine. And Val– well. Val is Val. I’ve always got conflicting feelings there.”

“It would be nice if those cancelled out, huh,” Tucker muses. Danny’s complained about this to him before. Fight and Protect fluctuate in his mind from moment to moment when it comes to Valerie and The Red Huntress, and the overlap when they’re both at their strongest can nearly give Danny a migraine. In the same way he can have a panic attack while in the middle of a depressive episode, he can very much want to swaddle Val in bubble wrap while also wanting to stab her.

“Well,” Sam says, straightening up and starting to (yes!) return to the room, “We can’t do a box, but we were already going to cuddle pile on the couch.”

“I still can’t get over you saying cuddle,” Tucker says.

“There’s nothing more hardcore than cuddling,” Sam huffs as she flops down on Danny’s other side. Her arm swings as she makes to throw what Danny assumes is the DVD box at Tucker, and Danny’s hands shoot up to snag it out of the air before it can strike his friend.

There’s a moment of silence. Danny opens his eyes. It’s weird seeing the world around him and “seeing” on top of it, part of why he’d covered his face in the first place. His brain just isn’t meant to process that much visual information at once, the same way his brain isn’t actually wired to “see.” He tries to focus on what’s real, on the actual light bouncing off his friends and into his retinas, and blinks away the glowing smear that isn’t even on the visual spectrum. He’s holding Dead Teacher iii in his hands, and he stares at the cheesy cover art with the single-minded focus of a guy recalibrating his eyes.

“Ah,” Sam says. “That bad, huh?”

Danny lets go of the DVD and it lands on his face. It hurts, but not that much.

Tucker sighs and grabs the case, standing up and moving to pop the DVD into the player. Danny, with a herculean effort, manages to not grab his ankle on the way by and drag him bodily back onto the couch.

Sam stretches, her long pale fingers tangling together overhead, physical form barely more present in Danny’s mind than the glow of her presence. Then she drops her hands and lays down, plopping her head onto his stomach and peering up into his very-close face. Danny can pick out every sun-starved freckle-that-could on her face, inherited from her parents and dampened by lifestyle choices. In the summer, when even the extra-strength sunscreen Sam slathers on can’t fight back her love for the outdoors, those freckles darken and bloom like constellations in the night sky.

The weight of her head against his stomach smooths some of Danny’s anxiety. She’s here. She’s real. She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s his.

She isn’t, of course. Tucker isn’t either. No one, on this planet or off of it, belongs to anyone, least of all Danny. And Danny knows this, believes it with the same certainty and maybe even the same part of his brain that knows that the earth goes around the sun, but that doesn’t get rid of his ghost-lizard brain chattering away in the back of his consciousness.

There’s the hum of the DVD player starting to spin the disk, then the previews begin behind Danny’s head. Tucker sits back down and, with Sam taking up the real estate on Danny’s abdomen, hooks an arm under one of the legs thrown over the back of the couch. He drags Danny’s limb closer and starts using it like a headrest, cheek pressing against Danny’s shin.

“You guys–” Danny’s voice breaks off. Finally, the anxiety that’s been buzzing at the back of his mind for the past hour and a half is tapering off, soothed by his proximity and contact with those he wants to protect. It’s such a relief that Danny could almost cry. But. . .

“You guys don’t have to be that close if you don’t want,” he says. Because it’s true. Sam and Tucker are under no obligation to play along with his ghost brain, no obligation to surrender to whatever weird instincts Danny has jammed into his consciousness. Danny has no right to ask them to, and he doesn’t. Not ever. They can make their own choices, and he refuses to become the kind of monster who would try to take their free will from them. They’re his friends, not his property, and he’s never going to forget that.

“Danny,” Sam says, “Shut up. The movie’s starting.”

“Yeah, man,” Tucker chimes in, “We were gonna do this anyway. Let us know when your brain’s calmed down enough to be upright, okay? I want popcorn later and there’s no way we’re gonna be able to integrate a bowl into this mess.”

Danny kicks his foot lightly, jostling his leg in Tucker’s hold and bumping his head, but he’s smiling. His friends are here. They’re alive. They’re watching a dumb movie from a dumb series they love and hate in equal measure.

And Danny’s happy.

#Danny Phantom #Danny Fenton #Tucker Foley #Sam Manson #Eternal Trio #kinda #I use the term friend a bunch but there's also the implication that They All Be Smoochin #sooooo #Posessive behavior #intrusive thoughts #Ghost Bullshit functioning like anxiety #IDK this is probably super poorly written and I might delete it later but #whatever!

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theschizoidblog · 4 years

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Snape, the Schizoid

Blog 4: 30/07/2020

While I usually write about how Schizoid personality disorder affects me, I think there’s a lot to be learned from drawing comparisons to fictional characters. In fact, before I got my diagnosis, I was writing fanfiction in which I poured very large portions of my soul and very being, often without realizing I wasn’t really writing about other characters, but I was exploring my own inner self. I loved writing about outcasts, about recluses and sometimes I didn’t know if I just was in a sort of love with the characters I wrote about, or if they were me.

At the age of 18, we’re talking about 2001 here, I got into Harry Potter. And with that I mean: I got into Severus Snape. Described as an ugly git and a mean bastard, I still loved him to pieces. (And Alan Rickman portrayed him beautifully, RIP)

And here might be the reason why he lured me in straight away: Snape is a schizoid, like me. And that only clicked when I got my diagnosis a few months ago. 19 years after first encountering the character. And after rereading some of my own fanfictions, I started realizing that what I’d described as Snape’s problems and needs in those stories, were my own. Strange how that works!

In this blog, I’m going to run over some traits of SPD (schizoid personality disorder) and explain how Snape fits into the criteria.

This post serves three purposes:

To people who have no idea what schizoid personality disorder is, this is a means to familiarize yourself with the disorder by exploring the traits while you imagine a character you already know.

To people with schizoid personality disorder, this is just meant to be a fun little blog where maybe you can recognize some traits of yourself. No worries, I have not forgotten we’re all on a spectrum and each schizoid is different.

To fans of the Harry Potter novels, I hope that you come to realize that people can identify with flawed characters for very personal reasons. Don’t be mean to fictional characters (unless they’re Umbridge I guess XD), because you never know who identifies with them. Your rejection of a character can feel like the rejection of a person who struggles with the same things. Anti-culture, in all fandoms, has to end. It’s not adult. It’s not wise. It’s mean. It’s exhausting.

I also feel like I need to make a statement about JK Rowling’s intent: I doubt she knew what SPD was when she wrote Snape. She said she based him off of one of her old teachers – no idea if that man had SPD or was just generally unpleasant. The way that Snape matches SPD is eerie though, just like Luna matches schizotypal personality disorder rather well. (More on that later.) An actual psychologist might disagree with me and say “No he’s not schizoid because….” – and hell, I’d love to hear it. I don’t mind it if this post, written by a schizoid but not a psychologist, starts a discussion that will help people understand the disorder even better, even if I’m wrong in assessing Snape. Or if we can learn to understand Snape better because of me being wrong, that’s also a win-win situation.

Ready? Let’s dive into it!

Cause

SPD is said to be caused by a combination of genetics and environment – as is the case with many other personality disorders. But ask around in schizoid groups, and most will tell you that there were issues in childhood with abuse, lack of warmth or understanding at home, or the presence of a “bad parent”. According to webmd: “Some professionals speculate that a bleak childhood where warmth and emotion were absent contributes to the development of the disorder.”

We all know that Snape’s early childhood was not a happy one. He had an abusive muggle father and grew up at Spinner’s End, the opposite of what you could consider a happy childhood home.

When you grow up in a loveless home, it ruins a lot of your own enjoyment of life. You get trust issues, you become awkward, and so when Snape finally arrives at Hogwarts, he gets bullied. He’s already rather isolated (he only had Lily), and they picked on him because kids can sniff out weaknesses and he was an easy target.

The bullying did nothing to stop the disorder from developing further. Many schizoids have gone through bullying themselves, and it does nothing to help you grow closer to human beings as you get older, quite the opposite, a bond of trust is broken and it’s incredibly hard to heal that. You’ll be suspicious of everyone you meet once that sort of thing happens. The more bullying you receive, the more you hate the world as you grow up. Maybe that’s not true for all people or all schizoids, but I bet some can relate.

You might say: “But Harry also got bullied at the Dursleys and he turned out fine!” Well, I guess he did. That’s the thing with many heroes – their tragic backstories make them poster boys of “look what they overcame and how he saved the world!” – but it’s not that realistic, and if you’ve got a genetic predisposition to develop a personality disorder instead, you’re screwed. Let’s also not forget that Harry’s first year in life was a very loving one. The very first year in a child’s life is crucial, and if things go wrong in early childhood, that leaves scars that most people carry with them for the rest of their lives. Snape never had that steady sort of home, not even for one year, or if he did, there’s nothing to indicate he did.

Diagnosis Criteria

Okay, time to get digging! According to the DSM-V, you need to display at least four symptoms in order to be diagnosed with SPD. Also keep in mind that these traits need to be present for longer than just a few months or a year or so. You might recognize some of these traits as something you’ve gone through yourself if you’ve ever been depressed – it’s when these traits last for what seems like your entire adult life, that a diagnosis with the disorder can be made. (I’m also not familiar with every other trait of every other disorder in the DSM-V, so as I stated in the beginning, it’s possible that other personality disorders are even more fitting of Snape, but that I just don’t know them yet.)

The seven criteria are:

Lack of desire or enjoyment for close personal relationships

Always chooses solitary activities

Little or no interest in sex with other people

Experiences little pleasure from activities

No close friends other than immediate family

Indifference to criticism or praise

Emotional detachment and lack of emotional expression

➤ Emotional detachment and lack of emotional expression

While this is usually at the bottom of the list, I want to put it on top. This is what they also call “flat affect”. You can give us a present, and it might seem like we’re not truly grateful. We may laugh with a joke, but the light never reaches our eyes. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem to an outsider like there’s a lot going on, and if it is, it’s going on so deeply within our souls we’re hardly aware of it ourselves. Think of Snape’s monotonous voice when talking. Now Alan Rickman is a brilliant actor and emotes with very very small signs sometimes, and it’s not like when talking to me, you’re talking to a wall. (But my empathic mask makes me appear rather normal to most folks.) (I don’t think Snape has a mask like that.) Other characters that have schizoid traits are, for example, Mai from Avatar the Last Airbender or Geralt of Rivia from the Witcher. If you know and visualize these characters, you may understand better what I mean with the “lack of emotional expression” then. Also, Snape being a great Occlumens? It’s because he’s the reigning champion in suppressing his emotions, like all schizoids are. We would make wonderful Occlumens, I think. XD Snape being mean? Not all schizoids have a good amount of empathy, they’re too emotionally detached for that. (Others are very empathic to some causes, but might be picky in what they are empathic about. For example: they can be empathic towards animal cruelty and Black Lives Matter, but don’t give a shit about other causes.)

A lack of empathy is what makes plenty of people an easy prey to fascists. Without empathy, what moral compass is going to stop you from becoming a bigot? (And I also want to state that within the disorder you’ll probably find people of all political leanings – many schizoids also seem to have a thing for the underdog, and thus seem to often lean towards the left instead of the right side of the political spectrum. But as with ‘regular’ people, you’ll find people swing both ways.) But here, in Snape’s case, his hatred for his bullies and his father (a muggle) pushed him right into the Death Eater’s arms, and they were glad to welcome a man of his skill, maybe even giving him the illusion, for a while, that he had found a new family. It didn’t last, and eventually his eyes opened to what the Death Eater’s really were. He was too young and naïve to see what they wanted of him (and the one person he loved), and it basically ruined his life. He was a teenage fool, and after losing Lily’s friendship, he had no one left to keep him out of that bad group of friends.

➤ Lack of desire or enjoyment for close personal relationships

Does Snape strike you as the social type that’s trying to make new friends all the time? Have you ever seen the man enjoy the company of another character in the books? Not just tolerate, not just need, but ‘enjoy’? Even when it comes to Lucius or Karkarov, it seems he is just keeping an eye on them, observing them rather than offering true friendship.

Maybe McGonagall might be an exception. He seems amiable towards her, in a competitive way. He might get a kick out of their arguing. She’s certainly an intelligent woman so he might enjoy her company for intellectual reasons.

➤ Always chooses solitary activities

We see Snape engage in a few activities at Hogwarts, such as going to Quidditch matches, or being present at the Yule Ball. Death Eater meetings and gatherings in the staff room might be social activities, but let’s not pretend Snape has a lot to say about whether he attends those or not. As a teen he already excels at potions, a solitary activity, and when we are given a glimpse of his “summer” lifestyle at Spinner’s End in Half-Blood Prince, he’s just reading. He certainly doesn’t entertain a crowd in his spare time, like, for example, Slughorn does.

➤ Little or no interest in sex with other people

I hear you coming now. “BUT LILY!” Schizoids are often asexual, but not necessarily sex-aversive. When asking around in a schizoid group, about a third of the schizoids seem to be in relationships or are even married, perhaps even more. And many of the others have had sexual relationships in the past. Many have tried to make relationships work, only to realize at a later point that that sort of life was not for them and that they would never be truly happy in a relationship. Other schizoids are happy in relationships – so it exists! It’s not impossible! (Remember: you need 4/7 traits, not 7/7 to be schizoid.) Also keep in mind, if Snape really was interested in sex, why would he pine after a dead woman for 16 years? He’d be over her way sooner and into someone else’s pants way sooner too. Lily was the first person in his life that gave him any kind of warmth, so him pining after her is not strange or inexplicable behavior. She offered what he craved, what he lacked, and he mourned her for the rest of his life, because he feared no one would ever give him that warmth. (And he kind of turned that into a self-fulfilling prophecy by being such a recluse.) He dreamed of love, but we have no idea what it would have been like had he actually ever had his affections returned. Maybe he’d have enjoyed a relationship with her for a long while and she would have been the only person he could have tolerated, or maybe after a year or so he would have thought “this is suffocating” and ended the relationship.

➤ Experiences little pleasure from activities

Can you recall Snape laughing in any scene? Smiling, even? I can imagine him to feel rather content when brewing potions or studying the dark arts, and he does have passion for what he does. But to a schizoid, passion and pleasure are not necessarily the same. We experience emotions differently. In some ways we don’t experience them at all, in other ways, we might feel like there’s a wall around our emotions, and we have no idea how to get over that wall and check what the currently active emotion is. But with logic, we can determine “I guess I’m happy now that I’m doing this thing I like doing.” Intellectual pursuits are fun too – like solving a puzzle, it gives a little boost of dopamine when you make it to the next level, so it’s not surprising he excels at Potions.

➤ No close friends other than immediate family

Basically, Snape only really had Dumbledore, and that bastard only used him to win the war. (I have beef with old Dumbledore, okay?) But Snape confided in Dumbledore, and the other way around, and so I think it’s safe to say that there was a true friendship between the two. When Dumbledore died, Snape was truly alone. (Which is incredibly tragic and heartbreaking when you think about it – in the last year of his life, Snape had no one, really no one, as he tried to keep Hogwarts ‘safe’ and eventually died. And everyone hated him for killing Dumbledore, not knowing the truth about his allegiance. Everyone who had once spoken kindly to him, like the other professors at Hogwarts, now considered him arch enemy #2, behind Voldemort.)

➤ Indifference to criticism or praise

Compliment or insult a schizoid, and it’s not like they won’t give any response at all. They might say “thank you” or they might get a little defensive about the insult, but they won’t always lose a lot of sleep over it. It kind of depends on who the praise or criticism is coming from. I can imagine that it did mean something to him if it came from Dumbledore, whom he cared about. I don’t think it meant anything to him what his students thought of him, since he didn’t give a personal level of shit about them. There’s also a moment where Umbridge shrieks “You are on probation!” and it’s described as “Snape looked back at her, his eyebrows slightly raised.” Then she says that she expected better after how highly Lucius Malfoy always speaks of him and she dismisses him. Snape then gives her “an ironic bow” – he really doesn’t give a rat’s ass and I love him for it.

These are the 7 criteria that you need to fit 4 of to be diagnosed with SPD – I managed to link all 7 to Snape – so I think it’s not unlikely that Snape is truly a schizoid. Now, for the next part I would like to highlight some other comorbidities which many schizoids also have, that seem to appear in Snape as well.

Comorbidities

➤ Depression In about half of all schizoid patients, depression is or has been present. How do you notice that in Snape? The greasy hair, among other things. Bad teeth. Always wearing the same outfit. If you’ve ever suffered from a bad depression, you know how difficult it suddenly becomes to shower at a regular interval, how you can go days without brushing your teeth, how wearing comfortable clothing is more important than looking fashionable – how it is absolutely meaningless to look fashionable because who the fuck cares anyways. Snape doesn’t seem to give a hoot about himself or his appearance, which strikes me as a sign of depression. And what does he have to be happy about? He knows Voldemort is going to return and he’ll have a cursed job as a double-spy. He knows he’s probably going to die. I wouldn’t be happy either.

➤ Anger Outbursts/PTSD Not all schizoids have this, but it’s something I have myself and which I’ve written about extensively in one of my previous blog posts. I look at it as a way of my inner self breaking down the walls and coming out to say “I know that I’ve been quiet for the past 37 years but what the fuck I’m really angry about this and have been for a while and I’m not going to contain it any longer” – and then the anger comes out disproportionately. It’s hard to impossible to really control such an outburst. And often, there is a very obvious cause to the outburst. Sometimes it’s PTSD related. For Snape, while he does not emote often, you see a few outbursts – like when he is face to face with Sirius Black in the shrieking shack, his childhood bully. He seems mad at that moment, not at all composed anymore, the sign of a real anger outburst. (I think it’s PTSD helping that anger build.) A few moments later, he thinks he has turned in Sirius Black to the Ministry, Sirius, who he holds responsible for the death of James and Lily (and it’s especially the latter’s death he can’t cope with), so when Sirius escapes, he loses it again. Then the next time he gets really angry is when Harry enters his “worst memory”. That’s a few years later, during the Occlumency lessons. While he’s no longer shrieking, he’s white with rage. My pro tip: don’t impose on the privacy of a schizoid, we get mad. XD In Half-Blood Prince, he’s got a moment where he’s like “Don’t call me coward!”, looking ‘inhuman’. I too can get anger outbursts over false accusations, and this one must really hurt, because at that moment, he’s trying to save Harry’s freaking life while the boy is all like “lemme at you I’mma kill you like you killed Dumbledore for fun!” – Snape was probably grieving the loss of his only friend and confidant and knew he was on his own from that point onwards, and then you get this bloody teenager trying to drag you into a wizard’s duel you’re not in the mood for, calling you a coward, which is the last thing you are. Man it has to suck to be Snape. I also want to state that there are many moments when things go wrong in class, but Snape never loses his temper like that. He’s not pleasant and he punishes students, but he doesn’t get mad – he gets even. That makes it all the more interesting to analyze the moments that he does go bananas.

Random Thoughts

Before I finish this blog, there are still a few small things I’d like to get out of my system about Snape and SPD.

➤ Snape and Luna

They are my favorite characters, but also because they’re very, very alike and very, very different at the same time. Both didn’t have a great childhood (Luna lost her mother at a young age) and they get bullied as kids at Hogwarts. Snape is called Snivellus and Luna is called Looney. All the suffering they endure, affects them differently though. Snape gets meaner, Luna only seems to get nicer. I see them as two sides of the same coin. One dark, one light, both a little eccentric in their own way. When you look at it from a personality-disorder point of view, then they both have personality disorders that are related to one another. Snape has Schizoid Personality Disorder, Luna has Schizotypal Personality Disorder. Schizotypal Personality Disorder is where you’ll find a lot of eccentric people who believe in conspiracy theories. Both are class A personality disorders. Some people might even have the two personality disorders at the same time. Schizoids seem to be rooted in reality with their thoughts, schizotypals can really start believing strange things if they’re not careful, alienating them from others And, in case you’re now wondering: “So many schizo-personality disorders! Is this also schizophrenia?” No – schizophrenia is when you have delusions and hallucinations as well. Read up on those disorders if you’re interested, because these descriptions of mine are too brief and don’t do it justice.

➤ Snape was a bad teacher

Not fully, and yes, he was. I think knowledge-wise, Snape was way better at Potions than Slughorn ever was. You notice when Hermione can’t keep up in her sixth year while Harry is sailing through Potions thanks to Snape’s book. Snape’s a genius and would have been able to instruct his students to be more efficient when brewing potions. But personality wise? Don’t put a schizoid in front of a classroom. And for that, I kind of blame Dumbledore. Snape wasn’t asking for a job as a teacher, but that’s all Dumbledore had to offer, and thus he put Snape and his unwilling students in a room together where none of them wanted to be. I think Snape would have been better off as some kind of a scientist, just him and his books, inventing spells or potions. But he was not given much of a choice, and he was forced to socialize with teenagers (ew, gross), and that must have drained him terribly. It’s a wonder he was usually roaming the hallways at night because I would have been too exhausted to get out of bed. That makes you realize it’s truly a work of fiction because who on earth has that kind of stamina? :-P (No, in all seriousness it’s probably also depression at work, keeping him up.) Snape was a jerk to Harry and Neville and Hermione on various occasions, and not all of it was to “keep up appearances” to the Slytherins. He seemed to even enjoy a bit of sadism here and there. You could contemplate why he poisoned Neville’s toad. Was it just to spite poor little Neville, or was he hoping his student would perform better under pressure? (Which Neville did.. The toad didn’t die.) It’s a cruel way to teach a lesson, but I think he must have thought the end justified the means. But what a traumatic experience to Neville, who then had Snape become his greatest fear.

➤ Purity culture vs Snape

We’ve seen a shift on both Tumblr and other social media where fandom is about purity culture. Back in 2002 folks were like “We love the baddies, deal with it”, and the people that didn’t love the baddies actually dealt with it and you could joke with people who preferred the Gryffindors and just poke a little fun at one another, but it was fun fandom. But over the years I’ve seen fandom change. Nowadays you can’t even express love for Snape without someone seeing it as their moral obligation to remind you of what a “bad person he really was”. To them I can only say that I like him for his best qualities, and forgive him for his worst. And honestly, I don’t need to justify liking a character to anyone. If I want to put Umbridge-posters in every room of my apartment, are you going to stop me or call the cops on me? Purity policing is weird. Very American, too. (Though I’ve seen some Dutch folks go apeshit as well over purity concepts.) And as a Belgian I don’t have time to put up with that shit. XD And purity policing also is just nasty when you consider that some folks are like “I relate to this character” and the next person is like “THIS CHARACTER IS EVIL AND DESERVES TO DIE!” My response to that part of fandom is: “Just fuck off already, jerkface.” Personally I was heartbroken by his death, because I feel like he could have made up to the people he’d hurt, I would have loved to see relationships mended between him and McGonagall and him and Harry and such, but instead we were left with him passing on some awkward memories to Harry and then dying. (Tbh I’m not the greatest fan of his crush on Lily, but whatever, I can accept it and understand it. She was the only light he ever knew.) It’s not his fault he didn’t get to redeem himself as a character, not fully - and that’s what makes fanfiction fun. So if people want to explore that in fic, let them. A character like Snape is too much of a treasure to shove under a carpet and pretend he never existed. Write all the things about him, have him have all the adventures!

I think I’m done now! If you stuck around until now, 10 points to Slytherin or whatever house you’re from. (Probably Slytherin if you’re reading about Snape.) What do you think? Feel free to leave a comment, send an ask, or whatever!

#severus snape #snape #pro snape #schizoid #schizoid personality disorder #blog

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iconsumeheadcanons · 4 years

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persona characters autism headcanons!

hi im autistic and i started my day with sun so now im !!!!!!!!! some of these headcanons are from elsewhere on tumbr, but i dont know where :((( so i am hoping someone out there knows that n that everybody knows that i love them <3

(also go check out mollypaup and i think hypeswap if you havent already! they post some good stuff autism+adhd hc too!!! i think.. oh! and thieves-in-the-palace!!!)

Joker

there was some artwork from someone on tublr..where they pointed out that he doesnt really talk outside the metaverse so--hes hyperverbal as joker and just near nonverbal as akiren

he stims ALL THE TIME. that phone thing, the pencil thing, the little tappy tap of his foot, pulling at his bangs when hes embarrassed/smug. someone get him a fidget spinner. he’ll prob learn to do tricks with it

he probably sucks at focusing in class, like i know its just the game design but hes always surprised out of his daily “star out the window at the nearby office building” when his teachers ask him questions

mona mentions when the pt is at Wilton for the first time (after they run into shido) that joker eats like shit, and that could have multiple causes at the start of the story of course, but when i first played i thought that joker was a picky eater and that the variety (and amount of food) at the buffet would be an Ordeal...

tho mona makes that comment bc joker looked pale after having a little ptsd moment from shidos voice, but i didnt know that the first time i played

maybe when joker makes a face at ryuji putting so much ginger in his gyudon? joker probably does not like pickled ginger lol

his favortive foods are all spicy, which is why the curry he makes for his friends is always ‘overly spicy’, and why kasumi makes him a curry bento and joker kept going “...?” .... “....?!”

overly reflective glasses have been a great plus for him bc now he never has to make real eye contact every again!

mona Soft. play with Ann hair. maybe Braid. nice

puns (Gorou the Goroumet)

he has so many options to be straight up rude sometimes in game. he probably no clue on his own, which is why he defaults to Not Talking. people probably mention his constant scary face, which is just him being nonexpressive, squinting at all the fucking bright lights, and Tired

executive function who? we do everything last minute folks

high pain tolerance, which is why he was the kid that was always climbing trees in elementary school to get basketballs unstuck from the branches

his sixth sense lets him see treasure and possible places to climb/crawl bc 1. Shiny? Steal it. Steal it Now. and 2. Could i fit in that? Time to Find Out

probalby a bit of a klepto too oops. he’ll return it tho!! but he has to do it dramatically or he’ll die

cant sit properly to save his life

smells and touch are Great, they can keep him grounded when his brain goes off to police or dead rivals or guilt or

if a friend hung out with him and gave him total reigns of the agenda, he would choose to nap on the floor while his friend does something off to the side quietly

hyperfocuses on handy tasks (i.e. lockpicks, coffee brewing, cleaning, his part time jobs) and some things like movies and books. everything else is a tossup

his (normal) navigation app is his most used app bc he still doesnt know where hes going, even though he only goes to the same few places in the city

hates being sweaty, literally cannot stand it. probably double exhausted during the summer

but Needs Compression so hes often Struggling

Futaba

paraphrase from p5d “i have no motor skills so i cant play rhythm games :(” need i say more? (i will regardless)

echolalia all the time, from anime, memes, the PT

those headphones she wears all the time? noise cancelling ear protectors babey

only talks about her interests, “normal” talking is Not Easy, but she is still communicative w others despite her worries. shes not “hard to understand” at all but she feels the anxiety nonetheless

only talks informally, cannot talk ‘politely’ with out imitating someone around her

shes had meltdowns and anxiety attacks in game :( i relate so hard

Technology. thats it

def had an egypt phase that pops up every few months. probably came from yu-gi-oh

has Immune to Bright Lights buff. joker is very jealous

“Time to make like a tree and leave!” and 30 other iterations

video game metaphors are the only ones that makes sense to her

probably relates hard to robot characters in anime for their general androgyny and confusion about human emotions and connections

probably gets told that shes “too smart to be on the spectrum” by teachers >:( she fails their classes on purpose

wakaba’s autistic too that just how it is

the Connection that she establishes with Joker is so Warm. my life goals include adopting an older brother like futaba has lsdkfjslkfj

also eater of 5 foods only, i mean, she brings cup ramen to the beach. i just really admire her...

hides in small spaces for comfort

doesnt she have like uhhhhh hyperthymesia or something like that?

Yusuke

art

his entire social link is learning how humans work, which i relate

talks seriously all the time

“sarcasm? who is that? are you saying I was sarcastic?...how?”

cant remember to take care of his body, and madarame did not help with that either

lot of uncomfortable staring, hes overdoing the eye contact thingy

infodumps all the time, doesnt know hes doing it

needs a lot of support even if he doesnt think he deserves it. no one ever complains about helping him out tho

visual stims my friends

he didnt know that you could look up pictures on the internet but he does know you can stream live videos of waterfalls and fluffy animales!!

I am certainly in the mood

for something salty today.

he and joker are scared of math. numbers do not interact

Yusuke, futaba, and akiren are a trio and i know this bc their first day of non-thievery interacts is Akiren clearing Futabas room w/o permission, futaba hyperfocusing on destroying medjed, and yusuke rearranging futabas figurines so they are more visually appealing

morgana is a support friend for all of them bc igor knows they need it

Souji/Yu

yes, he mostly wears gray semi formal clothes bc parents tell him to, no, he will not changes this

Schedule or Death

“sorry, could you repeat that?” “huh? oh yeah, i was saying that--” “yeah that’d be cool.”

cats, fishing, he just likes to be quiet. you can literally spend a day at the beach just to think if you want, and that is what yu want

has a lot of scripts for things (of which he shares with nanako!) but if he runs out he just stops talking..

inaba is a godsend bc its so fucking quiet and warm

he Yearns to hold his friends hands, but he shies away from a lot of touch (excepting yosuke, teddie, and nanako)

Cooking and Cleaning makes the world better. he and joker vibe together with this

unlike akiren, he strong arms any executive dysfunction into Be Productive or Else. his punishment is feeling the pure anxiety of having to make up for ‘lost time’. (another symptom of his workaholic parents)

writes everything down, notes are very neat, has pages dedicated for bad doodles when hes not feeling his usual Super Classroom Focus

Cannot handle secondhand embarrassment (most often caused by yosuke) and will quietly slip away to random cats or origami folding

hungry, crunch crunch folks. probably needs chewelry bc he used to chew on his shirt collars when he was younger.

cleans up after everyone in the food court, constantly worries about them accidently hurting themselves. likely spends half of group conversations watching peoples hands

he canonically eats expired food, nanako plz help your brother

really clumsy, but people only notice after they decide that he is a cool person

video games are too chaotic for him

exhausted every night from the pure amount of masking he does, if a friend spends the night (or is like yosuke) they will know his more comfortable weirdo self (tho everyone knows hes a weirdo eventually)

hyperempathetic, sometimes just understands animals and children better than peeople his age or older

Yukiko

her jokes

she and souji get in ‘trouble’ together, she and joker commit crimes together

she and chie have to coordinate outfits, its important

actually understands metaphors, but does not understand people

like me, had no clue that creepy kid was flirting with her

she is very angry when she has meltdowns that might involve slamming doors and shouting. her parents call these ‘tantrums’ and ‘unfitting for a polite daughter’ but really thats because her meltdowns tend to be caused by arguments w her family after a long day of school and TV world traipsing

the metronome meme, except hers goes between Loudest Person in the Room to Quietest Pin Drop in the Planet. she is completely unaware of this

her atmosphere brightens when chie appears. that is not only the lesbian energy within her, but also because chie is like her Favorite Person

Cannot wear Pants. No (tho she wants to try it! but she puts them on and her soul instantly squashes)

happy flappy lesbian! watch out!

Naoto

the pouty face. all the time lskdfjlasdkf

hes really snappy sometimes and i love that for him. he and akechi should fight just to see what would happen (please read Bang Bang Shoot Shoot on AO3)

“do not touch me or my hat, thank you”

no one has ever seen him shutdown and no one ever will (except for his grandpa)(and kanji)(and rise)

probably likes certain food textures and will stand for nothing less, probably feels embarrassed about his preferences with friends

constantly jumps between ‘everybody hates me so i should act like them so they dont hate me’ to ‘i refuse to be anything but very comfortable as myself, and i dont care that im making you upset sir’

he and souji are the king and queen of subtle stims, but for unhappy reasons :(

does not make jokes. cannot joke around. understand? yes, do? no.

loose clothes are the only good clothes, but all tags and obtrusive seams will be obliterated by kanji tatsumi

not very empathetic so he probably comes off as an asshole to strangers (like when he throws away his classmates confession letters without reading them) but he tries so hard to sound comforting when his buds are struggling.

his understanding of others emotions/reactions come from his learning as a detective, which seems cold+clinical to others, especially compared to souji, whos completely unexpressive but very introverted people person

Hamuko/Minako/Kotone

big personality!! very people-oriented!! koromaru and her are buddies!! when shes having a real bad time, shes very quiet and expressions turn off

interrupts herself in the middle of conversations all the time. no one knows where shes coming from. her brains is thousands of km ahead of her body

bouncey legs, swingin arms, twirlly skirt, little somersaults! when will she stop? never!

very obvious music stims with her hands and arms! people are like “oh there she goes! happy as usual!” shes listening to minatos heavy metal playlist

switches from exhausted to excited within milliseconds. no one can predict, not even her

SEES has to ask her for context all the time cuz she’ll just continue shit from 2 weeks ago without warning

professionals will assume shes very childish bc of how chipper she is, but she is beyond mature for her age and only feels comfortable enough to have serious conversations if a person has proved themself able to handle it

collects every little thing. her room is a mess and she has to get rid of most of it every time she moves :(

hates cleaning! smells bad, feels bad hhhhhgggg

dont let mitsuru-senpai see her bedroom

gets lost in the middle of conversations with others bc shes thinking about a story connected to one(1) word that was said earlier

no sense of time and place, she just sees her friends and goes “ah, this is the right place, then” but junpei and akihiko are also lost so now theyre all screwed

Minato/Makoto/Sakuya

no talkies, no walkies

his story in the movies is him literally learning how to function around people he cares for

doesnt get jokes, expressions, body language, empathy, subtlety, metaphors, physical contact, or eye contact. aigis is probably the only person he truly understands right away

he is still nice to people because he doesnt see a reason not to be, but also he has very limited energy so only his senpai and old people get his most polite-kindnesses

cannot describe feelings for the life of him. the team wont know hes injured or sick until hes passed out

everything is too loud, time to drown it out with my loud ass music

rocking and chewing stims, ryoji is the first person to point him out for these subtle stims (not accusingly of course, just general pure curiosity and love for the uniqueness of humanity)

likes to cover his face with whatever is available, lives like a bat in a dark dry cave

will wear anything that has pockets and his blue/gray/black palette

sleepy at all times bc he never has much energy

when he was younger he probably needed a lot of support, especially after his parents died, because he wouldnt communicate like a neurotypical and would shutdown for hours in the middle of school without warning. probably missed a lot of lessons and field trips out of pure overstimulation

eating at all times. no preference, just whatevers closest

his meltdowns probalby include humming whining noises and curling up in a ball, which makes people want to touch him, but that is the LAST thing he wants. put a blanket on him! play some music! do not talk and do not expect him to speak

aigis is the only person who can touch him normally bc her hands are cold and he likes cold

never nude, feels mmmmmmmmm without clothes and probalby wears a full robe in the hotsprings

will not do things that take more than one step w/o someone else walking him thru it, which Same

#my writing #p3 #p4 #p5 #persona 3 #persona 4 #persona 5 #ren #futaba #souji #hamuko #minato #vibes straight thru the sun #i sincerely hope the read more works #im so srry for grammar problems #i literally cant read rn

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serelia-evensong · 4 years

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All Possible Truths

Serelia’s head pounds. Pounding isn’t the right word. It throbs. It squirms and twists. In her several hundred years of life, the woman who was once Quel’dorei, then Sin’dorei, now Ren’dorei, has experienced many sorts of headaches. The minor aches and pains of every day life. The withdrawal of caffeine. The dull ache of too much to drink, and waking with a dehydrated body.

Nothing ever felt the way the Void feels. Headaches can be described in so many ways, but the one she experiences today feels like a nest of worms writhing and squirming at the base of her neck, where spine meets skull. The kind of pulsing moving ache that makes a person want to dig nails into their skin and attempt to rip out whatever can be found beneath.

It’s controlled, most days. Since she lost her natural sight, since the Void ‘augmented’ the woman it claims as its own, she has focused her life on strict structure. When you can see every possible reality all at once, it becomes difficult beyond measure to know what is true. So she walks the same paths. Trains the same places. Drinks at the same seat in the bar. She keeps eyes squeezed shut often, when the magic in her glasses can’t filter out the truths the Void wishes to show her.

In these ways, she stays sane, keeps the headaches and confusion at bay. The Mage District. The Canals. The Golden Keg. The Brawlpub hidden beneath it. Old Town. Training grounds. The stall at the market that sells baking supplies. She has an acute mental map that keeps her stable, filled with immutable facts that hold the Void’s madness at bay.

Today, she is in Westfall, a place she hasn’t been since she fought Percival what feels like a lifetime ago. In truth, in her long lived life, it was barely a flicker, two years, give or take. It feels longer, but regardless, Westfall is not a part of her mental map, so the headache writhes.

Going through her flows, the methods of control of body, mind, and spirit taught by the Panderan helps. At least until a voice calls out, breaking through the meditative calm of her practice.

“Well, and here I thought I had come across something valuable,” the voice is echoed and metallic, altered by the metal mask the Warlock wears. “Instead, it’s just one of the filthy pets of the crown who had the stupid idea to come after me. On another bounty hunt to reclaim something that now belongs to me?”

In the space between where Serelia moves from pose to pose, eyes squeezed shut, and the Warlock calls out to her, she can tell there are Demons. The pair of stalkers makin space between them, perhaps just his defense, or perhaps meant to menace.

She finishes her current sequence, a series of strikes at the air meant to keep an opponent off guard and off balance, before she lets her body ease. She turns towards him, empty eyes opening, feet slightly apart, hands clasping at her mid back as she adopts a Military parade rest and takes in Percival. “Come after you to reclaim something? No, and of the crown? Not in years. I left my service to the Holts long ago,” a smile curves on her unpainted lips. “Not many noble houses with a lot of need for a blind guard, though it turns out, even when you can see every possible reality, you’re still the scum at the bottom of a barrel in all of them.” A hand leaves her back, moving to glide fingertips along the right arm of her glasses, dialing in the magic that helps focus her vision.

“Ha,” the barked laugh reverberates and echos with Percival’s mask. He makes a gesture, any number of gestures, and the hounds, imps, succubi, eyes, whatever demons escort him, enter a state of rest.

“Blind as you may be, seems you finally see the truth of Stormwind; of humanity. Once they see your darkness, you’re something to be thrown away and forgotten. It’s almost poetic.” He too adopts a position of comfort, one of either bravado or ease with hands behind his back.

What she tries not to let show is how badly she’s trembling. The shudder in her body, the pain at the back of her head. Having eyes open and putting on this little show of bravado is exposing herself to chaos. She sees the man in the metal mask. An old man. A young man. A shambling corpse. A Nathrezim. He walks amongst lush fields of wheat. Of dead and dying grasslands. Amidst bowing and adoring followers. Amidst the dead and dying, bodies on stakes. Her trembling hand continues its movement along the arm of glasses, attempting to dial in the things she knows are true. The man in the metal mask. Golden dying fields. The pain at the back of her head squirms in protest.

Hand drops from the arm of glasses, settling back into Parade Rest. There’s nothing more she can do to focus her vision, settling for occasionally closing her eyes to quiet the void. "I was surprised when Stormwind took us in at all in the first place...but then, they needed soldiers for the fight they wanted to spin up for the Horde. Our so called leaders seemed eager enough to give them that so...smart move."

None of this banter is why she’s here.

“It’s been a long time Percival, though not nearly long enough in my years.”

“Not long enough, and yet you’ve come back to the last place we crossed paths. So either it’s mere coincidence that we happen to be in this wasteland of a region at the same time. Or you’ve come lookin for me. As a gambling man, my money is on the latter. What do you want?” Percival sees through Serelia. It’s true, there’s no reason for the blind mother to be in a place like this, other than to seek the man who still hunts it.

“You’re right, I sought you out. Much as I hate you...and in particular the...little gifts you had sent my way over the last few years.” She shudders a little, though tries not to show it, thinking on the parts that arrived on her doorstep. The man has a sick sense of humor. “I still think you might have value to me.”

“And here I was worried they’d be lost in the mail,” Percival’s reply is marked with another laugh reverberating from within the metallic mask that hides his face. “At least Stormwind’s postal service is reliable!” The laugh becomes a veritable cackle.

It cuts off abruptly though like a switch shut off, all seriousness retaking him as his mask focuses squarely on Serelia. “So then. What do you want?”

“Knowledge,” Serelia replies, remaining at comfortable ease, even as she trembles and writhes inside. Her headache squirms. “The rumors say that on top of whisking away innocents, and stealing the journals of young maidens,” as if anyone would actually call Rian that, “that you amass knowledge of all sorts of magic. You’re not my first choice, but where others have failed, maybe you won’t.”

“The rumors are true,” Percival confirms as he closes the distance. No longer wishing to shout, or perhaps continuing to show bravado in the face of one of the few people on this world who have gotten close enough to do him real physical harm. “Unlike some wizards you might have spoken with, I learn about all magics. Taboo or otherwise.” The hounds part to flak the Ren’dorei, pincering her, creating a half circle of danger around the woman, but conspicuously leaving her rear free. Perhaps a push to make her flee, to test her resolve.

“What makes you think I’d share anything with the woman who stabbed me? You say I’m of value to you. What value are you to me?” The words don’t surprise Serelia. She was prepared for him to try to make a deal of this. It doesn’t stop a hint of a smirk at the memory of her hand razors sinking beneath his armour.

“If you have the knowledge that helps me control this,” Sere briefly lifts a hand from her back once more, indicating her eyes as they open wide again, revealing in full the dark endless nothing like bottomless wells in her face, “I would be willing to consider sharing my sight with you. The Void shows reality in its fullness. I see through illusions, through disguises, through hidden things both magic and mundane.”

Her hand returns to her back, and she ignores the threats around her, holding her ground. Serelia has lived a long and dangerous life, survived every War that has hit Azeroth in the last two hundred years. “I’m sure someone of your means and breadth could find a use for that.”

“Clairvoyance in exchange for control, an interesting proposition.” Percival nods, seeming to truly consider the offer on the table. “Well I can tell you now. I don’t have the answer you’re after with me. I may be a polymath of magic, but I’m still a summoner first. But I may have something of value that could help you gain some sense of control over your dark powers.”

There’s every impression the man must be hiding something, but whatever it is isn’t visual, not on any spectrum the Void sighted woman can see. It doesn’t matter, she always knew this deal would come with strings and complications. It’s why he’s a last resort.

“You have your deal with this devil, Miss Evensong,” Percival proclaims, extending a hand out to her to shake and bind it.

For the briefest moment, Serelia considers attacking. It would be easy to take advantage of their proximity. Her vision shows it to her too. She sees her hand lunge out, razors snapping into her palm. Sees the spurt of blood fountaining in her vision as it slips beneath his jaw. Into an armpit, through a weak joint at the hip. None of it is real, and she doesn’t act on it, at the end of the day while she might kill him, there’s no assurance she wouldn’t get herself hurt in the process, and she won’t risk denying Zara of her mother.

“I don’t see that we can ever be allies,” her hand clasps with his, firm and calloused from a lifetime of combat, “but the knowledge I need comes from darker places than I have access to, and I’m comfortable paying for it in service. So we have our deal.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Percival’s words are curt, and he turns on his heel, giving her his back. She doesn't act on it. “I’ll meet you here, at this exact spot, in two days time,” his voice carries back towards her, he holds up a hand and what she can guess is two fingers, in spite of the magical tuning of her glasses starting to lose further focus as possible realities splinter off. “And feel free to bring a bodyguard or two. I certainly shall!”

A sharp whistle pierces the air, and the demons that follow Percival rustle the dried grasses of Westfall as they heel to his side, and he walks from view.

Serelia sees him leaving too, and in every possible way. Dozens on dozens of Percivals in different shapes and sizes and forms mount, and portal, and sprint, and walk. Multitudes on multitudes, but in common...all of them leave. None turn and attack, none stay to kill her. The void doesn’t seem to consider that that reality existed in this moment. Interesting.

“Two days,” spoken quietly to herself as she turns from the spot to head up the road towards Elwynn, and home.

One card has been lain on the table. There’s still another to pursue during the two day wait. A name whispered and rumored amidst underground fighters and illegal combat rings. A woman who fights unlike any other, who whispers say fights like she has precognition, like every movement of her opponents is visible and known to her before they even make them. ‘Darah’. It’s not much to go on, and legends rarely prove to be as true and as large as stories make them. Serelia though, is sure her time is limited, and wild rumors make firm allies of the desperate.

Her headache squirms.

[ Written alongside @thalsianiii; vague allusions to @kat-hawke ]

#ic #all truths all lies #summoning realities #ren'dorei

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thurilostiel · 4 years

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Do you mind talking about your Blind Oracle? She looks very interesting and beautiful!! I really love her design!!! 🥺🙏

Ok so first of all @cringeyvanillamilk @one-leaf-grimoire @shinyshammie cuz you all seemed interested in the OC of mine. Sooo.... *looks over at like 30 pages of written text for BO’s backstory and pet guides* I’ll start with most basic things, in a short list so that you can choose whenever to read all of this or just the summary. Also Thank you for the name suggestions, they’re really fun and I had Lilith in there as well, but for like a slightly different meaning of the name. Name used by her: ‘Oracle’[after getting her grimoire], Thana Nickname given by Nozel, as she said she wasn’t given a name upon birth: Gulisa, and later Libi Full name: Lilith Razili Graddfa'r Ddraig Title: Blind Oracle Status: Of well respected Diamond’s Kingdom noble familly DOB: 20th of April Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Sexuality: [???] she might be ace, but that’s due to a trauma, still questioning Height: 164cm / ~5′4 feet Weight: 54kg / ~119 lb Eye colour: Deep forest Green -green that goes into grey’ish colour spectrum the farther from the center Hair lenght and colour: Long -while down they get past her shoulder blades, longest part goes till her waist- Dark brown with highlights [of slight reddish tones] Skin colour: Delicate carmely tan [typical Central EU skin tone] Special marks/scars: has lots of little scars on her arms and upper back, her eyes have a visible markings on the irises [will include pic later] Magic affinity/magic’s name[as the one written in the grimoire]: Light / Fallen Luster Magic type: Supportive summonings Favourites: food- fresh fruits, ice minties, a big meaty meal, mint ice cream drinks- fruit juice[apple and orange juices], water with frozen lemon/grapes and mint dos- hum melodies, take long walks with her companion[s], experiment with her eyes, making things for her pets and/or others dear to her don’ts- arguing, being descriminated, being in big crowds, having others play heroes for her [i.e. pretend there are robbers nearby and shove her inside an alley to ‘protect her’] Magic Knight Squad: She’s blind so she’s not that confident to get herself into this bussines Race: Half dragon (don’t @ me, you gave me this idea guys, you know where this came from) Personality: kind and shy pesimist, who always looks at the worst possible scenario to be prepared for anything she can think of. Known pets of hers : Emrys - an aftereffect of her father’s experiment, was with her from her 3rd birthday till May5th after her 18th birthday. Unidentified under-race of, what everyone assumed was, a wolf and fox mix, with low nobility mana levels, allowing him to use few ‘spells’ of flower magic. His favourite flower was a Pond Lily, and he loved to snack on freshly cought fishes. Died on May 5th. [need to finish his visuals, tho he’s inspired by a pet in a browser game Eldarya write down ‘Eldarya Rowtsya’ into google and this is really close to what Emrys look[ed] like] Mer - foundling Crystal Eagle of Oracle. He dropped out of a nest on top of a tree under which the girl was resting. He was a little hatchling then, not more than 2 weeks old, the smell of chocolate cookie brought him to such a brave act. Mer was too small to fly back up ot the nest, also Oracle hadn’t noticed that he’s an eagle untill about a month after he joined her on the adventure, and moved on right after giving him the rest of her cookie, making the smol birdie confused as he was never that far away form his nest and decided to stick to her. Mostly because she still got more cookies to feed him. He’s a little grumpy, but he helps her getting around on her travels. He loves chocolate cookies, corn, and ice minties. He’s getting mad really easily, while mad will refuse to eat and fly, instead will be stompin’ angrily on the ground so Oracle will hear him being mad. Meanings of names: Lilith - night monster, monster mother; also believed to be the name of first wife of Adam, a succub that brought fear to little children and pregnant ladies Razili - of Hebrew’s origins meaning ‘Lord’s secret’ Graddfa'r Ddraig - that’s just her father attempt to act human. ‘Dragon Scale’ in Welsh. Due to her mother’s pasing she wasn’t allowed to wear the noble familly name. Gulisa - Little[as in Weak] Heart [Georgian’s origins] Libi - My heart [Hebrew’s origins] Thana - Arabic name meaning ‘Death’ So the backstory goes a little like this: Lilith was taken out of her mother’s dead body about 2h after her death and put into the coffin on her mother’s chest as she was a silent one and not one of servants believed she’d still be alive. Her father was the one to react to her cries and open up the coffin to see his daughter trying to feed herself but getting nothing above few droplets of blood from now uncovered breasts. This caused her to be of a weak heart and health in general, would scratch easily, get exhausted from simple tasks... The father[a dragon and an idiot when it comes to human interactions] somewhat took care of her, not knowing what to do with babies he just stuck to giving her bottles with milk whenever she cried and if that didn’t work get a servant to change her daiper. Her real name was never used inside the castle, her father was using her [draconic version of] middle name or ‘shortenings’- he meant sweetheart but was saying weakheart, meant sweetie when saying hatchilng, you get the point- as everyone took her as a sign and incarnation of missfortune and death, thus called her Thana instead. Their explanation was that no child would be still alive while it’s own twin[brother] was born already half eaten by pests and parasites, and mother having her heart rotten due to a sickness. Last time she saw her father was around her 3rd birthday, month after that he was never seen by her, but they did met a few more times after Lilith was made blind. For years she was left to herself, only cared for in ways of giving her some food and preparing baths and clothes to wear. She wasn’t allowed to study things other than law and the ways of beautiful speach, yet she loved music. She missed her father dearly, but Emrys took up his place greatly, cuddling up to her whenever she was scared, hurt or cold. Her magic started showing around her 5th birthday and since then the elders started getting a bit suspicious. All was going normal, everyday lessons of law and how to speak in front of politicians, break for a meal, then the rest spent with Emrys on a walk around the gardens or in a library stealthy listening to the music lessons on the upper floors. Upon the day of her 15th birthday the elders took her to old ruins, where they marked her eyes with a ‘new emblem’ that was supposed to start a rebelius movement to throw the king from his throne, but after seeing Lilith crashing down with tears of blood and a new moon forming upon the sky they flew away in fear, leaving her there, unnecessarily taking away her sight from her. As the moon started forming, crimson fog hugged the dying girl, a single string of shimmering mana started leading the fog into the noble family castle. Before reaching the gates the unidentified experiment rushed into it and the fog moved back, leaving the castle alone for this day. Emrys cuddled up to her and covered her with his own mana, focusing on her bloodshot eyes. The fog began cleansing itself, becoming shimmery, as if stardust created it. It later formed her grimoire, the book that would once be called Last Hope, as it’s light was powerful in means of healing and defending, but never there to harm, yet it’s magic was tricky and therefore never the same, no more was it to pleasantly sit back and observe the battle. There was a small peasant village near those ruins, they saw the great light and weird creatures, small circular beings surrounded by silvery feathers and hoops, and some creatures looked like those of stories of old times, the biggest shimmering creature resembled Pan, the great horror of forests. All the creatures dissapeared within a minute and peasants rushed to the ruins. Seeing the young girl in shambled yet definetly expensive clothing and tears of blood streaming down her face they called to her “Oracle! Oh great Blind Oracle! Send upon us a blessing of rain” and so her grimoire started glowing and send upon them the first spell “Moribound wish” which brought the clouds and flooded the noble castles of Diamond Kingdom for whole month. The people heard about an Oracle in old ruins and began coming to her, offering food and crops for a blessing or a prophecy. Her spell was limited, she oculdn’t use it however she wanted, and it called for rest quite often, so people became impatient, rude, envy of such power and ‘luxurious life’ of Oracle. Oracle was inside the ruins for more than 2 years, yet less than 4, she could never tell the time by herself, she always relayed on the good hearted people to tell her what time of the year it was. Few peasants told the nobles about mysterious Oracle and the blessings she was able to perform- healing some of the elders, bringing rain and storms, and they decided to take her for their own happines. They took her from the ruins on May 5th, after a small battle that she decided to put against them, they killed Emrys as he tried to help her, and put Lilith inside the cage, forced a mask upon her face so they wouldn’t have to see the markings which some of the nobles recognised as the sign of rebelion. After half a year they got bored of her ‘miracles’ and let her go into the wild. She was somehow able to get into Clover Kingdom, her mask easily telling others that something was wrong with her. But the little bird on her arm was an easy distraction, especialy with how many children would pile up just to be able to pet him or give him some food, so she was able to steal some food from the stands and sometimes money to survive living under the sky. One day she unfortunately tried to rob a Magic Knight Captain, of course not knowing who he was or what a Magic Knight was before that. Nozel Silva was his name, she made a note to remeber that name and upon hearing her explain why she tried to steal from him he actualy took great interest in her story. After a small series of questions which she answered truthfuly, greateful he wasn’t going to put her to jail, He made a decision to let her stay for a week in Silver Eagle HQ where she was able to create few little artifacts helpful in dungeons and unknown areas as well as develop a spell that allowed her to regain sight for a brief moment of 4 minutes. During the week he called her Gulisa, as she told she wasn’t given a name upon birth, and if she was it was long forgotten. Gulisa later turned to Libi which confused the girl, upon asking why he changed his mind he said that it may suit her better, but he’d still prefer to know her true name. Thanks to Nozel’s help she was able to gain money and buy herself a small house which the members of SE often visit after missions in which they found new artifacts. Often times while practising her magic she’d find a dungeon and explore it with Mer. Few times while in Raquey she was stopped by some male who always asked her for a tea, and would tell her stories about folk-tale creatures, guardians of forests, oceans, skies and mountains, the devils and angels, the dragons and their homes of treasures. He presented himself by name ‘Lonan’ yet seems unsure each time he brings the name up, as if hesitating. He’d always pay for the tea and dessert and leave a package with crystals and some metal parts she’d been looking for. She still travels, but mostly around the borders of Clover and Heart Kingdoms. Searching for new artefacts that could maybe, just maybe, help her regain her sight. “The fact I’ve gotten used to being blind doesn’t mean I don’t want to see someone that I have but meet” “You have your spells don’t you?” “But they don’t allow me to see how I used to. Back then I saw people smiling, now when i use my spell you’re always frowning...” And that would be a brief summary of my OC. *Looks over at the pile of papers* Have I forgotten about something? EDIT: Forgot to add: She can’t fully see by using her spells, they allow her to see the basic outlines and few colours, they depend on her mood and levels of mana she got left, so she’s going blind 99% of time. Her mask was put onto her forcefuly and she was unable to take it down before going to Clover Kingdom. The nobles put her into the half-face mask and stiched it to her face, and she started wearing the ‘butterfly’ one after meeting with Nozel, it was first artifact she made in SE’s HQ. She knew the meaning of name Thana and that’s why she didn’t use it when she was free of elders’ will. Also I might need your opinion on this @thespiralgrimoire

#black clover #oc #Blind oracle #mentions of Nozel Silva #Diamond Kingdom #answered #DPS AU #dragons

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princesssarisa · 4 years

Text

22 questions

Thanks, @cinefantastiquemitho!

01. The book that transformed your life. Freak the Mighty. It traumatized me so much in middle school, I think it singlehandedly changed me from a mostly happy (if quiet and overemotional) child into a moody, anxious teenager. The same goes for it’s ‘90s movie adaptation, The Mighty, starring a young Elden Henson and Kieran Culkin. It’s about the unlikely friendship between two misfit middle school boys: Max, the big, hulking, “stupid,” somewhat mentally disabled protagonist with a traumatic past, and “Freak,” an intelligent yet small, severely crippled, and (spoiler alert) terminally ill boy who rides on Max’s shoulders and serves as his “brain,” leading him in modeling their lives after the knights in the Arthurian legends he reads. Basically, it’s like Bridge to Terabithia meets a PG-rated Midnight Cowboy with Arthurian themes. I was forced to read it and watch the movie in school and it shook me to the core because I identified too much with Max. Not that I ever thought I was stupid, but since I was also a physically heavy, intellectually disabled, socially awkward, often teased, withdrawn misfit, I saw myself in him, very, very much. So to watch his struggles, and then in the end to see him devastated by his only friend’s death, hit hard. If that spirit medium I recently talked to was telling the truth about my past life as Emily Brontë’s best and possibly only friend, then maybe subconsciously I saw her in Freak (since she was also a “freakish” misfit who nonetheless was highly intelligent, witty and imaginative) and relived her illness and death in his. At any rate, it plunged me into a long depression that must have seemed inexplicable to the adults around me.

02. The movie that changed your way of seeing the world. The 1983 telecast of Madama Butterfly from the Arena di Verona, starring Raina Kabaivanska as Cio-Cio-San. In hindsight, it was a flawed production. Kabaivanska was a 49-year-old Bulgarian grand dame, not the least bit convincing as a 15-year-old Japanese girl. The tenor, who was supposed to be her worldly seducer, was young enough to be her son. There wasn’t a single Japanese person in either the cast or the creative team – it was all a European fantasy of Japan. For that matter, Madama Butterfly is inherently problematic with its racial and gender issues (in other news, water is wet). But watching this old telecast on VHS, out of curiosity about Miss Saigon’s source material, was the real beginning of my passion for opera. I was already familiar with The Magic Flute, but this was the start of my love for opera beyond that one. The tragic romance of the story, the visual beauty of the sets and costumes, and Puccini’s sumptuous musical score captivated my fourteen-year-old self. It led me to VHSs of La Traviata, Carmen, La Bohéme, Tosca, Rigoletto, Les Contes d’Hoffmann, L’Orfeo and Turandot, as well as other videos of Butterfly, and then to opera performances onstage. It gave me a new passion and gave me something beautiful to share with other people through “Opera Quest,” the program I’ve created to introduce opera to elementary school students. I’m so, so grateful to it!

03. The music that makes part of the soundtrack of your life. Opera, Broadway/West End show tunes, and Disney songs.

04. Define longing. It’s wanting, but deeper and stronger. It’s constant wanting, painful wanting, wanting that almost becomes obsession.

05. If you got back in time, which scene would you visit of your life? Any of my Thanksgiving visits to my grandma in Mesa, Arizona. Of course I’d love to see her again – she died 12 years ago – but I also loved wandering around the pretty retirement community where she lived, listening to Les Misérables or to Andrew Lloyd Webber on my headphones, and then sometimes swimming in the outdoor pool. I also loved the restaurant we always went to for Thanksgiving dinner, and if possible, going to see the lavish Christmas lights at the Mormon Temple a day or two later.

06. The place where your heart is. Los Angeles. Even though I wasn’t born there, it’s the earliest place I remember. I grew up there and it’s only been four years since I moved away. Every time I’ve gone back to visit since, I I’ve had the overwhelming feeling of “I’m home!” Even though I’m glad not to be living in a big city right now, I wish I lived closer and could visit more often.

07. The travel of your life. I haven’t travelled very much outside the US, though I have been to Canada, London and Ireland. Within the US, I was born in Connecticut, I’ve lived most of my life in California, and I’ve spent a lot of time in New York (relatives live there), Washington State (more relatives live there), Arizona (my grandma lived there), Florida (other grandparents, plus Walt Disney World), Montana (still more relatives), North Carolina (still more), and Minnesota (family friends). Once each I’ve been to Chicago, Boston, Cape Cod, and small towns in Vermont and New Hampshire, and I’d love to go back to each of them one day. I’ve also been to North Dakota, but don’t remember it very well, and I’ve spent at least a few hours each in Las Vegas and Salt Lake City, but not long enough to do much of anything.

08. An author that you have met recently, and whose works you want to continue to read. Not too long ago I took a writing class taught by April Halprin Wayland, who wrote the beautiful Jewish children’s book New Year at the Pier about the tradition of Tashlich on Rosh Hashanah. I’d definitely like to read more of her books, especially her Passover children’s book, More Than Enough. I’d love buy them for my little cousins on the Jewish side of my family.

09. Coffee or tea? Herbal tea. Rooibos chai is my favorite.

10. Who's your Doctor (if you don't watch Doctor Who, who's your favorite character from a TV series)? I couldn’t say. I don’t watch Doctor Who or much TV at all anymore. Let’s just say I love the main characters from all the TV shows I watched when I was little.

11. If you could just throw everything away and live your dream, what would you do? I’d buy a safe and luxurious self-driving RV (this is a fantasy, after all) and travel all over the US, living in a different place for a week, two weeks, or a month at a time. In this fantasy, there’s no pandemic going on, so I have the freedom to go anywhere. I’d visit every big city, every cozy small town, and every notable place of natural beauty, I’d go to the opera and see local productions of Les Misérables wherever I could. I’d visit my relatives whenever I liked. I’d present “Opera Quest” at a local school in each place I visited. But I’d also spend plenty of alone time in my RV, or in whatever hotel or inn I chose to stay in for a little while, and work on the books I’m writing, listen to music and meditate. There would be no pressure on me from anyone to do anything. That would be amazing.

12. If you could choose to be a character from a book, TV series or movie, who you would be? None. Some of them have nice lives, but they all have their problems too, and I’d rather keep my own problems than take on theirs.

13. What makes you not like a story? Characters we’re supposed to like being cruel and spiteful to each other and neither regretting it nor being properly called out for it. If their behavior is clearly supposed to be bad and treated as such within the story, it’s one thing. Even if they never regret their own behavior, that’s fine as long as the other characters call it out as bad. But when they don’t, I feel like the author is saying that anyone would be just as cruel and spiteful in that situation. That it’s no big deal, it’s just human nature and anything better would be unrealistic. I hate that.

14. Do you like romance in stories? Why? Yes, I do like it. Not if it’s badly written, but when it’s well written, I love it. I love watching two characters come to care so deeply for each other, fill each other’s deepest needs and bring each other happiness. Of course that happens with platonic love too, but romance is the way it most often happens in stories.

15. Which book did you hate having read? Well, I didn’t like having to read Candide as a college freshman, because despite all its humor, it’s cynicism depressed me. I was going through a stage where I was feeling overwhelmed by the world’s problems and had turned to idealistic spiritual beliefs to comfort myself, so I hated having to read a book that essentially said “Optimism is stupid, the world is a terrible place, there is no God and no good reason for anything, and all we can do is try to make the best of our individual lives.” (Yes, I know that’s a vast oversimplification of Voltaire’s philosophy – it just came across that way to me at the time.)

16. Which movie did you hate having watched? I’ve already mentioned The Mighty, above, so... another one... When I was seven or eight, I saw Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory for the first time, and I was very disturbed at the end by Wonka’s angry outburst about Charlie and Grandpa Joe stealing the Fizzy Lifting Drinks. Of course everyone can agree about how scary and mean Gene Wilder acts in that scene. But imagine how much worse it would be to an ultra-sensitive little kid on the autism spectrum, especially since I wasn’t expecting it. I had read the original book already, so the fates of the four bratty kids and the infamous boat scene didn’t phase me because I knew to expect them. But movie-Wonka’s final test is a movie-only addition, so I had no idea he was going to start screaming at poor Charlie, and to me at that age, an adult suddenly screaming in rage at a child was scarier than a child turning into a blueberry any day. Yes, it’s only a test, Charlie passes it and all ends happily, but it still upset me.

17. Do you like anime/manga? Any favorite? It all looks very nice, but apart from seeing Kiki’s Delivery Service and a few episodes of Pokemon as a kid, I haven’t experienced much of it. Maybe I should explore it more.

18. Who is the best villain you saw in a story? I don’t think I can choose just one from all the stories I know. For the best villain from Shakespeare and opera, I’d probably have to say Iago, because of how thoroughly effective his scheming and manipulation are. For the best Disney villain, I’d have to say Frollo, because of how horribly realistic he is: as an abuser of power, a racist, a religious bigot, a sexual predator, a psychologically abusive foster parent, and in the way he believes everything he does is holy and right. But there are so many good villains in all genres of fiction, choosing just one favorite is impossible.

19. If you could do an interview with any person, alive or dead, from our world, who would you choose and why? William Shakespeare. I have so many questions about his plays. They’ve all been interpreted in hundreds of different ways and I’d like to hear what his real intentions were when he wrote them. And for that matter, if he really did write all of them or if there’s any truth in the anti-Stratfordian theories.

20. If you could meet and and befriend a writer, who would it be? I just said Shakespeare, but I don’t want to repeat the same answer twice... Well, if that spirit medium was right, then I’ve already met and befriended three famous writers in a past life: Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë. Supposedly I spent “many hours” with all three of them, but was especially close to Emily. If that’s true, then I’d love to meet them again, do some catching up, and talk with them about the modern controversies surrounding their books... especially Wuthering Heights, which seems to defy easy interpretations of its characters and themes.

21. Cats or dogs? Dogs. I just adore them!

22. If you could choose any time period or society to live, which it would be? A year ago, I would have said “right here, right now.” But with this global pandemic taking place and the future of the world and of America in particular feeling so uncertain, I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather live in one of the fantasy worlds I’ve created: either the Sisterhood of Nira’s valley (the setting of my completed but unpublished novel An Eternal Crown) or Zalina Island (the setting of the Beauty and the Beast and Little Mermaid retellings I’m working on). Those places might have flaws of their own, but at least they’ve made social progress that this country hasn’t made, and they have magic too. If I could I’d move to one of them, at least until the pandemic is over and we have a new president.

I tag @simone-boccanegra, @astrangechoiceoffavourites, @nitrateglow, @thatvermilionflycatcher, @sunlit-music, @theheightsthatwuthered, @fairychamber, @wuthering-valleys

#questions #about me

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ladyhistorypod · 4 years

Text

Episode 12: The Lady History Library

Sources:

Zora Neale Hurston

National Women’s History Museum

Zora Neale Hurston Digital Archive, Chronology

Zora Neale Hurston: A Biography of the Spirit

Further Reading & Listening: The Dead Ladies Show (podcast), Wrapped in Rainbows: the Life of Zora Neale Hurston (audio book), The death and rebirth of Zora Neale Hurston (article/podcast),

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou’s Website

Time

Biography

National Women’s History Museum

The Harlem Writers Guild

Poetry Foundation

Mary Shelley

Literary Hub

History Channel

Encyclopedia

Biography

Poetry Foundation

British Library: Mary Shelley

British Library: Mary Shelley, Frankenstein and the Villa Diodati

University of Central Missouri

Somerset Live

Attributions: image of Maya Angelou, Book Page, Maya Angelou at Hillside Courtesy; William J. Clinton Presidential Library

Click below for a transcript of this episode!

Archival Audio: Our story is about a library. Although this library is a new one, it is not much different from most. And the people you will see might be your own neighbors.

Alana: You guys we did it. (Laughing)

Lexi: Yes!

Haley: Guys, I was in the car going to my in-laws or like what my mom calls my in-laws because I don't know what to do– like what do you call your boyfriend's parents when you live with your boyfriend?

Lexi: Your boyfriend's parents.

Alana: Hey Riddle Riddle has a word for this. SOPAS. Significant other’s parents.

Lexi: Oh yeah!

Haley: I like that.

Lexi: That's good.

Alana: Your SOPAS.

Haley: We’re not, like, married but then I don't know like I feel like saying oh my boyfriend’s parents. And we heard it like on the radio and all the tweets just came rushing in and we were getting gas and I did like a little dance in the car.

Lexi: Awww.

Haley: And when we were driving up I kept clapping and saying thank you out the window to all the Biden/Harris signs and then hissing at all the Trump/Pence and I think I heard me. But like, come on.

Lexi: I was walking on the beach, and people were driving by with American flags honking and every time someone honked everyone would cheer. And then this guy came by in a Biden/Harris tee that he'd cut the sleeves off of so it was very like 1980s muscle tank and he had a little horn on his bike and he was talking and he was going “woo! Woo!”

Alana: That is so Biden.

Lexi: And then there was one guy who gave him the middle finger and everyone who was like around the area of the beach, like it's Covid so people like weren't like close together but people were like around each other and everyone just looked at that guy like. You’re the asshole.

Alana: There was like just tons of honking and it was a lot of fun. And then I was trying to take my Shabbat nap and there was still honking.

Haley: What I want to know like immediately, and I say that sarcastically because we have a lot of other fish to fry, is where his like presidential library is going to be. Because that's like law. In the fifties Congress passed a law that every US president has to have their library. My guess is that Trump’s is going to be in like Florida. Like right next to–

Lexi: You don’t think New York City?

Haley: No. I’m being fully serious when I say it's Florida because I don't think New York.

Lexi: Mar a Largo Presidential Library?

Alana: Yeah probably.

[INTRO MUSIC]

Alana: Hello and welcome to Lady History; the good, the bad, and the ugly ladies you missed in history class. Today I'm joined in the Lady History library by Lexi. Lexi, what's the best grade you've gotten on a paper about a book you didn't read?

Lexi: Well I have to tell you something, Alana. I have never not read a book for school. I am a kiss ass. I'm a loser. I never had–

Alana: Haley is doing the big L

Lexi: L. on her forehead. I know. I was called all sorts of names. Brownnoser, ass-kisser… My number one teacher relationship was with the AP literature teacher. I read every word of Light in August. I read every word of One Hundred Years of Solitude. So, sorry to disappoint you but–

Alana: You’re blowing my mind right now.

Lexi: I read all of Crime and Punishment word for word.

Alana: Our other librarian is Haley. Haley, what do you think is the most overrated book in the straight white male literary canon?

Haley: Anything from Shakespeare.

Alana: I love you so much Haley. I also don't like Shakespeare.

Lexi: There's a theory that he might be three women pretending to be a man.

Alana: And I'm Alana and I believe everyone has two favorite books; their intellectual favorite and their actual favorite.

Lexi: One hundred percent true.

Alana: So this is my post intro banter; what is your intellectual favorite and what is your actual favorite. Intellectual favorite is like your favorite that you had to read for school, and then like your real favorite.

Haley: That's assuming I like, read books in high school. Okay, let me–

Lexi: I’m the opposite.

Haley: Like, let me– okay, I'm like on the spectrum of dyslexia. My mom may come after me, she doesn’t listen to the podcast, it's fine, she's in denial about it. But I have a really hard time doing pronunciation in my head and pronouncing words. It just, it happened. I didn't really start reading until the second grade. So going into high school, I had to do the standardized testing. I got a one on the English and then like a four on the science? Because those were like the two that worked. And they thought I was like the stupidest person in the world. Like they couldn't like. Brain fathom that I didn't think the same way for reading grammar and like reading books because they were like “did you– what happened? You got a four on science.” And I just, I did not read like it was never– and I read books on the side. My mom would like see me reading like Harry Potter, Hunger Games, all the YA books of the time and not reading school books. And it was just like out of disdain. But I think if I had to pick out of like the five I actually read was One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest because I knew I would watch the movie with Jack Nicholson and I actually like the book. And then fun book, I don't have a favorite fun book, I just have a genre. Like that cheesy romance novels.

Alana: Oh yeah.

Haley: Not the ones about sex, but just like the girl finding the guy… the single mom like figuring life out. Anything from like Jennifer Hyde, Jasmine Guillory, those books are my jam because I know that like I'm so distant from them. Just like in retrospect and I don't have those type of human emotions. I’m like “oh. That’s– that is a fantasy.” That is my fantasy type thing. Like I think I can like see a pig fly or just like Harry Potter's wand come shooting at my brain cells, but like girl falling in love because she met a guy at the bookstore? That sounds fake.

Alana: I want to point out. Haley is the only one of us who’s in a romantic relationship right now.

Lexi: I think that says something about if you have too high expectations… you’re gonna be single. (Laughing)

Haley: Remember, I thought like my longtime boyfriend was gay and in a relationship the man he was sitting on the couch with.

Lexi: So, okay. My favorite intellectual book is probably One Hundred Years of Solitude, and people always like “why the hell do you like that book… like incest… like what's wrong with you?” I just think it’s really well written. Like, I think it's very visual in how it describes things and it's like full of like visual metaphor and now I sound like an asshole the way I’m talking. Like I love books.

Haley: No, I am so happy you said that because I tried reading that book. That was never recommended in school, but after finishing school and like learning to love to read through like summer vacation and then also college, I found one of those buzzfeed list of like a hundred books you had to read in school and I've been trying to like pick them off. And I've tried to read that book like two to three times and I can't get past page 70, and I don't know if that's just me or that's like the book. But it's probably me. But now that you’ve said this I'm gonna start it again.

Lexi: I think it takes a certain kind of person to enjoy it, but it's a very good book. And then my fun book– that's hard because I love lots of fun books. Like I want to say The Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by Caitlin Doughty but that's not really fun, that's actually quite intellectual. Oh, now I sound like more of an asshole! I can’t not sound like an asshole this episode.

Alana: Today on Lady History: Lexi’s an asshole.

Lexi: I'm a literary snob. But no, this– this’ll redeem me. My all time favorite book like of all time is called the Perkin Papers, and quite frankly I don't know if it even still exists, like I don't think you can buy a new copy of it because the copy I have is from the 1930s and I found it at an auction in a box when I was five. But it's gotten me through some rough times.

Haley: That is the most Lexi way of finding a motherfucking book if I’ve ever heard one.

Lexi: I go to a lot of weird places to find books. So my favorite smart person book, or my favorite high school book is Frankenstein which oh my god sneak peek foreshadowing. And then my favorite actual, my actual favorite fun book is either Good Omens which I read before I knew the show was coming out by the way. I am not a bandwagoner. Not that there's anything wrong with being a bandwagoner but I am not a bandwagoner. Or an Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green and the sequel, A Beautifully Foolish Endeavor. But I think that Hank Green's books are beautiful depictions and explorations of humanity and social media.

LEXI’S STORY STARTS HERE

Archival Audio: This little song is a story. The young lady thinks that it's time for them to get married, in fact if she thinks they just have to, and the boy doesn’t want to marry. And so this song’s about it. (Singing) Tilly, lend me your pigeon. He caught me with mine. My pigeon’s gone wild in the bush. My pigeon’s gone wild. My pigeon’s gone wild in the bush. My pigeon’s gone wild.

Lexi: I have two things in common with Zora Neale Hurston, any guesses on what those two things are?

Alana: You love the bison at the zoo.

Haley: You both have owned birds.

Lexi: I don't think either of those are true of Zora Neale Hurston. But, those two things it is is that she was a trained anthropologist and she went to a college in Washington DC.

Alana: Okay my guess was that you both lived in DC for– my actual guess was that you both lived in DC for a while, and I know that sounds like “eheheh that’s what I was going to say” but that is, like, what I was going to say.

Lexi: No I believe that you would have guessed that because I think it's like… People reference her around DC because she spent some time there. Although she didn’t spend that long there. Anyway and then the funny thing is you both also kinda had that come with her so. Haha.

Alana: That's true.

Lexi: We all have those two things in common with Zora Neale Hurston. Now I will begin. So, let's jump into her story… book, get it? She's an author and also Haley says that a lot of times so it’s not that unique that I said that. Zora was born on January 15, 1891 in Notasulga? I might be saying that wrong. Notasulga, Alabama. And like many other young Black women in her era, both her parents had been enslaved. And when she was very young her family moved to Florida and settled in Eatonville, which is one of the first towns in the United States to be incorporated by African-Americans, so she grew up in an area with a lot of African-American leaders.

Speaker 2: There, her father became mayor and pastor at the local church and her mother Lucy Potts Hurston died in 1904 and her father remarried. Zora and her stepmother did not get along, and so the young girl went to live with other family members, spending a lot of time with her brother in her brother's homes. In 1914, she moved to Memphis and began working as a nanny for one of her brother’s children. And she then became a maid and moved to Baltimore. In Baltimore, she eventually became a waitress and decided to go back to school, studying at night. And on September 17, 1917, Zora at the age of 26 enrolled at the Morgan Academy. She graduated with a high school degree a year later and moved to Washington DC where she began working as a manicurist and continued to work as a waitress. That fall she entered Howard University and in two years she earned an associate's degree. Zora co-founded The Hilltop, which is still Howard's student newspaper to this day. She then moved to New York City. Zora, through a scholarship she earned, attended Barnard College. There, she declared herself an English major, but was also passionate about anthropology, studying under the famed “founding father” anthropologist Franz Boas. Also while in New York, she befriended notable Harlem icons such as Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen. She became a part of the Black cultural movement, joining many other Black writers living and working in Harlem. At the end of her college career, Professor Boas encouraged her to collect Black folklife in the south. This experience shaped future work. As both an anthropologist and author, Zora dedicated her life to the preservation and promotion of Black cultural studies. She did not only study Black culture and African diaspora in the United States of America, but also visited the islands of Haiti, the Bahamas, and Jamaica; studying religion and reporting her findings in US newspapers. In addition to producing ethnographic work for her research, she also used her studies of Black culture, religion, and folklife to inspire her fiction writing. She also collaborated with Langston Hughes on her writing. Her most famous work, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is notable for breaking barriers as one of the first fiction novels to explore the experience of a Black woman in America. Today, the novel is used as an educational tool in high school literature classes and college anthropology and American studies courses. If you have not read it, do yourself a favor; go pick up a copy from your local bookstore or library. It was the book that inspired me to pick Zora for this episode and it's one of the works that inspired me to study anthropology in college because when I read it as a junior in high school I was like this is really interesting I need to know more about this lady and how she got all this information to make the story. And I found out how she did ethnographic work and I was like “that's a job?” So anyway, that’s really cool. Zora wore many hats, and anthropology and literature were not her only passions. She also taught drama at the North Carolina College for Negroes, which is now the North Carolina Central University and she worked as a consultant for a movie studio, Paramount Pictures. In the 1940s, Zora lived on a houseboat that she called Wanago. And also in a controversial hot take zero oppose the Supreme Court ruling in Brown V. Board, believing integration would actually result in assimilation and destroy the cultural transmission of knowledge between Black teachers and Black students, which I guess makes a bit of sense. At the time, integration meant a lot of Black students went on to have white teachers and a lot of Black teachers were no longer teaching. And cultural representation in education really matters because sometimes without specific cultural understanding, meeting students’ needs can be really hard, and we still see this problem today. So obviously I don't believe in school segregation, but I think Zora’s point could be used today to support hiring diversity and hiring teachers who reflect diverse communities where they teach. Zora was married three times, but it never lasted long. I think they were all like a year, but honestly they’re such a footnote in her life it's hard to find resources on these guys. Through her lifetime, Zora was largely ignored by mainstream white literary critics and she had a large following in the Black community. She was usually underpaid for her work and she lived poorly for most of her life. Towards the end of her life, despite being an accomplished author, she was evicted. She suffered a stroke in 1959, and in old age she was forced to enter the St Lucie County Welfare Home where she was cared for until her death of heart disease on January 28, 1960. Because she had no money or close relatives, she was buried in an unmarked grave and her funeral was held through donations collected from her friends. When Alice Walker, the author known for her book The Color Purple, found out Zora’s grave was unmarked, she decided to do something about it. In 1972, she found Zora’s grave and commissioned a marker for it. The marker reads “ZORA NEALE HURSTON / A GENIUS OF THE SOUTH / NOVELIST FOLKLORIST / ANTHROPOLOGIST / 1901–1960." And yes, she got the birthday wrong, but that's okay because she did an awesome thing recognizing her. Though in life, Zora’s work was overlooked, in death she became an icon, and is considered one of the best writers of her time. Today many modern authors consider her an influence on their work. Her folklife recordings and manuscripts are held in the Zora Neale Hurston archive at the University of Central Florida and can be accessed online through their website or the Library of Congress. Her hometown, Eatonville, Florida, honors her with the Zora Neale Hurston Museum of Fine Arts and the Zora Neale Hurston Library; two fitting tributes to her passion for arts, culture, and literature. And, so I know I said that the reason I picked her was because of Their Eyes Were Watching God, and that's true but that's only half true. Another reason I love Zora Neale Hurston is that when I worked at the zoo there were two bison at the National Zoo, and there's always bison at the National Zoo because the first animal ever exhibited at the National Zoo was a bison and every time there's always two, and one is always named by Howard University and one is always named by Gallaudet University because they’re two universities in DC, and the students vote through a poll to name each of the bison that represent their school. And this started as a tradition because the bison is the mascot of Howard. They are the Howard bison, so that's how this tradition started. And usually the Howard students pick an alum of their university to be the bison's name, and so while I was working at the zoo, the bison named by Howard students was named Zora and she was named after Zora Neale Hurston, who got her associate's degree from Howard University. And that's pretty cool, but unfortunately I just found out recently that Zora passed away March 7, 2020 from an leg injury. And when big animals like bison and horses get leg injuries, they can't really recover. They have to be humanely euthanized, which really stinks. But they do have two new baby bison at the zoo that just got named this July.

HALEY’S STORY STARTS HERE

Archival Audio: History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon This day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands, Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For a new beginning.

Haley: So, like Lexi said, I always say let’s crack open that story book, and that’s exactly what we're gonna do today for Marguerite Annie Johnson or Maya Angelou. I'm gonna try a new way of quote “storytelling” for just in general huge historic heroes by telling a couple of quote “short stories' ' rather than like one long telling of their life-icles.

Lexi: Vignettes.

Haley: What?

Lexi: Vignettes. Like if you ever read the book The Things They Carried– oh my god Lexi’s a literary snob. It's a book told in vignettes.

Alana: Vine was also short for vignettes.

Haley: And I thought it was fitting to do it for our author ladies because like short stories, haha so funny. And especially our author, Maya, has written 36 books and some of those actually include cookbooks, so throwback to our previous episode. So, story number one I've titled quote “I love the uniforms.” So Maya had spent some time in San Francisco, and she was actually the first female African American cable car conductor. So for those of you who are not familiar with San Francisco's cable car, they’re the classic almost like trolley-like vehicles that make a bunch of noise when you hear them. And they're mainly downtown SF to go up and down those massive eff off hills, and they’re a huge tourist attraction at this point. And the secret is, guys do this if you're ever in SF, past corona, all that good stuff. It's fourteen dollars to like ride it. But if you get one of those like day passes included, then that's– like that's what you have to do. You have to make sure the day pass you get or if you're a local because a lot of them use it for their transportation of like if you're on top of Knob Hill you go down the hill or up the hill to get to really where like the financial district stuff is… all the big businesses. and in our like monthly pass where you pay like eighty dollars for it you get like unlimited trolley car… or, cable car… I always called it the trolley. I don't know why, but Robert and other locals would yell at me saying “it's the cable car. The trolley is something different.” They all look the same to me and I'm still gonna get lost either way. Anyhoo, sixteen year old Maya wanted this job and even said on like an Oprah Winfrey talk show, “I loved the uniforms,” hence the title. And it was her mother who actually said that she should go to the city office and get the job if she wanted it so badly. And when she went to the area like where the cable car conductors got hired, she was noted to be reading Russian literature. And she wasn't first hired or even allowed to like apply because of her race. Because surprise surprise, America wasn't woke and it’s still not woke. But she read her Russian literature, like the boss girl she is, and was hired. When she like, she didn't get the application actually before being hired. She was under the legal age so she actually wrote that she was 19 like the badass she was. and as a conductor her mom would also join her. And like she's currently conducting at like the butt crack of dawn at four AM and her mom would kind of go behind a trolley car. And the trolley car isn’t like a closed vehicle. It’s not like a bus or train where the doors close. You can just hop on and you'll see people hold onto a pole and stand on the outside, and cars come like within inches of you. You can't even have like a backpack or something. Like you have to like hug yourself to this pole, essentially. I've almost gotten hit once or twice. Also for cars going by, there are special lanes, if this was like the same back then as well. There are special lanes that these cable cars can go through. Regardless her mom would trail Maya’s cable car and Maya said quote “with her pistol on the passenger seat.” So I love that. I don’t– like I just– ugh. Juicy. And she worked there for about a semester before deciding to return to school. Second story, I'm calling it “getting pen to paper.” In the 1950s, African American writers in New York City formed The Harlem Writers Guild to essentially support Black authors in the publication process and affirm them as the beautiful writers they are. And the Guild is still around today, the link is in the show notes, of course of course. And she was one of the early members and during this time she began to write I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, an autobiography of her life that was published in 1969, And many claim to be her most famous book. This is now where like my memory is kind of getting fuzzy because I read a lot of her books, and a lot of her books– or, most of her books are autobiographies or what she actually created as a genre during this time as autobiographical fiction. And that’s basically taking parts of your life and adding some elaborate essence to connect it more, make it more juicy. And this one I think is the one that took like thirteen years to write. Like she kinda wrote it along with her life and also included some earlier parts. So she just like took truly the most time and it really paid off. And she also during this time in the Guild continued to explore art forms in poetry, dance, music, and even like writing and directing films. So we get just her really explain herself as a writer. And lastly, we have story number three, which I have called quote “On the Pulse of Morning.” And On the Pulse of Morning was the title of the poem she read for Clinton's presidential inauguration in 1993. That's why when Alana was like “hey, let's– let's do a quick nod of the election,” I was like “haha! I got this.” She was the second poet ever to read an original work at a presidential inauguration. The first was Robert Frost at JFK's in 1961. And the poem itself shares themes of inclusion, change, and the role of the president, and like the responsibility it comes with, but also like the role and responsibility a citizen has, which are all things we should just remember right now, 2020. And she was chosen because she grew up in Stamps, Arkansas or like a lot of her childhood was in Stamps, Arkansas, which was rather close to where Clinton was born. And he said that her writing really resonated with him. For example, he was quoted saying ”When I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I knew exactly who she was talking about and what she was talking about in that book.” And that references how Clinton's grandfather managed a grocery store that was in a predominantly African American neighborhood. And actually for this spoken word poem, was recorded and she ended up winning a Grammy Award in 1994. It was apparently like an amazing amazing thing. I don't have enough time to go searching on the YouTubes for it because I was researching another gal because we're recording two episodes tonight. But it was noted to be almost as like a theatrical performance. She just exuded that power and greatness and dug deep into her roots of being a dancer and performer. Before I finish, because I have my three short stories, I would like to note that Maya at times had a very difficult life with racial injustice, physical and sexual assault, loss, and just– the list goes on. But I did not want to pick stories on that because even in her a lot of her books she would focus on the positives and say how she took the bad and turned it into something good. And each three of those stories had a little nugget so dig deep into what I said and pick out positive from the not so positive; the bad, if you will. And I would just like to share my favorite book of hers which was published in 2013, a year before she died, and it's Mom and Me and Mom. And she also died at age 83 so she lived quite a life. One of my favorite quotes of hers is “If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude.”

ALANA’S STORY STARTS HERE

Archival Audio: She's beautiful, she's evil, and she'll do anything for love. Never been a movie like Lady Frankenstein.

Alana: I'm so excited for this. My lady for today is Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, née Wollstonecraft Godwin; the teenage girl who invented science fiction and my O.G. goth queen. You may have seen some internet history lessons that you should of course take with more salt than the Dead Sea and I will note those when they come up, but sneak peek I have wonderful news about them. Mary was born August 30, 1797, that makes her a Virgo. Her parents were William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft– yes that Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Side note, I think we should do an episode on pre-first wave feminism feminists and I am calling dibs on Mary Wollstonecraft. They'd only gotten married that March scandal noises, gasp, shock and awe, possibly because William what was this radical anti marriage philosopher freethinker, and then his lover– not my favorite word, but anytime I use the word lover I am referencing Hadestown– was pregnant and it was a propriety thing. Although Mary Wollstonecraft had already had another daughter from a previous affair with an American businessman and I don't think they were married. Yeah, that's the real shock and awe. There is so much shock and awe, scandal in this story. Get ready for it. Just a week and a half after Mary was born on September 10, her mother died of complications from the child birth. And those complications can basically be summed up with 18th century doctors didn't wash their hands. And William Godwin made it very clear to Mary that she was a monster who had killed her mother. Literary scholar Sandra Gilbert has argued that Frankenstein is a projection of her own life. A quote unquote “monster” trying to have a relationship with the parent whose life it ruined. William remarried their neighbor Mary Jane Clairmont who had two kids of her own. And then William and Mary Jane had a son, so now Mary has four half and/or step siblings. Her stepmother vastly preferred her own children. Mary and her stepsister Claire would go on to spend quite a bit of time together but we'll get into that in a bit. Mary found solace at her mother's grave at St Pancras Church in London. She learned to write her name by tracing the letters on the tombstone, and that's only like the third most goth thing about her. But nobody talks about this one. I just think– I think it's like cute goth. Like kawaii goth. She would just like to hang out there and read or whatever like it was her spot. Normal kids have treehouses, Mary had her mother's grave. She published a kids’ book at the age of eleven called, I'm gonna butcher this pronunciation, but it’s not spelled like French so I guess this is on you Mary that I'm gonna mess this up. Mounseer Nongtongpaw; or, the Discoveries of John Bull in a Trip to Paris. It was her father's publishing company, so just a skosh of nepotism there, but it's still cool that she was eleven and published. In 1812, when she was fourteen, her father sent her to Scotland to live with some family friends, the Baxters, at her step mother's request. One of my sources said that Mrs Godwin felt quote “threatened by Mary” who had become the quote “beautiful image of his first wife” which. Mm. I do not like. Do not like. Mm. Okay. But you know what? Whatever though, because Mary is thriving. She feels good, she's away from her wicked stepmother, she's made friends with the Baxters’ youngest daughter Isabel, and she's like healthy and just like thriving. She's, she's living her best self. That November, she briefly visited home and this is potentially– it's kind of disputed by scholars, but this is potentially the first time she met, heart eyes emoji, Percy Shelley but he was still married to his first wife Harriet. Percy had come to study under Mary's father, but they were immediately smitten. In 1814 William Godwin brought his daughter home like for permanents because he wanted her to start earning her own living. But I think if Mary actually met Percy before in 1812, I like to imagine him just being like “hey, Mr Godwin, you know what would be really cool? It would be really cool if Mary were here. Don't you think I would be really cool if Mary were here?” But I… like I don't know if that's what happened. But this is where Percy and Mary have definitely met, and they read together and they have intellectual discussions. He’s very impressed by her parentage and her intellect, and they started their affair and they're very much in love. Mary takes him to her favorite place, her mother's grave, to profess her love for him. This is also where Percy asks her to marry him. And this is our first internet history lesson. You may have seen that Mary Shelley lost her virginity on her mother's grave. Most scholars say yeah. That happened. That's true. Because it was a very– it was a place of emotional growth for Mary. Percy later said that having sex with Mary was his real birthday. I hate this man.

Lexi: It seems like they all had a lot of problems.

Alana: I hate this man. I hate him so much. And we're gonna get more into why I hate him so much, but, okay. Percy supposedly gave Mary's dad twelve hundred pounds, which is now over eighty four thousand pounds, which is over a hundred and ten thousand dollars, in exchange for him to allow Percy and Mary to run away together. Mr Godwin took the money and said no. But Mary and Percy ran away to Switzerland anyway. And Mary's dad doesn't speak to her for two and a half years. I want to point out, Percy is still married to another woman at this point, who was pregnant and they already had a child together.

Haley: I was just about to ask that.

Lexi: Yeah.

Alana: They're still married. Mary’s stepsister, Claire, who I mentioned, comes with them as a translator. But it's possible that Percy was also having an affair with her and they were a throuple. Percy was like all about free love and probably would have been one of those dudes on Bumble who's like “ethical non monogamy.” I'm looking at Lexi because she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

Lexi: I’m like envisioning a meme where it's his profile and he’s got like books, book emoji, cigarette emoji. He’s real edgy.

Alana: Oh yeah, totally. There is also evidence that Mary had affairs too, so this is like 19th century polyamory. Claire did eventually leave their household when Mary's jealousy kind of like physically made her ill. It just like she sank into this deep depression that magically got better when Claire moved out. They’re constantly on the move because Percy owes a lot of people a lot of money and he has to keep running away from creditors. Like, he– he gave someone a hundred and ten thousand dollars for permission to do something he was gonna do anyway. So, hm. Not great.

Speaker 1: Here is what everyone is waiting for, the writing of Frankenstein. This is a very famous story that they've done on Drunk History which was very funny to watch a drunk person try and say Wollstonecraft Godwin. I died laughing for ten whole minutes. And there’s an episode of Doctor Who about it, and side note the Thirteenth Doctor is chef's kiss A plus amazing, it's a whole new show and I love it. So 1816 was the year without a summer because the Indonesian volcano Mount Tamboro, I hope I'm pronouncing that right, had erupted the year before and covered basically the whole planet in a giant ash cloud. I am being dramatic, but my point is it was dark and gloomy and rainy the whole summer across Europe. So Claire’s back, and she’s pregnant with Lord Byron's– yes, that Lord Byron’s– child. And Lord Byron is staying at the Villa Diodati in Geneva, and the three of them meet him there and they're all hanging out. Are they having orgies? Maybe. Byron and Percy had been talking about Romantic– capital R. romantic, as in the 19th century cultural movement, those kind of ideas about death and magic and life and ooky spooky stuff. And so they start a ghost-story off. And this is where Mary begins Frankenstein. It wasn't all written in that night. I feel like that's a misconception, that she wrote all of it that night, but that was just like the idea. Most of it was actually written in Bath when everyone went back to England. And it wasn’t off-the-cuff either. Like Mary had a really hard time coming up with her idea. Percy and Mary finally got real married in December of 1816 after his first wife Harriet committed suicide. Apparently she was pregnant with another man's child, but honey have you seen what's going on here? I think you would've been fine. But Percy was denied custody of their children and he believed he might have a better chance of getting custody if he were quote– massive air quotes– “settled down.” This didn't work, but Mary's dad starts talking to her again, so that's nice. And Mary had a huge role in Percy Shelley's legacy, probably because some of survivor's guilt. He drowned in a shipwreck with two of his friends off the coast of Italy in July 1822 while Mary was recovering from a miscarriage that almost killed her. When Percy's body washed up, he was only identifiable by the Keats poetry in his pocket. Percy was cremated on the beach and his heart did not burn. That's true. Modern doctors say it probably calcified from a bout with tuberculosis earlier in his life. One of his friends took the heart and kept it and only gave it to Mary after her constantly bugging him. Which leads us to our second internet history lesson. Did she keep Percy Shelley's heart? Yes and no. When Mary died in 1850, her family definitely found his heart in her desk wrapped in the pages of his final poem, Adonaïs which is like a really sweet love poem. You should read that. But read Frankenstein first. Did she actually carry it everywhere? Uncertain. Maybe, but they definitely found it in her desk so she definitely had it. We're– we're not really sure where it is now. I don't know how that's possible, but I have conflicting sources. It's possible that it's with Mary or with their only child who had reached adulthood Percy Florence Shelley. They’d had a bunch of kids who either died super young or only lived like a few days. Mary is primarily responsible for the posthumous collection of Percy Shelley's work. So that's like all her. It’s like in her writing credits that she edited all of these collections. After Percy died, Mary turned down several marriage proposals because she quote “wanted to be Mary Shelley on her tombstone” which is really sweet. Side note, thank you to 19th century people for writing down all your feelings in like journals and thoughts and everything and then keeping them. I love that we know what you were thinking because there was no Twitter for you to document your whole lives the way that I do, although of course if you see me on Twitter, no you don't. This is where the stories about her usually stop after, Percy died. But, Alana, you said that she died in 1850, Percy died in 1822. What on earth did she do with those 28 years? I am so glad that you asked. First of all, she wrote a bunch more, thank you very much. Five more novels that weren't Frankenstein were published in her lifetime and at least twenty short stories. While she was no longer the radical she had been when she was with Percy, she took it upon herself to protect the women in her life. Claire, who lived with her on and off, obviously who I brought up a couple times. She lived with and supported the wife and children of one of Percy's friends who had also drowned. She helped her childhood friend Isabel, Isabel Baxter, from before, get out of England when she had a child out of wedlock. So she was protecting her, her friends. Mary died of brain cancer in 1850. Her son and his wife had her parents’ bodies exhumed and she's buried between them in St Peter's Church in Bournemouth. There are plans for a Mary Shelley museum in Bath, just up the street from the Jane Austen Centre and very much in the same style of like employees in period clothes and family friendly. The most recent article that I found about it was from June and one of the people in charge of it said that it would be finished by the end of the year slash early 2021, and that tourism would pick back up by then, but it's November and the U. K. just went back into lockdown, so I don’t think that schedule is still what’s happening. But, once travel is a thing again and once that Mary Shelley museum is open I think Lady History field trip to Bath. Shout outs to some professor at the University of Central Missouri for putting their study guide or test for Frankenstein as a PDF on the university website. The timeline of Mary's life on the first few pages was very helpful. I hope it wasn't a student who cheated, but the url is like UCM dot EDU, so… I just– I love Mary Shelley so much. I used– I made this joke in high school when we were reading Frankenstein that I think I am Mary Shelley reincarnated. Like if reincarnation is real, I would buy that. Like I'm only half kidding. But if reincarnation is real, which I don't know. I don't know if reincarnation is real. I know hell is not real, that's for sure. I also think it would be cool to be a ghost. Anyway… Lexi why are you laughing at me?

Lexi: It’s just very you.

Alana: Yeah. Anyway. So that is the story of Mary Shelley, the teenager who invented science fiction, and if you think it was some like, Isaac Asimov or whatever, who I literally saw in a meme once. If you think a man invented sci fi you are incorrect.

Lexi: You can find this podcast on Twitter and Instagram at LadyHistoryPod. Our show notes and a transcript of this episode will be on lady history pod dot tumblr dot com. If you like the show, leave us a review or tell your friends,and if you don't like the show keep it to yourself.

Alana: Our logo is by Alexia Ibarra, you can find her on Twitter and Instagram at LexiBDraws. Our theme music is by me, Garageband, and Amelia Earhart. Lexi is doing the editing. You will not see us, and we will not see you, but you will hear us next time, on Lady History.

[OUTRO MUSIC]

Haley: Next time on Lady History; we're going to be discussing some ladies whose lives were unfortunately cut a little too short.

#womens history #feminist history #literary history #mary shelley #maya angelou #zora neale hurston

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everydayanth · 4 years

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Let’s talk about talking about politics! Yay! Everyone’s favorite!

Over the past few weeks/months/years, I have had this strange insider seat to a bunch of criminal justice/poly sci professionals (as in, they get paid as professors or scientists or compliance officers, etc.) as they talk about politics and get angry at the general public for our lack of understanding, without having the patience to teach or explain.

Two problems: 1. the ivory tower issue of watching and not actively engaging in the social part of social science, but as their friend, I will note much of this comes from burnout through negative engagement and attacks; 2. expecting others to have had an adequate education to even know many of these tools exist in order to discuss things beyond our average public school education that cuts out Fridays and makes random half days because we can’t afford teachers or textbooks.

As an awkward observer, here are some things I never talked about in school, despite having a better political/civil/economics education included in my curriculum than many of my friends:

1. When we vote for someone, we are voting on a trend in politics. Not as a result, but a direction to move, and most voters vote for the candidate who is closest to their current values already, rather than following the trend of voting for who would move policy to match their needs.

2. Our values change far more than we think they do and they almost always align with a problem we require a solution to or a fear we would like to stabilize or go away, such as property taxes. Because we need to trust the person to solve our problems, especially if we are projecting large fears, candidates who are most likable. We don’t like to stir the pot, we just want it to go where we want, fighting for something is exhausting for everyone.

3. We consider political agendas to be moral agendas but do not agree on obligations. Many feel powerless, others are powerless, we talk about responsibility, but without acknowledging those first two things, it sounds more like blame. We also imagine many things to be wishful thinking that are enacted successfully elsewhere and fail to understand or use logical reasoning to really discuss issues. Anything will be an experiment because the US is so huge, but it is a scalable experiment working in other places, often we don’t understand that until we’re abroad and sick.

4. We’re not sure how to translate policy, and our country was built by and for lawyers. There are very little areas where we agree as a society on black/white right/wrong, and in many ways that’s good, but when it comes to discussing policy, it can be very confusing.

To account for these aspects, people use charts and grids. Much like personality tests, these are useful for creating a foundation upon which to debate and discuss, but are ultimately made by humans in order to generalize and will have errors and discrepancies. But the political spectrum has rarely been the single line most of us were taught. Instead, it is often a grid used to navigate the direction and preference of trends. Most people are much more moderate than they think, but have problems that need cooperative solutions, like the water crisis and fires on the west coast, disaster relief in the south, crop failure in the midwest, and ticks and diseases in the northeast. We all have huge problems and some areas are insulated from them for now, but they will come. How we navigate and demand solutions for those problems is what creates policy and the policies we agree with because of our value is what dictates our vote.

So here’s some charts that human people made to talk about these things with and they have helped ground a lot of engaging conversations with people as I watch them argue but not get angry, because there’s a visual thing to talk around. Those kinds of tools should be everywhere.

The political compass:

via Wikipedia: political spectrum

^A generalization of what different areas might look like. I’ve seen so many versions of this, but I liked the way this one because it gave me a better understanding of words I’m more familiar with and where they fall within the broad concepts. I couldn’t find the source.

^ Here is another one from Google that took me to a shady site, so I didn’t link it, but the goal is to just be familiar with the different ways people structuralize and use definitions and terms to divide them up, in the end, the general understanding is all that matters, and our goal is to be functional, for the government to be usable by the people. Hamilton, the musical, was/is so important for many reasons, but one of the big ones is that it reminded us that this fight of trends and moving around the board has been going on since the very first election of a president to America. It’s always about one group pulling another, creating a tug-of-war that keeps us near the middle, hopefully.

This is a graph showing the individual party ideologies of past presidents by a site called Fact Myth. It is showing the party split between individuals and while we could argue and speculate about accuracies and meanings, whether a president was pushed to make a decision as a person, etc. in the end, they represent the will of the people and the trends we with to follow to solve problems at the time.

^An outline someone made of 2020 candidates on Reddit that has been going around for a while. Jake showed this to me and while he was perfectly receptive to me saying that yeah, but a person made this and they can have agendas and just put people places, he also had some really great points on how Americans often think we’re moderates, but what we perceive to be in the middle is often skewed by capitalism. That’s not to say it’s bad, simply that if we’re talking trends and problems and solutions, we have to understand where we are on the real scale, not just our own. We will also tend to vote for those who are closest to us, rather than moving in the direction of us, so, say someone sits right where Ryan is, Ryan drops out; now, despite their personal political preference being on the edge of the middle moderate square, they move to Biden rather than Warren or Sanders because Biden is closer to their original place, even if, coming from Trump, moving to Warren/Sanders would pull the political trend back toward their moderate preference.

Not everyone does this, obviously, but I’m fascinated by how our individual personalities affect how we decide politics. Are you a “next best thing” kind of person? Are you a “obsess relentlessly until it’s done” kind of person? Are you a “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke? Or what about “out of sight out of mind, doesn’t bother me, I don’t care” kind of person? So many of the ways we solve our daily problems are reflected in the ways we move our own political affiliations during voting times. I just think that’s interesting because I’m a social science nerd though.

A friend from Brown who is much older than us (also a social science nerd <3) pointed out that she grew up with such antagonizing propaganda during the cold war and beginnings of technological boom and peak oil, and it all said the same thing, anything outside the blue is morally wrong and heavily corrupt. I thought that was an interesting point about exposure and remembering past problems, how voting ages overlap to find new solutions or rely on old ones, and what it would cost us to see American politics on a global scale.

^This is a global scale of values (not politics) from the wikipedia page on political spectrums, and I thought it tied into the conversation in interesting ways, especially when we look at American generation differences in individualism and social cooperation and how they are viewed by each other to both be equally negative. There’s a whole world of solutions and different ways things our done, but we’ve been taught from birth that some are bad and others are exceptions and ours is good.

Vox has an interesting tool to figure out where abouts you would lie on the compass. I think debating it with others is a better way, since it’s a primarily relative scale (unless you prefer those structuralist ones, but keep in mind that it’s a preference, not a requirement). But I thought I’d include it for those who may not have access to that kind of conversation.

In the end, consider your morals and how they are different from your current values, and how your current values are affected by your current problems, and how you want the world to look, how you want trends to move, and how your biases of experience or ignorance might play a role in that. I honestly didn’t really think about healthcare until I was in Ireland and saw how simple an alternative was and how freeing it felt. My parents can’t even imagine it (and they are of the class who should most desire those changes), they don’t have enough of a base knowledge to understand how it works, it’s electricity after gaslamps.

Anyway, just thought I’d share some of those tools. As a skeptical person, I want to remind everyone that these are tools, not documented facts, and fighting about where people are on the graph and where we might be is part of how we come to conclusions about rights and wants and solutions and needs and what we actually value. Most of us, in the end, value comfort and hope, and we vote for the people we think provide that to us. The problem often lies in people misunderstanding their own comfort and relying on ignorance rather than hope. I found these graphs useful in grounding my talks with overwhelming professionals and finding some semblance of peace in what I wanted to hope for and I hope maybe for some of you they can provide that as well. ❤️

If, like me, you reached your 20s and realized a gaping hole in your education, I also recommend the Crash Course series on US Politics. It helped me understand a lot of things that were skimmed over in textbooks or left as multiple choice answers on a standardized test. Politics are a series of solutions to the problems we face as a social group, and knowing how to talk about them completely changed my own feelings of helplessness when communicating to others.

#politics #political spectrum #political compass #education #american politics #voting #policy #society #sociology #anthropology #discussion #education access #crash course

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bbq-hawks-wings · 5 years

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Hiya! So I have a question/theory not exactly about hawks but the concept of quirks in the mha universe. So I had this thought and I was wondering do you think it would be possible for a character to have a quirk like whenever they played an instrument the people around them would immediately go into a sleepy, sedated state?? Or basically if it's possible for a person's quirk to be like not be biologically a part of their body (ie: anything they paint comes to life)

OOH OOH OOH!!!! I was going to write requests, but I just HAD to jump on this immediately. I like the way you think, anon! Asking some very important lore-based questions!

My short answer to your theory is “Mostly no, but kind of yes? Depends on the specifics and how you explain it.” So let me explain! I go on a bit where I geek out over Shinsou’s quirk, but I’ll keep the whole debacle under the cut. I hope you enjoy it!

Minor spoilers for explanations about how Shinsou’s quirk works from the manga.

HeroAca is at it’s core a science fantasy world - wherein inhuman feats instead of being written away by magic are given a plausible-enough “scientific” explanation to help the audience’s suspension of belief. It doesn’t have to be completely accurate but it has to make just enough sense to feel grounded in the real world and also makes it easy to put limitations on it. Quirks are explicitly described as being genetic. How they got written into the human genome is unknown, but it’s crystal clear that biological lineage is the key to passing down quirks. (All for One and One for All being glaring exceptions to the rule, even in universe.)

This is how we’re able to put “glycerin sweat” with “ sweaty, sparking palms” and get “combustible explosive sweat from the hands” or “ice” plus “fire” equals “fire and ice.”

Therefore, quirks are inherently connected via some biological component. However, how that manifests itself has a lot of potential, and it mainly has to do with the property being manifested to begin with. For example:

Tetsu Tetsu has the ability to harden his body into steel - specifically his skin. This is physical composition of his body that he is able to change at will, but he cannot change the composition of something he touches even though that organ which possesses the shifting ability comes in contact. His quirk is limited to his body, period.

Momo’s ability to create inanimate matter is manifested through her adipose tissue (fat). She requires both the energy and atoms required to produce matter directly from her own body. These things can exist outside her body but she ceases to be able to affect their composition the moment it’s no longer part of her body.

Ochako is able to nullify the effect of gravity on any body she touches - inanimate, living, herself, etc. However, this effect only works after she has physically come into contact with it and only from the pads on her fingertips. Her quirk originates from her body but leaves lingering effects as long as she doesn’t cancel them.

All of the above are easy examples of “my body changes myself/something else and my quirk depends on my body to do so.” However, let’s look at an example that feels more “intangible” which I think is what you’re going for.

Shinsou is a super interesting one and so far the closest to what you’re trying to describe. His quirk, we know, is biologically coded into every cell in his body, but how it manifest, though a bit of a mystery, has a pretty logical explanation depending on how we parse it out.

He has the ability to sedate his human target and force their body to do rudimentary tasks via vocal commands - effectively making them a human puppet adhering to his will. However, the way it both takes effect and manifests is particularly interesting, so I’ll drop the frames and extrapolate in a moment.

To break it down, Hitoshi’s quirk works as thus:

He must intentionally choose and FOCUS on his target in order to activate phase one of his quirk

His voice may be modified via his artificial vocal cords, but he cannot transform his voice digitally (mini theory on this at the end)

He must then get them to respond to him directly (it’s implied this is vocally, but the way it’s worded sounds almost like they need to consciously respond in some way instead of blocking him out)

Once he has control, he can make them do virtually anything with their body but their brain and voice are useless.

To me, it sounds like Hitoshi’s quirk actively hijacks his target’s brain by suppressing the higher functions and taking over some of the lower ones. My best “rational” explanation is some audible property in his voice (it’s presumably outside the spectrum of human hearing) is able to first bait the parts of the brain that control cognition and neutralize them when it “opens itself” up via cognitive reply. From there, cognition is suppressed and he takes over what I presume is the midbrain and sections of the gray matter physically responsible for motor control.

Sounds crazy, but while the sound aspect is unusual, this kind of thing actually exists in real life! Check out parasitic fungus and worms that turn prey like ants and snails into “zombies” by taking over their brain and doing their bidding in order to complete their life cycle.

If you can explain an OC’s quirk like THAT, you’re gold!

If you wanted one that plays music that makes people in the immediate vicinity sleepy and sluggish, explain it by saying that something about the sound stimulates the brain into producing melatonin or effects the thyroid. It doesn’t have to be clear exactly how (though extra points if you can make it as scientific as you can) but if it’s plausible ENOUGH, it works. It could be like in Hitoshi’s case where it isn’t the so much the noise we hear but some unheard component that does the work and she just chose, say, a flute because it puts people at ease and she’s liked it since she was a kid.

The “paintings to life” is a bit trickier. If you wanted to fit this in the lore of the series I’d say whatever substance she animates has to come from her body. However, an easy workaround is that she could produce her own paint! She adds the pigment separately, but the clear medium is whatever substance she produces from her body that she can control. The medium is basically how acrylic and oil paints are different - The shade of color can be exactly the same, but the medium it floats in will act and perform differently which is a great metaphor if she has difficultly controlling the “living” medium without a visualization to get it to do what she wants!

I hope that was a fun breakdown of how I think you can adapt seemingly random superpowers into the rules of the series. It takes some real-world knowledge to do so, but the cool part is that the physical world is capable of SO much that we’re barely scratching the surface of understanding. Doing even just a couple of hours of research can get you enough information to come up with a power that not only could plausibly work but also has the bonus of building in a weakness for power balance!

This is super fun! I love when you guys send me theories like this!!!!

Bonus mini theory! “Could Shinsou’s quirk work over old analog technology?”

Something interesting to note is the auditory angle he needs to use his quirk, and my theory is that the auditory component may force his target’s brain into doing the actual sedation work for him. In real life, our brains and bodies are very much effected by sonic waves, even those we can’t hear. It’s theorized that infrasound - sound outside our hear-able spectrum) caused by structural unsoundness, some machinery, and more might be reason humans consistently perceive certain locations as haunted. I mentioned this in my theory about Hawk’s sensory sensitivity but it’s worth mentioning again here.

I specifically mentioned “digitally” above because analog and digital sound waves are structurally different which may be why it’s not some specific noise we physically hear but actually the vibration of the sound wave itself that does the brainwashing. Here’s a picture of analog vs digital waves to demonstrate what I mean.

See how analog is smooth but digital is a series of plateaus? Now I don’t have much formal education to back myself up from here on out, but the way I understand it is digital is basically just a complicated series of “on’s” and “off’s”/”yes” and “no” so it’s literally impossible for it to achieve that smooth curve in analog. Look at what it does to a sample in this graph.

While, to our ears, the digital interpretation of the analog signal is close enough that we wouldn’t hear the difference, the structure has been chewed up all to hell! Though we don’ have a whole lot of information one way or the other, I can’t help but wonder if those splines (the curvy lines between points) are where the magic happens. He even says outright that voice modulating technology (almost all of which is now exclusively digital) distorts his voice too much. Old technology used to work on materials that operated on these analog waves, so I can’t help but wonder if that would do the trick. It obviously wouldn’t work on a gramophone since without the active focusing his quirk requires it’s still a useless sound bite, but if he were to, say, speak over an old telephone would that work?

It’s entirely possible that there’s some other property in his voice that needs proximity to work (such as a frequency analog broadcasting can’t replicate) so he needs to be physically close to his target, or just the fact that analog technology is clunky and potentially more hassle that it’s worth that would make this a moot point; but I couldn’t help myself diving a little deeper.

#minor spoilers #bnha meta #mha meta #she speaks #shinsou hitoshi #hitoshi shinsou #shinso hitoshi #hitoshi shinso #bnha theory #mha theory

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letsbenditlikebennett · 4 years

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Mister, I’ll Make a Wolf Out of You || Ariana & Simon Chatzy

Ariana sniffs Simon out at the farmer’s market and the two become quick pals. @inconvenientsimonstrocity

Why Ariana was going back to Nightshade Farmer’s Market, she couldn’t quite say. After the whole watermelon debacle last time, she was curious about what sort of other supernatural things they had going on in there. Maybe this time she’d just avoid buying anything unless she actually came across the black garlic she’d been looking for the last time. As she walked around, her nose was confronted with a variety of different smells from seafood to herbs and spices. There was one scent in particular that caught her attention and instinctively her feet followed it. It definitely wasn’t Ulfric or Lucas, she’d recognize them long before she ever neared them. This was someone new and she could feel herself perking up. There was a small grin on her face as the scent of the other wolf became stronger. As she rounded the corner, she saw him standing there at the cursed produced stand with the stupid watermelons. Ariana gave the woman running the stand a dirty look before she approached the man. He appeared to be around Ulfric’s age and had very sharp features. She knew he had to be able to smell her, too. “Hey,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile, “I’m Ariana. I think we may have some important things in common if you’d like to chat for a bit.”

Speaking of the variety of scents, Simon was curious about why he hadn’t thought of this before actually arriving at the market the… girl on the internet suggested to him for finding venison. It was strange how quickly the smells in the air could go from the alluring aroma of garlic to the oppressive odour of fish and the combination as they were were almost enough to make him consider just giving up and going home BUT… he endured. Because he really wanted some deer meat. Hopefully jerky. What he was currently in front of… was not jerky. Rather, he WAS contemplating to see if these watermelons were the aforementioned cursed objects spoken of by others or not, rubbing his nose absently. Suffice it to say, he was caught off guard when he was suddenly approached by a short, younger girl and he jumped back slightly, turning to regard her. “Oh, er… hi,” He replied, noting her smile before her scent, quickly becoming unmistakable to him, backhanded him in the face and he coughed in further surprise, torn between his body’s instinct to take a few generous steps away from her and his minds curiosity to lean in further and try to memorize it. “Ariana,” He replied quietly. He cleared his throat and straightened up. “I’m-- yeah, we might so…” He glanced over at the woman at the stand briefly before looking back at the girl-- the wolf Ariana. “Llllead the way,” He offered awkwardly as if this were the first time he was talking to another person.

Ariana could tell that the man before her seemed to be a little bit thrown off by her approach. She wondered if he was new to this. Could this have been the werewolf that Luke had been referring to. She supposed she would find out soon enough once they found somewhere a little more private. She nodded and led the way to the spot her and Winston had sat down to eat the last time they were here. “Yeah, there’s some tables and stuff that are pretty quiet over this way.” As they passed through the stands, she kept a careful eye and ear out for anyone around them. Could she be putting this wolf in danger by being around him? She wasn’t sure how much truth there was to there being a bounty on her head. Still, this was important. Their kind was meant to stick together. When she found the little area in back with the tables, she was relieved to see no one else was there. “We can grab a seat over here.” She sat down and studied him. “Do you know why I wanted to speak with you and what we have in common?”

Simon couldn’t help but feel a little awkward as he followed Ariana astutely through the market; a tall, scruffy-looking hobo man tailing after a girl who he guessed was likely still in high school probably would’ve turned heads in a more formal environment. Even if he lost her visually, he almost took comfort in the fact that he had picked up her scent well enough that he could probably track her on a better day. And with antihistamines. He’d probably need to tell someone about that one of these days. He tilted his head slightly when they approached the empty area, also internally thankful that there weren’t any bodies to listen in on them and he sat across from the girl. He set his hands on the table in front of him and chose to be invested in her outfit rather than look her in the eye. “You’re… Lucas mentioned you.” He replied softly. “You’re a werewolf. I’m assuming that’s the topic of this discussion.” He said before adding “Unless it’s not that at all and you want to mention my jacket, which I understand. It’s kind of-- it’s no looker,” He chuckled.

Ariana was relieved to have found the man that Lucas told her about. No one should have to figure this out alone. She had been lucky to have not known life any other way. As he spoke, she was sure to keep a close ear out for anyone that may have been approaching. She wasn’t sure how if he had a full grasp on his wolf senses yet. She made herself comfortable at the table and placed her elbows on the table. With a raised brow, she said, “Yes, Lucas mentioned you as well, but didn’t give me a name. He said you were pretty new to this whole thing. I’m sure that’s a pretty big change. How are you adjusting?” Prior she hadn’t actually noticed his jacket, so she laughed and added, “Damn, you found me out. I really just wanted to know where you got your jacket. Looks hella comfy.”

At least she seemed friendly, which appealed to both sides of Simon and the latter felt himself relaxing slightly from his formal position, especially as he noticed her do the same thing. “Yeah, it’s also ‘hella’ ugly and old.” He replied lightly, wishing they could keep talking about fashion instead of things everyone else seemed to think was important. Well, no, that wasn’t correct - he loved to hear about what other people thought were important topics. The more he thought about it, the more he just felt awkward to talk about himself like he had anything interesting to say. “I, uh… can’t complain,” He said mildly, itching his nose as if his body was subtly trying to call him out on the lie. “The deuteranopia is frustrating but that’s really a nitpick in the grand scheme.” He said, not untruthfully. “Oh, um. I’m Simon.” He introduced, thinking maybe he should’ve started with that. “Sorry.”

It was good to see the other wolf relax a bit. Ariana knew if he was new to all of this, the sensory overload may have been a lot to deal with. She wasn’t sure what having human senses felt like, but she knew the hearing and scent was extremely dull in comparison. She couldn’t help but laugh as she said, “You said it, not me.” She rested her head on her knuckles as he spoke. She listened closely, genuinely curious about what his experience with this whole situation was. Her face scrunched up in confusion when he mentioned deuteranopia. “Wait, what’s deuteranopia? I don’t know that word. I know there’s got to be a lot about this that takes getting used to, but it’s good to meet you, Simon.” She needed to get insight to determine if he was safe. He definitely shouldn’t be going through the full moon alone. “So, how long have you been a werewolf? What are your plans for the next full moon?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s uh, red-green colourblindness,” Simon explained. That was the terminology most people were familiar with, after all. BUT at least he couldn’t say he didn’t teach someone a new word. “I didn’t have that until about seven months ago. I can’t tell for sure because I don’t… remember the last handful of full moons,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lucas made a couple of helpful suggestions about the next time, though. He said I should hang out with you guys and we could go for a run,” He couldn’t help but let a small, timid smile cross his sharp features, if only because no one had offered for him to ‘hang out’ with them before. “He told me what it was like, being a wolf. He also said that that was a big part of their family and that he’d been turning since he was a child. What about you?” He asked, curiosity evident in his tone. “I figure you’ve been a wolf a lot longer, too. What does that make you feel? And you can be as honest as you want, I’m obviously not going to judge,” He chuckled again.

“Oh,” Ariana exclaimed, she nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess I’m used to it since I’ve always been colorblind. Throw in some dyslexia and it makes school a blast.” Her tone towards the end hinted at her sarcasm. It had to be strange to go from seeing the world in full color to seeing only part of the spectrum. The rest of her senses were already so sharp, she didn’t quite mind having dulled vision. She noted that it’s been seven months and the not remembering the full moon was concerning. With the hunters out and about, he definitely needed to be with her and Ulfric to ensure his safety. “That means you’ve been a wolf for seven months now then. Spend it with Ulfric and I. There are people in this town who don’t think we should exist. It’s not safe to be out there on a full moon on your own.” It was a relief that danger hadn’t found him yet. Though maybe she wasn’t the best person to be around to avoid danger. She had to remember they were safer in numbers. “Yes, we’d love to have you run with us. It’ll be fun. I’ve been turning since I was a child as well. My parents were both wolves.” She skipped out on mentioning how they were killed. This whole thing had to be overwhelming enough without taking hunters into account. When he asked how she liked being a wolf, she offered a soft smile. “I’ve always been a wolf so I don’t really know anything else. I enjoy it though. I remember the full moons at this point and have fairly good control when it comes down to it. I find the full moon to be liberating. There’s something about running through the wood that just feels… right. I also like the advantage when it comes to strength, smell, and hearing. Comes in handy being well… short. How has the experience been for you? What you can remember of it at least.”

There was a brief glance of sympathy on Simon’s face when she mentioned dyslexia - that combination couldn’t have been that easy. She seemed bright and optimistic though; not the type to let anything keep her down. That was just the impression he got as he listened to her talk about her experiences, about what being a born wolf felt to her - that made at least three wolves now that were born with it. He took a mental note of the name ‘Ulfric’ and the usage of her past-tense mentioning parents - estranged? Passed on? She hadn’t mentioned it so he chalked it up to a negative memory at best. He also noted the similarities of experience between Ariana and Lucas - it felt right. A literal second nature, something Simon and other normal humans only thought they understood. The smile he hadn’t realised was on his face by listening to Ariana faltered when she asked about him, however and his gaze dropped back to his hands. “N-not as… exciting, I don’t think,” His brow furrowed as he struggled to remember even the following mornings of the first moons; he only vaguely recalled the most recent one and he really wished he didn’t. “I don’t remember the nights but… the next day, there’s usually blood and I feel like I got hit by a truck. Or pushed off a rocky cliff.” He explained, trying to sound plain about it but his fingers intertwined with each other nervously.

It dawned on Ariana that the soreness was probably from the transition itself. The body took a long time to get used to it. She wasn’t actually sure on the timeline of that herself. Ulfric grew up with other wolves, he probably had a better idea than she did. She hoped that wasn’t something that lasted too long. When Simon spoke about it, there seemed to be a certain amount of tension. She wished she had more answers, but she knew eventually it would get easier for him. That didn’t make it suck any less that he clearly wasn’t having an easy time with things right now. “I think the soreness is supposed to get better the more you transform. The same thing with your memory. Your hunting drive will be really strong in wolf form. I usually catch deer or some sort of other game.” She shifted away from leaning on her hands to convey what she had to say next was serious. She kept a close ear out for anyone who could be approaching as she spoke. “We have to be careful though. There are people out there who kill our kind. Especially on the full moon, we’ve gotta stick together.”

Though the aspect of it hurting less physically brought Simon a small level of comfort, he still felt himself withdrawing from her. Lucas had said similar things about feeling a drive to hunt, to be on top, about how freeing it felt and about how being together was imperative because of the Hunters, he believed Lucas referred to them as. It all sounded fantastic, for lack of better terminology. Ariana, Lucas and his family, they had an important aspect of this: Control. They had exposure to this side of themselves their entire lives. Simon, frankly, was a nobody and he was perfectly fine by that but he wanted to be a nobody who just happened to be friends with a bunch of werewolves. He didn’t feel free, he felt like his body had been pulled on a torture device. He didn’t feel control, he felt the exact opposite from the lack of memory, waking up covered in blood. He was turning 43 in November; his life was half over and he was just now being pulled into a circle of brotherhood he didn’t even know was a thing until a few days ago. Maybe Hunters existed because of people like him; he was fully ready to acknowledge and defend that Ariana and Lucas were sentient. He wasn’t - when people pictured werewolves, he was that picture. Mindless, aimless killing machines. And he didn’t think it was appropriate to discuss these things with Ariana… She was young and spirited, a promising individual for a good future. He didn’t feel like it was his place to be such a downer, not to her or really anyone else. “Yeah, you’re right,” He said quietly, feeling like he wanted to say more but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Ariana tried to think back over what she said that could have come across the wrong way. The fact people were out to kill them could definitely be enough to make someone uncomfortable. Then again, this whole thing was new to him. She wished she could relate to it a little bit better, but she knew between herself and Ulfric they could help him learn to be more in tune with his wolf side. More than anything, she wanted to make sure Simon was going to be safe. “Yes, I’m sorry if that was a lot to take in. We’ll help with both safety and learning to be more in tune with this new side of yourself.” She hoped it was comforting. It was hard for her to understand just what he was going through, but she wanted to try. She offered him a warm smile and tilted her head slightly, “It’ll be nice to have another wolf around. I’ve actually only recently started to meet other wolves.” She hoped maybe it could help her level with him to some degree though she did hate the look of pity people always gave her when she told them about her parents. She let out a soft sigh and explained, “I was really young when my parents died, so until recently, I hadn’t known anyone else like us.”

Simon’s eyebrows twitched faintly when she mentioned having lost her parents, piecing together more information. She was really young so they didn’t teach her; she had to learn by herself? That separated her from Lucas. She wasn’t aware of other wolves - she wasn’t raised here? The thoughts of Ariana having to grow and learn how to control and embrace the wolf on her own pulled Simon out of his temporary fugue and he lifted his head to look Ariana in the eye for the first time, his gaze conveying empathy with a gentle smile. “And yet here we are,” He said softly. He leaned back and sniffed thickly. “So tell me more about you, Ariana. What do you like, what do you wanna be when you grow up, that sorta thing.” He said as he knuckled his septum, turning his head slightly to keep an eye out on the exposed entryway they arrived from; he wasn’t sure why but he supposed he also wanted to be aware just in case someone who shouldn’t be overhearing their conversation wanted to listen in.

Ariana was pleased with how well this meeting seemed to be going. It even just felt good to be moving on to more normal conversation in the midst of everything that was going on. She leaned forward and rested on her elbows again, feeling eager to find out more about Simon, too. Wolf stuff aside, they were still people with hobbies and lives that weren’t centered entirely around being a werewolf. She started, “Well, I love soccer, cooking, and running a lot. I just started an apprenticeship at Trusty Wood so I’ll be going into carpentry. My sister still has some hope I may actually take some college classes, but I don’t know if I really want to do that.” She never thought she’d actually enjoy talking about school. She’d be happy to go back to a failing Algebra grade being her biggest problem, but that wasn’t how life worked. She solved the Algebra problem at least. Maybe they could solve this, too. She shook that thought. “What about you,” she said, “What do you like to do? And well, I guess you are grown up, so what do you do?”

Soccer, now that seemed like a good way to burn energy. Simon’s constitution never gifted him with an ability to play sports(until now, at least) but he found soccer the most entertaining to watch - it had the least amount of standing around and discussing superfluous things - he would’ve rather read a book during those times. He made a mental note to attend her games in the future. He also made a note that she mentioned having a sister. Didn’t bring her up when talking about wolves so he guessed she wasn’t one. That raised the question: Could one child be given wolf shifting as a trait but not another? Unless they weren’t related but either way, it meant Ariana didn’t spend her time entirely alone as either the wolf or the human. Oh, duh, she probably had an adoptive family-- but wait, did that work with orphaned wolf pups? He would probably learn some more of these answers in the future, so for now, just focus on THE now. “Me?” He asked. “Oh, uh... “ At least it wasn’t talking about being a wolf. “Well, I used to be a forensic technician but I’m a janitor at the Morgue, at the moment,” He decided to be honest with her. “I enjoy reading, learning new things… I need to get back into playing the piano. I’m out of practise,” He admitted, subconsciously clenching then unclenching his left hand as he said that.

Ariana had to wonder if the switch in jobs had anything to do with his transition, but for once decided against spewing out too many questions in one go. She had no doubt that they’d have time to get to know each other. Shifting focus to the piano thing would definitely be wiser. That had more of a physical aspect to it and she didn’t enjoy reading. Audiobooks were okay, but even so she usually preferred the sound of nature or a good song. She wondered if he hadn’t practiced because of the transition, too. She wasn’t sure how wolf hearing compared to human hearing other than it was intrinsically better. Once he got used to it, music at reasonable volumes was enjoyable. She really hated the piccolo though. Whenever she’d hear the marching band practice, the high pitches always sounded cringe worthy. “Piano, huh? Do you still have one you can practice on? I always enjoyed listening to music with piano in it. I’ve never played an instrument unless you count those god awful recorders they make you learn to play in elementary school.” She laughed a bit before she added, “Not sure if it’s our hearing that makes them sound so grating or if they really are just that bad. Is there a particular genre you enjoy playing most?”

Simon also laughed when she mentioned the recorders from elementary school. “You were right the second time; I couldn’t stand them as a child, either.” And he didn’t want to imagine how they’d sound nowadays given how much more sensitive his hearing tended to be. “And call me old-fashioned but I prefer classical - name any pseudo-famous pianist and I probably know a song or two by them.” As he talked, his right hand mimicked the motions of playing a simple tune on the table in front of him for a few moments before stopping as he sighed. “Unfortunately, I still don't… I didn’t bring a whole lot of things with me when I moved here,” He admitted, a dash of melancholy in his tone. “I’d like to acquire one soon though, just to give myself something to do in my spare time.” The feeling washed over him and he looked at Ariana once more. “I’ve never played a sport, myself - aside from what they made us do in P.E.,” He added. “What made you decide to choose… soccer--” He barely got the question out when he turned his head away from her suddenly and dipped it into the crook of his arm, sneezing twice. “Gah! Sorry--” He apologised hastily, keeping a hand over his face while the other fished around in his pockets and he felt something sink in his stomach when he found his packet of tissues but not the familiar bottle of pills. Of… COURSE he forgot them because why wouldn’t he have? It was just too convenient and a brief look of frustration crossed his features. “I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me,” He apologised again as he applied a tissue to his face. “Um… sports. Yeah, that’s what we were talking about. Soccer.” He plowed right on through. Sports!

Ariana shook her head, shocked that they sounded that bad with human hearing and they were still forced to learn them. “Wow, they made us put on concerts with those things knowing how bad they sounded? Big yikes.” She nodded along and realized half the crap she listened to would probably not be up his alley. Post Malone was a far cry from classical piano music, but he was America’s Sweetheart. She did remember a few piano songs from her music history class though and responded, “The only piano song I remember by name is Moonlight Sonata… which may be for obvious reasons.” She laughed a bit at her own lame joke. Really anything that reminded her of the moon always stood out in her mind. “You should totally get one,” she said eagerly even though she had no idea how much pianos cost, “I’d love to hear you play sometime.” Her face lit up at the mention of soccer again, but quickly scrunched up in confusion at the loud sneeze. He seemed very thrown off by sneezing and apologized. She shook her head and said, “Don’t worry, we all sneeze. Unfortunately, being a wolf doesn’t give us a break from that… Well, clearly as you can see.” He seemed set on bringing it back to soccer and she was happy to talk about her favorite hobby. There was something about being on a team and getting to run around for long periods of time that really just suited her well. “I tend to prefer team sports and soccer is my favorite of them. Always running around and getting to be outside? Definitely a good way to burn off some energy. I’ve played basketball in the past, too, but I don’t enjoy it quite as much. Sports aren’t everyone’s thing though. Music is pretty badass, too. What inspired you to learn piano?”

‘Yeah, being a wolf is part of the problem, I think.’ The thought flitted through Simon’s mind briefly but he expressed genuine interest in Ariana’s enthusiasm for soccer though he made another mental note about her remembrance of Beethoven, giving her a small smile as she made the joke. Be that as it may, it was still a good song. “Tell you what,” He said first. “I’ll play Moonlight Sonata for you sometime if you teach me some of the ins and outs of soccer.” He absently took to scratching at his arms now as if the sneeze reminded his body that though his mind was having a good time, it wasn’t. It was fine, it was supposed to be a new moon. Maybe he was excited, bouncing back from that little pity party he threw. Was it a pity party? He couldn’t never tell. “I was… ffffive, I think, when I started playing and really, I only chose it because my mom told me I couldn’t be a velociraptor when I grew up,” He laughed, recalling the memory. “My parents both work in the medical field but I’ve always loved music.” That was when he wondered how different his playing would sound now given the changes in his… lifestyle. He also wondered how much a piano would cost. He would certainly look into it, now.

Ariana had decided that she thoroughly liked Simon. There was something about him that was sweet and endearing despite the fact he was a good deal older than her. He didn’t talk to her like she was still a kid who didn’t know anything about the world. They could level with each other and she looked forward to helping him learn the ins and outs of being a wolf. She extended her hand out to shake on it and said, “Deal. You play Moonlight Sonata and I teach you soccer. Sounds like a blast.” She grinned widely and was very glad that she found Simon. She noticed he seemed to be a bit uncomfortable as he was scratching his arms. She didn’t want to press too much so she focused back on his story about playing the piano. Five years old was super young. There was no way someone could have gotten her to sit down long enough to learn piano at five years old. “Wow,” she said, “That’s pretty cool you’ve been playing so long. Not quite as cool as growing up to be a velociraptor, but still pretty cool. I’ve always enjoyed listening to music, particularly on runs. What’s your favorite song to play?”

“Yeah, well… I guess there isn’t a lot of demand for professional velociraptors so piano it was,” Simon chuckled as his hand went up to rub at his jaw either out of irritation or contemplation - this question always made him think because he seemed to have a different answer every time. “I think to choose just one would be tantamount to only picking one book or one best friend.” Indeed, books and music WERE his only friends when he was a child. She did not need to hear this depressing-but-factual claim. “I’ll just be broad and say I’ve always preferred Chopin. Again, stereotypical but everyone has something. What kind of music do you like, whether on runs or just in general?” He asked, finding that it was rapidly becoming easier to talk to her; she seemed ambitious, forward, and eager. She had a ‘bull by the horns’ mentality about her, a trait he couldn’t help but appreciate regardless of the source. He recalled just earlier when he felt awkward following her and realised looking back, people might’ve thought that he would’ve been trouble when in actuality, he would’ve been the one IN trouble.

“What a shame,” Ariana said with a laugh, “It would’ve been really cool to meet a professional velociraptor.” Maybe she spoke too soon. Next thing she knew White Crest would reveal some dinosaur like monster that would make her eat her words. Oh, well, she couldn’t let it ruin her A+ jokes. She listened as he mentioned Chopin. “Huh, I’ve definitely heard of Chopin but don’t know if I can actually remember a song from them. Oh well, probably nothing you’d like. Unless you’re secretly a huge Post Malone and Khalid fan in which case, you’d really be full of surprises.�� She giggled a bit at the thought of him jamming to Posty. Simon definitely seemed to be opening up a little easier now. He seemed a bit hesitant at first, but now conversation came easily. She had no doubt they’d be an awesome pack.

Simon opened his mouth as if to say something, paused, then closed it again. “Iiiii have never heard of either of those, so we’re even.” He admitted, making a note to look them up later. Was the man’s first name Post? That was interesting, certainly more interesting than his rising frustration with his immune system as he muttered a low ‘excuse me’ and turned his head again to sneeze twice more. At least he had a tissue this time. “Sorry,” He cleared his throat, finally relinquishing what he had been suppressing in the name of good conversation. “But is there any way we could walk and talk to the nearest corner store or pharmacy?” He swallowed what little pride he had. “My allergies aren’t happy with me.” He gave her a sheepish half smile, eyebrow twinging with embarrassment and no shortage of guilt, feeling like he was prioritizing things wrong and cutting their talk short. It was his fault, after all, that he forgot any form of medication.

Ariana laughed along at Simon not knowing who Posty and Khalid were. “I didn’t think you would, they’re pretty popular with my generation. Not sure they’re really up your alley.” They were a far cry from classical piano music. Both artists were fun though and she particularly loved Post. As Simon sneezed again, Ariana gave him a sympathetic look and said, “Bless you.” At the mention of walking to the corner store with him, she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, for sure! Want you to be comfortable. Seems like the allergies are treating you pretty rough today.” As an afterthought, she asked, “What are you allergic to?”

The weight that always sank to the pit of his stomach whenever Simon felt inconvenient lightened when she seemed willing to accompany him. Then again, part of him figured that she wouldn’t turn her nose up to a bit of walking - she did play soccer. He sniffled and got to his feet, pushing in his chair and he paused for a lengthy moment when she asked her most recent question. He could’ve said anything; indeed, they were at a public market full of conflicting scents and overwhelming aromas. It COULD’VE been anything but… it wasn’t and no matter how embarrassing or detrimental to his character information was, Simon didn’t like lying. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Dogs,” He said first, then exhaled and pointed to her slowly, then turned his finger to point to himself as he gave her a look that said ‘yyyyep’.

Accompanying him to the corner store was really no big deal in Ariana’s book. She was just excited to know another wolf and that her and Ulf would be able to help him adjust to this new life. When he answered the question on what he was allergic to, she looked at him incredulously. Dogs which translated to wolves. Which meant he was allergic to her and himself. Big fucking yikes. “Wow, I’m surprised the bite didn’t like… counteract that. I’m sorry, that’s gotta be not fun. Let’s go get you some allergy meds so you feel better.” Once again, she was directing the way so Simon could have everything he needed to feel comfortable and not sneezy. She didn’t want to be contributing to the wolfy sneezes.

“Yeah, you’d think being mauled then subsequently, er…” Well, Simon didn’t want to call it ‘cursed’ in front of someone who had been born with it though he felt like it would be a long time before he accepted being a werewolf as anything other than a ‘parasitic relationship’ or ‘curse’. “Biologically altered--” Nice save. “Would’ve negated that. I guess we can’t all be so lucky,” He chuckled with another sniff, tending to his face with the tissue again. He still felt guilty and immediately thought about how he could’ve translated that answer better or less awkwardly but he settled for a quiet “Sorry.” He was always sorry. What he was more than sorry right now though, embarrassing admittance of his body’s rejection against his own kind now aside, was thankful that Ariana both stayed and still offered to lead him given how unfamiliar he was with everything in town. Wolves really did stick together but he wondered just how big of a liability he still was - wasn’t the ‘pack’ only as strong as its weakest member? That’s how human groups worked, or… what managers would tell their beleaguered employees to scare them into being more productive. He had to stop being negative. “Er… Sorry if this isn’t the right time but I’m glad you sniffed me out, Ariana,” He glanced down at her with a gentle smile.

Ariana did her best to hold back a grimace at his mention of being mauled. That has to be traumatizing and it made her more determined to help him feel comfortable as a wolf. “We’ll just have to keep a hefty supply of allergy pills and tissues then,” she said with a sheepish grin. More than anything, she wanted to be good support for the transition he was going through. There was pep in her step as she directed them to the corner store. She was happy she found another werewolf and someone that she was actually able to help. Her’s and Lucas’ situations both felt hopeless. It was nice to have things with an easy solution like simply watching out for him and teaching him about being a wolf. “I’m glad, too. I think you and Ulf will be fast friends. Good to have you as part of the pack.” She gave his arm a playful punch as they made their way up the block. Their pack was really coming along and it left Ariana with a warm feeling. Maybe things could work out after all.

#mister i'll make a wolf out of you #simon #// i can't lie #a conversation with vi inspired this title #wickedswriting

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autismisaokay · 5 years

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The finalized version of the autistic vocabulary that was posted in my school’s newsletter. I’d like to thank everyone who helped contribute to this and can help explain terminology to those in need.

Autistic Vocabulary

The English vocabulary is vastly different than how it was thirty-eight years ago. It’s even different than it was ten years ago. If you were being bullied in the eighties it would be a “grody” situation. Nowadays it would simply be referred to as a “hot mess”. Autistic vocabulary is no different, we have our new words too, to help not only explain autistic behavior. For the way that some of us may or may not like to be called by. Terminology for non-autistic people too that we can use and call them by. This article will be a chance to learn that terminology and perhaps broaden other’s vocabulary.

#actuallyautistic- A safe space tag for people on the spectrum that isn’t for people who do not have autism. It’s a way for speaking our own truths in the community that has a better time for the most part at understanding us. This tag can be found on popular social media sites/apps such as Tumblr Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Youtube and so on.

#autism acceptance- A large quantity of the masses are already aware of autism to an extent. What this tag is trying to explain is that we need more acceptance for who we are as people and in society.

#redinstead- If you see this tag it means a person is against Autism Speaks. Autism Speaks uses #light it up blue for their brand of autism awareness. This tag is made by an autistic person to be used by autistics and allies to promote autism acceptance.

Ableism/Ableist- (aye-bal-ism or aye-bal-ist) A person who defines a disabled person on what they can and cannot do. Or if they are even disabled at all. They can have little to no prior knowledge or be a friend/partner/family and do this to a person. They view disabled people on their worth and what they can and can’t do from their perspective.

Neurodiversity- (nur-o-div-er-isty) A neuro difference of the human brain compared to most brains. It is a viewpoint backed by scientists. Neurodiverse brains are variants of the human genome. There is a movement going on right now called the Neurodiverse Movement which is all being categorized as an Autism Rights Movement and a civil rights movement. Fighting for more accommodations and better treatment such as technologies, home care, medical help, monetary support educational support and help with discriminations.

“Nothing about us without us”- Started by the Disabled Movement in rallying for rights and support. This statement is the catchphrase for ASAN the Autistic Self Advocacy Network. It’s pretty self-explanatory in meaning if it’s not backed by an autistic people you probably shouldn’t be using/apart of it.

Stim/Stimming (St-im) (stim-ing)- Self soothing repetitive habits that help calm down autistic people. It should be noted that not only autistic people stim but people with ADHD do too and anyone can stim. Which was why the fidget spinner and fidget box phase was going so well because stimming helps not only regulate the body but help you focus as well. The technical terminology is self-stimulatory behavior. It could be a bodily motion by spinning, hand flapping, chewing, hair twirling, pen clicking, there is no specific way to stim. Some may be more common than others. There can be more subtle ways to stim such as visual and auditory. You could listen to certain songs over and over again or only one song but reputedly. Looking at certain pictures on your phone might help too. These are the only some of the wide range of stim’s culture that can be interpreted in many different ways that can be gratifying.

Spoons/Spoon theory- Spoon theory was originally used to describe chronic illnesses by Christine Miserandino but has branched out in supporting people with mental illnesses and autistics with an explanation. The explanation of our energy on mental, social, and physical and how it works.

They are used as a representation of how much energy we have throughout to day-to-do certain tasks. If someone only woke up with twenty spoons they would have to manage how many they used throughout the day. 5 for getting dressed, 1 for making breakfast, and so on and so forth. Once you run out it’s just that you’ve run out and we can’t get our energy back or push through like many other people. We have to take a rest and trying to get it back by stimming, taking part in a special interest, or just taking a five-minute sit in a dim quite area. Sometimes depending on how much energy was expended that may not even help. So that’s why it’s important to plan carefully on how we use them and know prior to what we are doing.

Scripting- Scripting is when an autistic person has practiced a certain set of words or phrases to say in social interactions. It can be used for a variety of circumstances when getting through the social world.

Example: Barb has a hard time ordering food at Mcdonald’s at the cash register her words become jumbled, anxious, and she forgets what she wants to order and becomes silent. Barb has been practicing the same phrase prior in the mirror for five minutes before she came to McDonald's. Barb has remembered her order and was able to communicate what she wanted.

SpIn- (sp-in) It’s just a shorter way of saying Special Interest.

Twice exceptional or 2e- A term in the educational field for people with learning and mental disabilities. It refers to “gifts” they have such as the things they excel in (reading, math, art, so on) and their disabilities.

Allistic- (allie-is-tic) Specifically means to not be autistic.

Masking- Commonly seen as a female presenting autism trait but any orientation with autism can do it. It’s when an autistic person masks their autistic traits in order to blend in with the world around them. It can help them with getting friendships, family, jobs, and even relationships. In the long haul, masking is unhealthy and leads to more psychological problems then it does good.

#actuallyautistic #actually autistic #autism #autistic #autism vocabulary

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thefinishpiece · 4 years

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Dance Of Exploding Eggs

The dead do not wash their feet.

Neither does not Nadia. She was still alive, still staring at the marks of peckish dirt encasing her feet like a spotted glaze. Yet, less appetizing.

Instead, she was reviled to find where her veins strutted up to form long, sinewy ridges—her usually clear complexion blemished in wildfires of tawny gunk.

Even her tiny hairs, which she regularly shaved, were now trees bristling in leaves of muddied bluster. In the clefts between her toes, little clans of grungy warriors built camps and lit fires, letting their filth fly freely, while fending off the fungal barbarians sure to be surrounding them any second now.

Her toenails fared no better, each one piling unto itself as a layered cake of dead cells. Hardened, deadened, sharp—soot-stricken orphans seeking shelter beneath the curves, shivering yet ordained by structure to never clog or obstruct the construction of new nail, which constantly builds outward as a bridge of flattened crystal-flesh. Until gravity clutches it and pulls it down, looping back into the very toe it tried to escape from, almost like a parasite that can’t quite leave the taste of its host behind.

And the stench from all this—pervading passed all bounds of invisible air, leaping up so fast and flourishing, by the time it reaches the nose it is a blossoming fist of smell, punching nostrils closed, knocking out any other aroma present.

How could any conscious being permit such an expanse of putridness to grow on itself?

Nadia did not have to ponder for long because she blamed herself supremely and solely. Just as well, since she blamed herself often and deeply.

“I have to wash my feet...” she muttered to herself. “A good soak is all they need.”

In her quiet inspection, she lamented the dead. For as they were, being deceased, their feet could deteriorate and decay all they like, because at six-feet-under earthly crust, no one can smell them or complain about them, and they themselves could not openly accuse themselves of being the opposite of hygienic and failing to hide natural odor from their own judgmental eyes. Because despite how natural the growth of dirtiness on feet seemed to be, it was still considered hideous to everyone—especially Nadia—and frowned upon by many in circles high above the very ground upon which these very feet walked on.

“There is fungus growing on these, I just know it.” Nadia assured herself.

But as she did, pinching the derelict spots in quiet contempt, her companion muddled platitudes of support, remarking how happy he would be to scrape off all those mushrooms on her feet and cook a nice dish with them—maybe a soup or pasta or something.

“Wild shrooms like that always have such an earthly taste you can’t find anywhere else!”

“Here then, have a taste yourself!” Nadia sneered, shoving her foot right into her companion’s face, her wilderness-blessed toes tapping classical melodies on his face.

He playfully grabbed her ankle and kissed her toes all over, licking his lips, wearing a face like a golden-tongued chef being asked by the gods to decide whose confection was best—was it the lemon-frosted cream-cake by Hekate, or perhaps the pineapple-pudding pie which Hermes made?

Nadia giggled, curling her toes, still concerned by her bothersome feet, but quite content to have someone overcome it for the sake of amusing her. And he did amuse her—in all ways. It is the only reason she even agreed to go on this trip—especially after what happened so long ago.

Otherwise, she would have stayed at home, soaking her feet to a wrinkled gleam.

And as she removed her foot from his face, returning her leg to a proper position, she was appropriately careful not to disturb the eggs on the dashboard, which were bundled together in a basket, with blots of cotton mixed in to keep them buoyant and prevent unintentional collision.

As they both quit laughing—his attention focusing in on the road ahead and Nadia suddenly forgetful of the plague wreaking havoc on her feet—the quiet hiss of the eggs could be heard. Whatever it was developing within them, it emitted this sullen spitting, penetrating through its shell at a volume just loud enough to hear in silence, but just silent enough to be swallowed by any mention of another sound (any other mention of sound).

Nadia gazed at the eggs, listening to them curse and whine, wondering if it was pain or hate that compelled them to make such sour tones.

“These things are so foul.” Nadia noted. Her companion nodded without looking. “Sure, but so are your feet.”

A smirk bit his face, and Nadia just shook her head smiling. At least she had him here. These eggs seemed rather harmless with him here.

|1|

The shells were golden, as if molded after myth and greed.

But why did they have to stay in the bathroom? On the sink, where they paired with their reflection to ensure a double flood of grotesque gold every time Nadia must floss her teeth or comb her hair? Why could they not be hidden somewhere out of sight—especially somewhere insulated so their acidic whispers could not be audible to anyone?

Especially to Nadia, who was in here simply to clean her feet, not hear the hissing of eggs she only agreed to transport because he had asked. No one else could have convinced her.

Her hope was that the droning drops of the bath faucet would wrestle the background noise to a comfortable hum, a soothing sensory song of automated splash and meditative whirl. Her plan functioned the way she intended—as soon as the metallic mouth started spraying its aquatic continuum, the noise of the eggs suddenly dispersed.

But they remained problematic in sight—they clung to her peripheral vision, a visual squid stretching its tentacles all around her attention.

Nadia prepared herself in front of the toilet rather than the mirror, quite resistant to being in the same reflection as these hideous eggs. Her companion rested in the adjacent room, a reasonably upheld hotel room which was lighted in decorative wallpapers depicting seashells and seahorses—a recently refurbished décor which imitated the appearance of something fancier than the price indicated.

But in spite of such comfortable accommodations, a thorn continued to reside in Nadia’s proverbial sides.

Those eggs, which strung such horrible tunes in the air and were plunged in equally offensive hue—a gold of unnatural paleness, something not gifted from heaven but from some otherworldly dimension where an affectionate spectrum does not exist, thus having to translate its previous color into one compatible with this reality, but without an actual frame of reference to consummate the translation. There was no color in this place that could suffice for these eggs. And the gold that they finally settled on was not even really matched to any credible source—it may have been a color you could recognize and possibly categorize, but only in a dissimilar demeanor, such as comparing the tides of ocean to the tides of flame.

These eggs had chosen a color that only pretended to be a color.

This imitative impression disgusted every sensibility Nadia possessed. But for whatever morbid condition ailing her, she could not bring herself to look away. And this only further repulsed her.

So, in response, she swathed a towel over the eggs, concealing them from view, then proceeded to peel herself bare and bathe. However, every once in a while, she still glanced at that mound of cerulean-cloth, knowing in her mind’s eye exactly what lay beneath, even though it had been deafened and buried. It was the power of a thought over a reality.

Nadia sighed. She desperately desired to change the course of her thoughts. She sunk into the porcelain tub, at first cold and crippling, awaiting its eventual completion.

The faucet drummed, and waves formed floor after floor of boiling bubbles, swirling in suds, molten layers of cleansing water swaying over her to and fro, steady and unhurried. The coldness was removed, replaced by rippling heat, almost as if blankets of temper were tenderly placed over her body, one after the other, building a tomb of liquid steam around her.

It was a reverse evaporation—the atmosphere condensation upon her, the dissolved now soluble again. Once free particles of hotness pinched from the sky and folded into pockets of wetness, spraying on Nadia’s body in a measured massage.

Finally, she was relaxing.

Her mind receded to memories—as a wandering mind is known to do. Instances made of time and place, proportioned to emotional heights, to moody lows, to kinetic propulsion of person and thing, interacting in a dream, where motion is unclear, and the most prominent aspect is how far away something so superbly significant can feel. That paradox of memory.

In hers, there was a beach.

On a day of stormy composition. Yet rain had held back, and a warm breeze flew swanlike across the scene. Deep hues of sapphire magma spiraling against the shore, not in rage but in prance.

How strange to see it cascading in the horizon, colliding with a sky of dreary steel, specks of blackened rust puncturing the clouds—much akin to dirt on feet. But it is not dark. Even through stormy screens, sunlight performs its duty and the world is visible in leaden beauty.

Nadia is there, in a dress.

A thing of red-clay converted to silk, with threaded jewels of turquoise. She is spinning in an unseen weaver’s wheel, their fingers rolling her around. But she is not dancing alone. For there is another, a man, joining her and twirling with her. His unbuttoned shirt is flurrying as he moves. Until at last, they spin into one another, joyous. They both laugh and tremble, collapsing onto the sand, their arms stuck together in a knot. And they lay there, tied together, unflinching, undisturbed—as if being made into a knot was their one true intention all along.

And these two human strings admire each other. So much so that when rain oscillates upon them, they do not even notice. In drenched, clustering sand, they reciprocate affection, lips lancing against each other, bodies tying together, their knot tightening ever more and more, until one has to wonder if you could ever untie them apart.

Nadia giggles. She remembers how unconcerned they were with ruining their respective garments. The clumps of damp sand encrusting both of their backs like the shells on a tortoise. But their torsos were untouched—so concerned with being wrapped so close to each other, no open space was possible. And the feeling of wet lips, uncaring to rain and sand, compressing themselves dry in the heat of faucet-fusion.

Then the deluge pours over, erupting across the smooth-sides, and Nadia jumps, startling herself.

In her delighted daydream, she had let the bath overfill, now overflowing onto bathroom tile. She leaps for the octagonal handle, carved of candied glass, halting the water and ending the storm.

Now she is alone again.

Except for that faint fuse, with its spark flickering forever. Though it never reaches its destination—it only barks continually, that sound of sparkling dust. Then Nadia’s state of dazed grace concludes abruptly, as she understands there is no dynamite-stick, but a collection of disgraceful eggs, unmuted. She wishes so much she could just boil them, get it over with.

Nadia loosens the drain, ignoring the eggs, her peaceful spa now tainted and confused.

Upset, she watches the water vanish piece by piece, until all that is, is a remainder of puddled past—a shallow spit of soap caught on the edge of indented drain. Reminiscent of gunk beneath toenails. Reminding her of scattered sand memories.

And those blasted eggs, hissing and hissing and hissing…

A space Nadia must escape.

She leaves the bathroom, still drenched but entombed by a bathrobe. She strides passed the bed where her companion remains asleep, his own body beneath a crypt of blankets and sheets, resting in infinite dreams in some unhurried afterlife. Snores ensuing.

Nadia has never quite contoured to his awful snoring, so steady and surly. She assumed after a certain period of time her ears would be accustomed to it, that she would barely notice his nasal belches as if they were blank booms. But this threshold proved unreachable, and every time Nadia hears it, she can never concentrate nor slumber.

Rain casts against the window. A shame because Nadia desires to peek outside, absorb the bounty of the natural world, refreshing and ravaging all at once. Storms have an unusual pull on the heart, which in turn, has an unusual way of peeling the body—unable to hide oneself anymore, becoming a spark of nude thunder.

Replacing one insensitive sound for another, Nadia crumbles in indolence, retreating to the bathroom, considering that she cannot smother her companion with a towel to stop his bleating, but she can at least inter the eggs to divisible hum. And from there, all she has to do is plead ignorance. So, back to the bathroom.

|2|

Back in the bathroom, Nadia is given a dress.

Even though she is still wet from the rain, she cannot reject such a gracious gesture, so she glues it to her skin to prevent it from slipping off. Then she is asked to dance.

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’m any good.” Nadia blushes. But it insists. “Okay—but only if you dance with me.”

Nadia extends her hand. She is taken by a presence and together they twirl and taper across the slippery tile. At first, they are sloppy, awkwardly jutting into corners or stepping over each other’s path. But eventually they adapt, they crease together, a makeshift rhythm developing between them, motion now momentum—bodies now ballet.

They dance ellipticals across the room, channeling each other’s orbits, certain not to collide, and certainly not to disrupt the beautiful gravity they have plumed. But Nadia, without intention or reason, happens to witness her feet, and by their gross gravitas, she plummets to the floor.

No more dancing.

Nadia sighs. All the vapors have disappeared. The bathroom is cold again. Shivering, she looks around for a towel. But the only one is placed over the dreadful eggs she despises so much. It seems as if Nadia has condemned herself to a fate of lying naked on the floor forever.

“I hate these eggs!” Nadia shouts.

Nobody is disturbed. Not even her companion, who continues his hibernation uninterrupted. It is just Nadia, alone, with that menacing mumble, ceaseless yet contained, the eggs still whining even under their threaded prison.

She accepts her misfortune and adjusts her position to sitting on the toilet lid, her bottom crippling from the icy white, but she seems unbothered.

Nadia angles her legs up, her feet poised on the bathtub ledge. She grabs a complimentary sponge and starts scrubbing her feet, up and down every crevice and crack, across entire soles and ankles and toe-folds. Precise, she does not move too rapidly—she takes the time to ensure perfection on her mission of erasing every negative note from her two feet.

The procedure has become habit, and habit lends itself to repetition becoming daydream. Daydream which lends itself to becoming habit, and habit which turns into the rituals of reality that bind us to corporeal certainty, whether consciously or not.

And isn’t that such a curious thing how the brain tricks you into believing what it wants you to believe, what it thinks is best, what it thinks is real—strangely contradicting what your conscious view sees? What you truly want?

Nadia never quite comprehended how her mind could repel in two alternate directions, as if the thing inside her skull was nothing more than a mere magnet, positive and negative pulses, rippling against each other, stuck in marrow-molded bondage, forced to reconcile petty differences and levitate in static vibration; a feigned vibrancy where thought and imagination and curiosity can pretend to be things of their own, when truly they are products of electrical folly. Nervousness.

And she absolutely did not comprehend the track of time either, which seemed to have evaporated, along with a patch of her skin, as suddenly she was stabbed by a searing sensation on her foot.

Wincing, she examined the cause, seeing that in her furious daze she had rubbed too heavily with the sponge, scraping off a small surface of her foot, now catalyzed in blood. It did not bleed in a traditional way, but due to the nature of the wound, seeped out of the area in knitted dots, scarlet-putty pushing through a weave.

Nadia grabbed the towel and padded her foot, but in doing so, permitted those dastardly eggs to breathe once more, and their breaths were just as constant and corrosive as ever. All they did was hiss, hiss, hiss…

Waves.

From sound and light. Sneaking up Nadia’s skin like little spiders of clustered vibration.

Into the green she goes.

Eaten up by trees, her hair yearning to be a leaf on her head, vibrant and veiny, waving and curling in verdant wind. Along a road she goes, feet swimming across the mud, her body moving like a tidal wave against a shoreless beach. Escape.

At the zenith of her path—an overlook, decorated in tufts of earthy hair and nails, with strewn logs and sharp boulders. A view of the remaining wood, its belly lunging up and down in tectonic reflux, aligned with pine and bark and brush, each ridge and valley adorning itself in its own personal collection of green.

Nadia approaches the edge of this cliff, which oversees the forest it is a part of as if separate from it.

A table is set, draped in a pretend-petal curtain, where anxious porcelain cups hold its quiet magma, blessed of roots stripped and shaken and seared. Her companion is there, holding a bouquet, so full of rainbow passion, an assortment of flowery praise that only Aphrodite could deserve—yet it is for Nadia, of all things!

A surprise picnic at the end of the world.

Her companion offers her a seat, which she does not refuse. The sky is elaborate in shades of violet and azure, a strange suffusion of dark and bright—a peripheral sunrise stuck in perpetual sunset. But it is not a fiery sun so much as it is a sun of shadows; yet everything under it is visible and vibrant. Only in a dream.

But Nadia does not listen to such negative inclinations, her attention purely focused on her companion, who sits beside her, his arm nestling against her shoulders, warm and safe. They both grab a cup of tea, ascend to touch and tip their fortunes to each other, then lifting to their lips to swallow it to oblivion—how odd to have stomachs, our own personal abyss within our body.

It tastes like angel-bath, sweet and mentholating, warm and exasperate in faith—the faith that this feeling would last forever.

For Nadia, it might as well, because every other moment after was nothing but pale failure.

And, especially, when her companion gazes into her eyes, without breaking away, with an amount of longing and affection so deep and infusive, she finds herself trembling, even though sight is only sight.

But she stares back at him, his face crinkling together almost like a cone, pointed directly at her, as if no surrounding sensation could deter him from this view. Not the mountains; not the sky; not the dream of universe complete. Only her—Nadia—and her face, however dirty or seemingly normal it may seem to her, is a boundless source of inspiration to him. And she feels enslaved by it, put in a bondage that is pleasantly accepted—a surrender, a submission.

Then the purples fade.

And light of fairy-blood returns, swirling and maddening.

Suddenly, trees are bleeding viridian, and their natural hue strolls unto review. Back into the green again, as Nadia feels a kiss, and disappears forever in trees of passion pleased.

But something is sour.

She does not remember his kiss being so acerbic, cutting her, leaving her in bled-refrain. What sort of perverted spring is this?

It stings. She wipes his saliva from her lips, but it bubbles on her fingertips, to the point of boiling. She grimaces, wondering why there is pain. She looks up to see her lover’s eyes vanished, and alone on this precipice. Her entire jaw is sliced away, sliver by sliver, her bones crackling, her muscles spoiling. Her face falls like rotten fruit from its frame, the heaviness of mold and rot too much for romantic gravity to bear. So it drops her all the way to a tomb of disgrace. Buried beneath the earth, there is Nadia’s love—a displaced view.

Nadia awakes. Returned from the green.

She is holding one of the eggs to her lips, kissing it.

In her trance, her mind had found folly in trying to replace the imaginary with an effigy of the real. Disgusted, she flings the egg away from her face, splattering it on the bathroom mirror, its sizzling insides leaving a repulsive stain. So bitter.

Nadia immediately invokes the sink, splashing water onto her face, trying to remove the taint from her mouth, still smoldering in a sourness of demonic proportions. As she spits, there is blood—not fantastical illusion or fanciful daydream, but actual, fetid blood.

“I hate these fucking eggs!” Nadia screams, her throat convulsing in rage.

Nobody responds. Except, of course, the eggs, which hissed and hissed and hissed…

|3|

There once was a time when Nadia was loved.

The way a person should be loved. The way a foot is loved by the hand that cleans it. So thoroughly and carefully, so unpretentiously unconditional—just doing what it needs to do to make everything clear and happy again.

Whatever it takes, Nadia used to think. For the sake of clean feet.

Nadia snickered. That was not at all what she used to think. How could one remember so far away?

Those distant shores of memory, where every cleft of sand looks the same as every buried barnacle. Where is the savior ship come to rescue us from pity and pernicious regret?

Marooned on a beach of unused life, wallowing through our scorn like gulls picking through twigs, snapping and scuttling over branch and jewel, trying to find our prize, our possession of perfect scene and elation. That moment when our lives essentially defined themselves, and everything after relegated to the fade— our true revelation of this story we continue to scribe.

But Nadia, no matter how much she scoured, could not find this missing trinket, of which she thought for sure would finally unravel the mystery of Nadia.

Was it the first day of school when she threw up on the classroom floor, a nervous bile overtaking her when the teacher asked her to introduce herself?

It should have been a simple, ‘Hello, my name is Nadia.’

But instead, it was a terrible mosaic of gulp and gruel. So embarrassing.

No, surely, it was in her feet. The mark of her miraculous moment. When they were still young paws, so fresh from hatching they still had webbing on them...

Nadia wanted to be a ballerina.

One of those composed and captured creatures, ignoring the chaos of the world around them, performing a movement of perfected grace and graceful ritual. Every step a note on the composition’s line, leading a symphony of shape and swerve, never letting itself become consumed by any emotion or nonsense which would disrupt its willful path.

An offering to the gods of geometry, aligning your feet in a poise more perfect than constellation, moving in the same seasonal march of ebb and flow—repeating, repeating, repeating. This is the dance of no-dance. A motion of purpose.

Until it is over.

Until a cormorant appears, and Nadia, too far gone in her ellipsis, trips right over the flurried thing, spiraling through the air, over the side of edible stage. Now, she is drifting into the black, gravity’s charms dispersed, composer’s graciousness displeased.

Until suddenly, she emerges from the black unto the blue—a crystal shore she has seen before, the only sound being that of pant and wave. And there is the feathered imp, whose beak is whistling to her demise, as she pours onto the beach.

“If only you could fly...” the cormorant says.

Nadia scoops herself up from the sand, wincing. “Must be nice.”

The cormorant fluffs its wings then takes to flight, soaring high above the earth it mocks.

Nadia’s foot vibrates in pain, every muscle and tendon and ligament ringing a rapacious storm of ache. Before she can soothe her pain, however, Nadia’s mother comes and grabs her hand, leading her away.

Nadia cringes with every step, her left foot refusing to touch ground, her right one barely stable and straining as it is dragged along.

“Your father’s gone—not that he was ever here...”

Nadia’s mother puffs a cigarette. There are no other kids in the hospital room. Only passed and broken people. Corpses.

Nadia rubs her toes, trying to allay the bristling numbness in them. She thinks perhaps her mother should be holding her in her arms or something, nestling her into motherly bosom, patting her on the head with lips and whispering how everything will be alright and the pain will go away.

But Nadia looks up and sees her mother puffing a cigarette, watching the wall, complaining how much of a waste of time it is they have to be here. Then she looks at Nadia, scowling.

“This all your fault. You should have been paying attention—you’re never paying enough attention, Nadia!”

And maybe she was right—because Nadia suddenly realized she had been standing on the bathroom tile for far too long.

The inner scars of her feet began to flare up again, so she took a seat on the toilet and lifted her left leg, her hands desperately massaging her flesh, trying to ameliorate an old wound. The eggs watched her, and she despised how they lay witness to her weakness. Now they knew her fiercest flaw. They would probably use it against her—if they could.

But they were just eggs, right? Just eggs that only hiss and hiss and—

Nadia called for her companion but there was no response. She desired to deign him to fetch a bucket of ice for her from down the hall. Was he still sleeping?

Nadia shouted again. And again, he did not reply.

The eggs grew louder, as if trying to answer in his place, and Nadia spat at them out of spite. Then she gripped onto the sink and raised herself up, limping out into the room. But it was empty.

“Where the hell did he go?” Nadia muttered aloud. Then she sighed.

There was once a time when Nadia was loved.

When he cared enough to always be called. To be there for whatever she needed.

During a period of a particularly grisly flare-up, he would rub cooling ointment on her feet every night, his fingers unafraid to peel into every hidden spot, pushing her bones and blood to comfortable stasis. He always knew how to subside her pain—he never protested to coddling her feet either.

After he left, Nadia had to mend her own feet. Her youthful damage both unforgiving and never forgetful. No agony was greater than when her companion departed, however. A cut on the physical self is nothing compared to a rending of the heart—the unseen epicenter of all feeling and worth.

With him, she had felt like she had value. Without him, she was nothing but dirty feet. How hard it was to have herself be heartbroken by him. To find him the way he was—she stopped herself.

Nadia did not want to return to this feeling. Now that he was returned, she would do anything to keep it that way. Even if meant dealing with those ghastly eggs—that’s why she had said yes.

And Nadia exceptionally loathed those damned eggs.

She staggered through the door into a hallway, which peeked both ways in endless doors and floor, none of them unique, enslaved by pattern. She was concerned where he had gone, but she also knew her primary focus was to end the unease throbbing in her left hoof.

Nadia peered right, assuming the ice-machine was down there, because she recalled that is where the elevator had been, so other amenities must be nearby.

She leaned against the wall, wobbling along, careful not to bang into someone else’s door, for fear they would wake, that they would appear and harass her in marvelous temper. But she also took care not to apply pressure to her left foot, where the injury was sourced and had been most severe.

Her right was still strong in many ways, although its largest toe had been shattered then in her youth as well. So now she walked awkwardly so as not to upset it and reawaken its hindered might.

Altogether, Nadia looked like quite the circus clown stumbling down the hallway. Almost falling on herself every other hinge, wafting through diluted air like a dumb cloud, constantly astray. How did it come to this?

There was a time once when Nadia was loved.

When she did not have to wrestle with hallways. When the earth did not stifle beneath her feet. When lovers brought ice—when she had a lover at all. She stops, leaning against the wall with one arm. Panting. Suddenly, a familiar sound—though not a friendly one. A stretching sound. Sinister and expanding. Slithering between her legs and beneath her body. On and on until the entire hallway is swimming in it. Nadia, fearful, almost falls down. It feels like walls around her are shivering, a stinging chill. Viscous vibrations inundate her. Even the waves in the air become feverish. And then there it is—hallways hissing. Nadia, totally shattered, but saved by a flight of energy, lets her pain sprout into wings and compel her forward on its frenetic wind. She begins scrambling, wobbling in a frenzy, arm rowing against the wall and her one good leg hopping heavy steps. Edges of light behind can be seen scattering in its shadows ahead of her, silhouetted in the form of an unfathomable thing, a body of a beast so terrifying just its reflection pierces Nadia’s heart every step forward she takes. What horrible thing has hatched in this place? Suddenly, another familiar sound—the mellow notes of an ancient folk song, which Nadia happens to know the melody of. Like it is playing just for her. But the rest of the memory still clouded. She recognizes it; quickens her pace toward it. Anything to deafen out that hiss of eternal doom. That splintering of soul that follows her everywhere she goes, enveloping itself in her flesh, in her very being, until she is shrouded by it. A cloak of gore. Dissolution. There it is—that open door, pink and blue light casting out from it in the ever darker and blurrier hallway. Just like she remembers. Into it she goes—into an underworld of nostalgic void. Standing in the doorway entrance, now entered, she closes the door to the hallway. No more hissing. That gentle folk vocal weaves in. Those sweet strums of mountain love and lake calm. A natural hymn. Alluring. Nadia gazes at the pink and blue light now painting her body. Both familiar shades. She looks up to see the pane of a room, and a shadowed corner blocking her vision. Next to her, a dark and empty bathroom. This hotel room—I remember this room, Nadia thinks. Curiously wistful. The pain her foot still retaining, but fainter. She lags closer, every inch expanding her view of the room and diminishing the shadow of the corner of the wall. An oak table, three used glasses full of wine stains, beside a half-bled bottle. A chair with a cushion, assorted strips of clothing strewn about it. Then the corners of a bed, sheets sundering. Nadia inches nearer and nearer, breath draining into back of her throat as if preparing a gasp in anticipation. So, for what? Finally, she turns around the corner, and sees her horror. There he is—her loving, devoted companion—slathering over another woman, angel-faced demon of blonde desire, the both of them naked and engaged in erotic trance. Nadia screams. Her companion does not notice her, his head buried in the other woman’s tomb—but she looks up, stares at Nadia and smiles, blows a kiss while winking. Then she returns to moaning and fawning all over him, like a deer trapped underneath a boulder. A spider weaving its prey in sweaty web. Hissing in his ear. Nadia runs out of the room. Back into the hallway, ambushed by an eruption of hissing, those damn eggs blistering into her mind in inescapable flashes. She clasps her head with her hands, frantically stumbling toward her room, all her previous pain nullified by needles of adrenaline. Turning her head inside out. She can’t even hear her own screaming over the sound of this hissing. Nadia collapses into her room, shattering into the bathroom, seeing those dreadful eggs sitting there in punishing flames. Despite all the rippling nerves in her body, she grabs the basket of eggs, takes it out into the bedroom, and slings them out the bedroom window, letting gravity grasp them and crush them far down upon its immediate earth. Destroyed forever. Exploding on the concrete in a dance of denouement. Nadia unleashes the cry of a bat, shrieking. Then she falls onto the bed, whole body entangled by pain, her foot so swollen its bubbling and bursting in blood. Crying. Over now. Nothing hisses. Only the sound of her sobbing. Of heartbeat in crescendo, then descending to crippling silence. And it languishes on, for what seems like hours but is only fragments of a little time, not quite mature enough to constitute a length of being. There is Nadia—just Nadia. Breathing. Emptied of tears. Aftershocks of pain dragging but dwindling. But she doesn’t stay alone forever. After this while, she realized her mistake. What will he say when he comes back—when he sees I got rid of the eggs? How could she ever explain herself? Would he understand and forgive her? Her mind was controlled by these thoughts—panic, paranoia compulsive loathing. She had to assure herself what she just saw was only an illusion—a product of those damned eggs. He would never do that again—her companion had repented, and she had forgiven him. Devotion was all she could see! She’d do whatever it takes she told herself. Whatever he wanted—forget what she wanted. She’d give up being Nadia. There was once a time when Nadia had desires of her own, but the loneliness had scared that out of her a long time ago. And the brokenness had cursed her to obey only doom. She would never make another mistake again—he’d never have another reason to leave again. Not like last time. He could put a blade in her hand and push it up to her throat, tell her to pull it at the snap of his fingers, and she’d do that magic trick a million times over if she could. Anything to keep away the hissing. Anything to be loved. Anything to have him hold her up again, carry her every limb if he has to, and dance with her one last time—forever.

#danceofexplodingeggs #thefinishpiece #dilonzeres #prose #fiction #story #irrealism

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