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littlefreya · 4 years

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The Way to Hell - Part 9

MANY Thanks to @raspberrydreamclouds who designed this cover as a gift! ☝

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Lacey)

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: Dark themes, smut, fluff and angst. Unprotected sex, hints of stalking, violence, swearing, sexual mentions, slight gore, choking, death.

A/N: Okay, this chapter is long, it was hard to write, you guys may never speak to me again after this. So I’ll just post it now, and turn off my phone and hide beneath the blanket with excessive anxiety. Thanks @agniavateira for editing my work and being my muse.💖

As always, comments and feedback are more than welcome 💖💕

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Title: Lacey

~*~

Have you paid the ferryman?

~*~

The cool light of fluorescent doesn’t do the honeyed gold of her hair justice.

Doe eyes meet him, a striking green. Pure, like freshly-cut grass on a spring morning. The navy-coloured suit she wears counters the sunny shade of her slightly curly hair. She sports mid-length tassels, cut neatly just above her shoulders. She looks like she had it done this morning by the looks of it .

“Hartmann, Lacey.”

Sitting at his desk with a pen pressed to his lips, the CIA agent observes her while ignoring the small hand in front of him. A tall, fit man in his late 20’s, face clean-shaven, hair like pure chocolate, combed neatly to the side but for a large rogue curl that falls on his brow. He collects it between his fingers and attempts to tuck it back in place.

“I don’t do partners, sweetcheeks.” he retorts after a short glance and turns away from the young agent, returning to his computer to browse a file he was just reading before she interrupted him.

An amused sigh passes through her plump lips as she shakes her head with sheer disbelief. “Do you have it any more cliche than that?”

“I might, depending how long you are going to loom over there, princess.” August shoots back and slightly adjusts the tie around his shirt collar, not bothering to face the young woman again. It’s obvious what this is: a muzzler, or rather a babysitter in the form of a really good-looking girl.

He fights the temptation to take another gander at the way her hair frames the apples of her rosy cheeks.

“But since you’re already here, how about you fulfil your purpose in life and get me a cup of coffee? Double espresso, no sugar.”

August shoots her a look, observing her immediate reaction. Lacey’s green eyes widen, her mouth slightly opens. She rubs her knuckle between the soft pads of her fingers while thinking of what could be a suitable response to his disrespectful request.

I guess Erica didn’t bother prepping her.

Sloane, the heartless lioness. She leered at him with that sour look on her face since the day he stepped into the building. He swears the woman must have slices of lemons hidden in her panties. There is not even a drop of respect in those dark eyes whenever he sits in her office. Nor does she harbour any trust in his performance on the field.

It all just worsened thanks to Ukraine.

The explosion in the old Soviet power plant killed dozens of innocent lives at the cost of one. Though that man was responsible for the death of thousands, if not more.

If you want to tear down a building, you better use a fucking hammer.

That cunt should thank him and promote him.

“Nothing but daddy’s boy.” That’s what she sees in him. He might as well be another dead CIA agent like his father, then. Erased from memory, his great achievements discredited. At least he doesn’t have a family to throw to the dogs so they can rip them to shreds.

Oh Sloane, if only you knew half of the shit that goes beneath that stuck-up nose of yours.

Releasing another deep sigh, Lacey slumps to the seat in front of him, crossing her long legs together and leaning back in her chair while grabbing the folder on her desk. Her lips clamp together tightly, trying to hide the saltiness on her face. Long lashes curtain her eyes which pretend to read through the file. August rolls his eyes with annoyance, trying to ignore her existence and continue working his way through a case he’s been reading before she interrupted him.

Yet every now and then his storm-touched eyes peer at the naive-looking woman, observing her and trying to determine how long will she last.

~*~

Is this hell?

~*~

That dusting of freckles on her nose and the fresh shimmer in her eyes give out much softness, yet she is anything but weak. Lacey Hartmann is a shield-maiden of some sort. For 2 months she withstood August’s “boot camp,” meaning she appeared unaffected by his cold demeanour.

At times there is even a hint of a smile hiding beneath that peach shade lipstick when August challenges her with an obscene dark joke. A hint of amusement tints the green of her irises, but she never dares to admit it.

Too coy, almost chaste, yet iron-willed.

August finds her behaviour borderline masochistic as he continues to prize her with nothing but arctic affection. Even so, she always listens when he speaks, her eyes open with pure intent, a fertile green field in her glance.

Something spikes at the marrow of his bones, intrigue or so. Trivial thoughts find themselves latching into the tunnels of his complicated mind. His CIA brain begins to note her morning routine. A glacial stare registers the vanilla latte she drinks almost religiously every morning at 9, with two teaspoons of sugar. Lacey has a sweet tooth, it seems. She never misses dessert at the cantine and he once caught her bending the rules and sneaking candies back from their previous mission at eastern Europe.

He also noticed how when she is nervous, she twirls a finger in her hair with agitation and chews her plump lips.

Blue is another point of interest. The colour seems to be dominant in her attire and accessories for some cryptic reason, though. not obsessively. She wears black or grey but then ties a silk scarf the shade of the sky around her delicate throat. When she is having a bad hair day, it’s the red pencil suit that draws attention to her body instead. The combination is horrifying when she sits in front of him holding her favourite mug which is glittery cerulean.

He begins to wonder about her life outside of the headquarters. Her file rested in his apartment for weeks yet only recently he found himself bored enough to peek inside and read about her personal life. No husband is listed under her marital state, yet he wonders if a woman as attractive as Lacey has a man waiting for her at home. Someone kind, he imagines, and pitiful. She looks like a woman lacking a strong man in her life.

“Are you going to finish that?”

August’s brows furrow as she cuts into his adventurous trails of thought. His glassy eyes pierce at her as she sits in front of him at the cantine, sharing a lunch table. He hardly speaks during lunch anyway, and only listens to her musings with the usual sulk on his face.

Lacey appears slightly frightened when she sees his menacing expression, yet her fright melts into a soft blush and a coy grin, in an attempt to pacify him. He nudges the plate with a slice of chocolate cake in her direction.

“No, go ahead.” he watches as she digs her fork into it with excitement, her eyes shutting with near orgasmic pleasure as the chocolate melts on her tongue.

His mind continues to wander, offering him possible imaginary visions of her personal life while she mumbles something in the background about the cake being outrageous.

Her home address would be in that file too.

It’s nothing but idle curiosity, after all.

~*~

You don’t believe in hell.

~*~

It’s been over 6 months of enduring her by his side. August imagined she’d run off crying to Sloane 2 days after being forced into this partnership, but she keeps a vow of secrecy, even when he bends a guideline or two during missions or violates nearly every HR policy. At first, she would warn him about his behaviour, but now she just calls it “The Walker Way”.

It almost feels like he has a partner in crime.

They arrived in Sicily a night ago, their mission is to locate and capture a millionaire-turned-terrorist and bring him in for questioning. It’s a high profile target, which means the CIA spared no expense providing them with the finest hotel suites and fancy attire to attend a gallery opening. An informant suggested the suspect might be doing his bidding at the same mansion.

Lacey meets August at the hotel’s main parking lot, wearing a cornflower blue mermaid-cut gown. Threads of silver adorn the outlines of her cleavage and little pieces of sparkling glitter draw his attention to her bust. He doesn’t attempt to hide the way his eyes fixate on her breasts. Beaming at the pale pink fat of her bosom before his gaze finally wanders to meet her face, giving her his regular cocky stance.

Is she wearing a bra underneath?

“You look handsome,” Lacey compliments, swallowing a complaint about the obvious way he objectified her. “We look as if we’ve matched colours.” The royal blue three-piece suit brings out the ocean in his eyes and she allows herself to dwell in the calm water as she glances back, offering him a smile.

Stoic, he ignores her praises, studying her face quietly. The shade on her lips is not the usual one; it’s darker, making her look more vamping. He doesn’t like it, her natural appearance is sweet and supple, and this colour clashes with her complexion and the concept of her in his mind.

The unnerving silence between them greatly challenges her. The need to crack the autumn evening air with some sort of dialogue pans in her chest.

“Are you…” Lacey begins speaking when her eyes squint at the region of his mouth. “...growing a moustache?” Bold fingers reach up, ghosting over his upper lip where a few days’ stubble seems to grow longer than the rest on his jaw. August cocks his eyebrow as the tips of her fingers almost touch his mouth. She notices his disapproval and pulls her hand away apologetically.

“For the mission, I thought it might make me look older.”

An amused smile cracks on her face, her cheeks rounding up to perfect blushing circles. “The real Mrs. Walker would be mortified.”

August scoffs, rolling his eyes at the notion before turning away to watch the cars that pass by. His hand rests on his chest, straightening the vest underneath his suit and stretches the muscles of his back. A timid-blowing zephyr caresses his face; his Adam apple rises and drops dryly in his throat.

“Is there a…”

“Oh c’mon, Hartmann! You know the answer to the question, don’t act stupid and play small talk with me, it’s not your style.”

Lacey’s lips press shut together, her green eyes dropping to the floor. She knows the only Mrs. Walker is his mother, and Madeleine has been gone for a couple of years now. Everything is in his file, allowing her to learn about the “mundane life” August Walker leads, or at least the ones he allows her to see through her CIA spectacles.

It was an obligation to do the same with her. His old man once told him to learn who he’s dealing with before opening his “goddamn mouth.” That’s all there is to it, and his curiosity if he has to admit it.

Lacey Hartmann lives alone with her cat, Sir Podrick, on Hampshire St 457 on flat number 45. A magazine two-room apartment, picture-perfect, tidy to the point of OCD. She has an older sister but they rarely see each other. On her free weekends, she loves to watch romantic comedies while drinking hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows.

He often wonders if her sweet tooth is compensating for something missing in her life. Yet there is never a man in her apartment.

Sometimes she dances in front of the window, especially after a hard day at the office. He can’t tell which music is playing in her headphones, but the way she moves her body makes him believe it’s something upbeat and cheerful.

The images of her bedroom window vanish as a slightly irritating thought peaks in his mind at her comment. Mrs. Walker. A hiss of violent air shoots from his nostrils.

Relationships were not something he cared to pursue. Life had other offerings.

Besides, the women he liked were too tender and he was too rough. So, his conquests never lasted more than a night.

Agitated, he pulls his sleeve to look at his Rolex, muttering something obscene under his breath which makes Lacey shift uncomfortably on her feet. The driver should have arrived by now. Every car that parks at the pebbled road bears disappointment, dropping off more honeymooners and rich, older married couples.

A soft smile breaks on Lacey’s painted lips while she stares at August who’s facing the driveway with his fists clenched at the sides of his body.

“Well, since we’re stuck here waiting for a ride, you better entertain me.” Lacey speaks with grace, not a hint of nervousness or fright in her voice. She learnt how to deal with August and his tantrums by now.

August remains silent, his sight never breaking from the driveway and the alley of palm trees that pave the path.

“Or I guess we can stare at the big full moon,” she says to herself, lifting her eyes to the clear sky.

August stares back at the golden-haired woman, her long lashes fluttering gently as she counts the stars in her mind. A naive glint sparks her eyes as she’s captivated by her own fascination. The pale blue of the moon reflects on her milky skin, making her look like a siren in her beautiful dress.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” he says in his deep voice.

*~*

And even if it existed, hell wouldn’t have you.

*~*

The expo is held at a royal mansion of some sort. A large Sicilian palace that is owned by an ageing millionaire. Golden floral embellishments spread across the azure velvet walls, shimmering at the lights of the crystal chandeliers which dangle in the halls.

Various ancient trinkets are placed in glass cubes. Crudely-made bows and arrows that were carved from cheap wood by a half-brain neanderthal are offered for the price of 200,000,000 Euros.

Ridiculous.

Keen on finding their target, both August and Lacey decide to split up upon their arrival, planning their strategy ahead by protocol. August is the striking image of professionalism tonight, stretching his gaze around the large hallway. He has been this way for the last several missions, working by the book, making sure to perform as clean as possible, whatever that means in CIA terms.

He even managed to win a word of praise from Sloane, who still can’t stand the very sight of his face. But at least she ceased from eating his head at the conclusion of every mission.

And Lacey seems to appreciate it, too.

The brooding man spends the night pretending to be enthralled by the exhibition and its boring guests who continually attempt to strike pointless conversations with him. As part of his task, he only speaks with those who seem to be an asset and brushes others away by answering in fluent Italian, pretending to not understand a word in English while smiling at them politely.

Blending in, the young agent stands by one of the bars, leaning onto the marble counter and enjoying some type of strawberries-in-cream dessert which was offered to him by a tall, abnormally attractive waitress who��s been walking around with a silver tray.

Lacey would love this fruit-pudding thingy, he muses as his fingers brush through the mid-length stubble above his lip. His eyes carefully scan the room for any group of men in their late 30s for a clue or a sign.

The sound of a woman’s laughter chips away his attention like a siren’s call.

So that’s how she sounds like when she laughs.

Grabbing a glass of champagne, he steps forward on the black carpeted floor, following the cheerful voice as it rolls delightfully in his ears. Storm clouds gather in his eyes. The siren is behaving unprofessionally to the point of being offensive. A tall glass of half-empty Lambrusco hangs between her slender fingers while her head falls back; her hand rests on her chest, trying to contain her laughter.

She is the centre of attention to a group of famished men.

August frowns with disapproval. She’s supposed to act drunk, not get buzzed. Standing at the large pathway, he watches how she smiles widely, mouth gaping, small dimples peeking at the corner of her lips. The honey of her hair makes her stand out in a room of dark beauties, the shade of her dress an anchor for any travelling eyes.

He takes an irritated sip from his champagne, swallowing the sparkly liquid, trying to ignore the bells of laughter which begin to sound like an insult, meant to provoke him. His piercing eyes search for the target in the room, focusing on the task on hand and being the professional his father urged him to be.

Yet as if magnetized, his glare returns to her.

For a moment there he nearly forgets that she is a CIA agent. The men around her flirt nearly barbarically, their mouths salivating with predatory hunger. Is she too pure to understand their intentions? The vultures are waiting to tear her limb by limb. Possibly hoping she will be drunk enough to be dragged by one of them.

The storm inside him rages. Thoughts of her being tainted by one of these hideous men enter his mind and poison bubbles in his throat, drowning him in anger.

He puts his champagne flute on the tray of one of the hostesses who passes by. He fixes his tie over his neck and swallows hard. His strides are confident and charismatic as he marches into their circle abruptly, reaching an arm over to Lacey.

“Sweetheart, here you are. Come see this piece, you’re going to love it.” hee speaks with contained anger, his baritone loud and clear, roaring through his puffed chest and squared shoulders.

Lacey turns to smile at him as he latches his fingers around her forearm, rescuing her by pulling her away from the predators with as much elegance he can muster at his current aggravated mood.

“Are you fucking drunk, Hartmann? What’s wrong with you?! We have a dangerous man to catch.” He whispers angry and low in her ear, carrying her toward an open terrace where they can discuss and re-strategize the mission.

The cool breeze caresses their faces, tenderly running through their hair as they approach the open air. The young woman continues to giggle as August’s fingers tickle beneath her armpit while he takes her to stand next to the large renaissance modules that hide them from the guests of the event. He lets go of her forearm, looking down at her with a scowl.

“Relax, I was trying to make it look convincing with these decadent, empty idiots.” she attempts to pacify him, looking up into his eyes, her head reaching just beneath his square chin.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“What is?”

“The way they sell these artefacts on such a high price when it was created by a primitive creature who ate his own fleas,” she mocks with a mischievous smile. “This is the end of human culture, this capitalistic point of view.”

A cold shiver crawls at August’s spine as he hears her speaking of his ideals. He had never seen her this way before.

So opinionated, so bold.

Has she been reading my mind?

They have never been this physically close, he can smell the lupines on her skin and the Lambrusco on her breath. Lacey’s amused grin begins to relax somewhat, her eyes now staring at something with stark fascination.

“You have a brown spot in one of your eyes.”

August brow furrows even deeper, dark lines forming between his thick eyebrows as the woman ogles him in a bizarre way. His blood thickens as the pleasant wind brushes at his face.

“Sectoral heterochromia, I was born with it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she answers with an enchanted glare, batting her lashes and moving further to study the shape of his flaw. Her feet arch to the tip of her toes, reaching higher to his face. August remains still, watching as if within a haze when her lips crash onto his.

Chills spiral through his nerves, his eyes wide open as her soft lips press into his in a long, chaste kiss. There is a small hum in her voice, painted lashes look like black curved trails as her eyes shut with an enchantment. For a second he can feel her body press into his, her breasts grinding at his broad chest. She slowly detaches from him, opening her eyes and falling flat on her feet.

Alarm spills onto her face, her hand covering her mouth with guilt as panic surges. August stares back without a sign of emotion on his arctic face.

“I’m so sorry!” She calls out in utter embarrassment, moving away from him by a step.

His breath grows rigid, his mind a war. In an instant, he pulls her wrist away from her face and claims her into his grasp, kissing her earnestly, even violently. Lacey’s moans melt into his mouth, her body crashing into his, writhing as her lips gape, accepting his insidious tongue.

She tastes like sugar.

August slams her against the wall, growling as her hands roam down his body and messing his outfit. A fervent stir tingles at his groin and the way she squeezes the muscles of his behind and tries to shove her hands under his trousers does nothing to relax his racing heart. Depraved, his hand pushes between her legs, trying to cup her heat through the tight dress, yet it cages her legs too tightly.

“I want you out of this fucking dress.” August growls, breaking the passionate kiss to breath hot and heavy in her ear.

“Then take me back to the hotel.” she retorts breathlessly, grinding her pelvis into the growing hardness in his groin.

“We can’t, the mission.”

Lacey emits a frustrated huff, sounding as if she’s meaning to beg as her body constantly pushes into his in a snakelike dance. “Forget about him, he’s not here, we’ll do it the Walker way.”

There is nothing in this world strong enough to convince him otherwise as those big doe eyes peer at him with admiration and a sense of need he never received from any woman before. It wasn’t like the women who begged him to fuck them as he tormented and delayed their release.

For the first time in his life, he felt purely wanted.

~*~

The ride back to the hotel is the most dreadful experience he had to endure in his life. Both Lacey and he sit at each side of the car, avoiding eye contact whilst their organs throb with aching need. She keeps her fingers laced together while the driver listens to some old Italian love song and sings along the tunes on the radio. August attempts to avoid drowning into his thoughts but the idea of having her tonight makes the blood pool hot in his loins.

They hardly make it into her room. Exploiting every moment left in solitude to make out like horny teenagers. Whenever a hotel staff member or a guest passes by, they break away from one another in the most obvious manner.

As they finally arrive at the suite, August kicks the door shut with his foot and preys at her, his talons reaching for her face, his thumb wiping off whatever remains of her lipstick before kissing her again.

“I don’t like this, it isn’t you.” he states in between invigorated kisses while Lacey battles to take off his clothes, pushing the blazer off his shoulders and then working the buttons of his vest and shirt with lust guiding her fingers. She ignores his remark, answering with another breathless kiss instead while moving to fumble with his belt.

Their feet kick at one another as August leads them toward the king-size bed, fondling the curves of her body through the terrible prison that is her dress. His long legs nearly lose their balance as she successfully unzips his trousers and finds him fully erect and pulsating in her small hand.

Logic turns to steam at the manipulation of her hands. His gasps resonate through the length of his throat, giving in to the whispers of his heart. How long yearned for her, wanting to keep her in the birdcage of his vision.

Lacey, so bold yet so sweet.

With the swiftness of his hands, he turns her around, tugging at the zipper of her dress while dotting her collarbone with possessive nibbles. Her naked figure unveils to him as a flower opens to the sunlight of spring.

Left in nothing but her baby-blue lace underwear, she steps out of her dress and moves to face the large naked man, pacing back as he sneaks toward her like a direwolf. The look on her face is admirable. Drenched of fear and desire at once, feeding his natural dominance.

“August…” she whispers his name. Her lips quiver at the sight of his broad form, appreciating every sinew, every muscle. August reaches to hold his cock as the blood stirs into it with rage, wanting to be inside this angel, to taint her and mark every piece of skin.

“I don’t have a condom.” he warns, licking his lips as she slides her underwear down her long, creamy legs. Her mound is completely waxed, just the way he wants it. Pure.

“I’m clean and protected.”

Inviting him into her mysteries, Lacey offers him a devoted stare and reaches her delicate hand toward him. No clarity is left in his mind; desire clouds every rational thought, every self-preservation instinct. He ignores her hand and lunges at her like a predator.

They fall into a sea of silken sheets together, August covering her body with his, giving no care of how his weight crushes her. His hands hold her wrists pinned to the mattress as he pushes her smooth thighs apart with his knees.

Lacey’s moans are mesmerizing as he sinks himself into her wonders. Singing her pleasure at him like a true siren. An overwhelmed groan breaks from his own lips as the wetness of her flesh encloses around his cock, sucking him from within with an embrace of lust. Soft and delicate, she writhes against his crude, rugged body and he thrusts inside her with teetering grunts, taking her with sheer, primal dominance.

She feels different, like no other woman he ever had before. Completely submissive to his darkest desires. Her body opens to him, like a precious, heavenly nymph and he takes what he wants. Deeper and deeper, drowning into her womb, never wanting to stop, invigorated by the way her hands clutch at his body with the same desperation that is in his chest.

For three days, they never leave the suite. Lost in a carnal euphoria that makes both of them forget the existence of the outer world.

~*~

Oh, hell indeed exists, it’s on the earth you walked your entire life.

~*~

The delicious aroma of crispy, caramelized bacon and fluffy pancakes tickles his senses to wake up. Salty and sweet, the scent draws him to sit upon the bed that’s slightly too small for his wide frame. A drowsy smirk crawls onto his face. This scent is his second favourite thing to wake up to.

Locating his cobalt trunks on the floor, he hauls himself out of her bed, pulls them on and tries to tame the messy bundle of curls on his head while he walks to find her in the kitchen. The bacon sizzles on the pan as Lacey stands next to the stove in his buttoned-up shirt. She is flipping an impossible quantity of pancakes and frying strips of bacon in another pan.

Her rounded ass peeks at him with every shift her body makes.

August sneaks behind her with the skill of a CIA agent, looming closer and wrapping his arms around her torso, his chin resting on the top of her head, while his hungry eyes feast on the pancakes and amber bacon.

Lacey flinches in his grip, he can feel her heart jump for a moment before she relaxes into his embrace, lips melting into a wide smirk as August rocks her from side to side.

“Morning,” she hums delightfully. “Go sit, there is freshly brewed coffee waiting for you.”

August drops a kiss on the top of her head, a low growl of serenity climbing up his throat. “You’re a dream, princess.”

And you’re all mine.

With a wisp of unwillingness, he detaches from her and walks to the table, where Lacey’s favourite mug of coffee awaits him with steam rising from within. His eyes are a calm sea sparkling at the sunrise as he looks at her with admiration.

Everything about her tips him across the edges of sanity; the way she smiles at his horrible dark jokes, the way she listens to everything he says with devotion and appeal, the way she speaks about her ideals and sees him like no person ever did before.

Lacey turns her head and sneaks a small glance at him, giving a smile and a wink before returning to the stove.

It took 5 months to admit to himself that he likes this, that he enjoyed being here, with her and her stupid cat, or in every distant location in the world. It didn’t matter if they were in Afghanistan or Paris, as long as he got to listen to her breathing in her slumber. That night in Sicily wasn’t just mindless sex. It was a union of two souls. They spent the night talking and while he was reluctant to open up-as he still is-he was stunned to find out just how much this woman shared similar points of views.

Though she never says it specifically, Lacey wants to watch the world burn.

He hasn't even told her about his idea, not yet. It’s probably too soon anyway as he only started formulating his intention a couple of months ago. A part of him still fears how she may react if she finds out he’s been selling CIA secrets and dealing weapons right beneath Sloane’s nose.

“I hope you’re hungry,”

Lacey calls out as she places two large plates of pancakes and bacon on the table and walks quickly to get the maple syrup from the counter. Sir Podrick jumps on the table as she puts the syrup next to the plates. Aggravated, August shoos the cat away and reaches to grab the woman's forearm, forcing her into his lap possessively.

“You know I am, princess.” he murmurs as he kisses her shoulder and then her lips, before grabbing a piece of pancake and some bacon with his fork and nibbling it deliciously. Lacey remains on his lap, grabbing a stripe of bacon from his plate and chewing on it with a pleasant moan before directing her gaze to August.

“How long do you think we can keep this a secret?” she asks, slight concern appearing on her face. August swallows the remaining pancake in his mouth and sips some coffee to clear his throat. His fingers thread through the gold of her hair, combing the large waves repeatedly.

“I don’t want them to take you away from me.”

His voice is nearly that of a child.

The agency’s protocol won’t allow partners to be in a relationship due to an incredible conflict of interest. “Sloane would lose her shit if she’d find out this entire time we’ve been doing this.” He chuckles dryly and shoves another piece of pancake into his mouth while still looking at Lacey. The first morning rays shine through the wide-open window, basking her face with a shimmering summer glow.

“We can run away,” she teases. “Buy a yacht, tell Erica to go fuck herself and sail the sea.”

August smirks, his hand descending to the small of her back as images of embarking to the great unknown with her fill his chest with euphoric bliss.

A daydream, perhaps in the future, after mankind is free.

“I think she’s beginning to warm up to me though.”

“Well, she did start calling you The Hammer after the last mission.” Lacey answers and grabs the mug from August’s side, stealing a mischievous sip. “If only they knew it has a different meaning to some of us.”

August crooks his eyebrow up at Lacey and wipes his moustache clean. His hands reach to tickle the sides of her belly, causing her to let go of the mug before he snatches it back. Her giggles make his heart feel at ease, something he’ll never dare to tell or show her.

Asserting his dominance by only giving as much.

“Why did you join the agency in the first place? You never told me.” she wraps her arms around his shoulders, the green of her eyes appearing yellow at the ray of sunlight that beams on her face.

His gaze falls upon the table, staring at the remnants of the pancakes while licking his teeth. Thoughts of his past begin to echo in the chasm of his mind.

The day his mom fell to her knees and let out a banshee-like howl of agony at the empty ceiling as two agents came into their house.

He was 13, and from that moment on, he was all alone in a cold, ravenous world.

“I wanted to die for the government, just like my father.” he spits out, thinking of how his life turned over one autumn morning. A tall, lanky boy who couldn’t even comfort his mother as she tore off tufts of her hair.

August didn’t even cry, not since then.

The curious look on Lacey’s face fades into sadness, compassion welling on her now golden-green irises. “You never told me how he died.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek, his eyebrows knitting together as anger begins to slightly boil his blood. “Like all heroes, forgotten. I don’t know how, it was during a mission in Moscow. Nothing in his files but a mention on an accident, no details other than that.”

“Is that why you have such small faith in the government?” Lacey asks innocently, referring to their pillow-talk. The ones they have while she presses her soft cheek to his chest and draws invisible circles onto his chest.

The lump in his throat dries as he remembers the weeks that followed after his father was gone. They were thrown to the dogs to be gnawed at. No compensation, no financial support, and no one to comfort young August.

His mother couldn’t even look at him anymore. Those blue soulful eyes, the cleft of his chin, and even the shape of his nose were inherited from his father.

The most pain August has ever endured was when someone he loved was unable to look at him anymore.

Madeleine was a loyal housewife from the midwest who never took a real job. Arthur provided for them. While he wasn’t the warmest father, he kept his family close, taking them with him on his trips, unless they were too dangerous.

By the time August was seven, he’s already been to all continents.

After his father’s death, both the money and his mother withered away. Having no experience in anything but waiting tables, Madeleine couldn't support her own child and perhaps she didn’t want to. The boy was a painful memory of what she lost.

The last he remembers of her, she dragged him with her to church and went on her knees as August sat on the bench. She prayed and cried out to God until her knees bled and her eyes rimmed red from the tears she wept.

But God never answered.

That week, social services arrived at their door. He never saw her since that day and needless to say, no one wanted a hostile 13-year-old boy.

August turns his face to stare at Lacey, examining her round, freckled face and her plump, pink lips. They make her look like a renaissance painting of an angel. At times, he’s afraid that his rage will tarnish her, swallow the light of her spirit. Yet he can never hold back, fucking her so roughly, she hurts for days. His instincts drive him to spill all his fury into her cavities. To offer all the spite and hurt that poisoned his soul, as if it will cleanse him.

And for a few seconds, he is sanctified. Coming inside her makes him feel complete in every sense of the word.

The soft purring of Lacey’s cat grounds him to reality. The chubby ginger cat rubs around his leg affectionately, his yellow diamond eyes staring at August.

“Let’s not talk about it, anymore,” he replies in a somewhat final tone.

Lacey nods at him, giving him a look full of understanding. Her fingers reach behind his ear, stroking the soft chocolate curls and tucking them back. “Okay, Aug. But we really need to talk about that!”

Her fingers move to point at his thick moustache, her eyes narrowing with disdain.

August strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger and lets them slide down the stubble of his square chin. “You don’t like it?”

Lacey shakes her head with protest, trying her best to appear irritated. “No.”

Princess is so cute when she pretends to be angry.

August offers her a smug smirk in return, grabbing the last remaining piece of bacon from his plate and sliding it whole into his mouth. “Too bad, it stays.” he answers with his mouth full, grease smearing on the corners of his lips. “It makes me look dangerous and you love it.”

“No, you look like pornstar.”

“I’d fuck you like one.” he answers with a dark glint in his eyes. In a sudden movement, he places both hands on Lacey’s waist and stands up with her in his grip. The woman squeals with surprise as he flings her over his shoulder with little to no effort and stings her ass with a sharp slap.

“Do you want it here, sweetheart, or in the bedroom?” he asks and bites the fat of her behind. Lacey cries out in pain, her legs kicking the air.

He loves to hear her laugh, just as much as he loves to hear her scream.

*~*

If hell is on earth, then what does it make you?

*~*

Like a creature dwelling in the darkness, he sits in the bleak hours of the night, fingers stroking the keys as if he’s a composer, conducting his symphony of destruction. The flesh of his lips chafe at the lack of sleep and insufficient fluids, yet he gives no care.

This will be his legacy, his gift to the world, his gift to her.

The pale teal light of the screen flickers lightly on his weary corneas. It’s nothing but pixels, black on white, five blocks of paragraphs for now, but the raw power in words proceeds beyond any other weapon known to mankind. So pure, so cataclysmic.

Just like an atomic reaction.

She will see through his eyes soon. The potential, the greater good. All her words of breaking the system, about dreaming of a better world. A sweet, naive girl with a mind fed with agenda. It was as if they were threaded into one another’s life, destined to be.

The paving of a new world has already begun. They call themselves the apostles, a group of no more than 12 people, men and women of science and power. Their identities are unknown among one another. It matters very little, the seeds have been sown into the earth. Small acts of terror, biological and chemical incidents around selected locations around the globe, just enough to test the waters.

Greatness from small beginnings.

It will take time, yet he is patient, and his little angel of destruction will be by his side once the time is right. All mankind will be reunited in peace after the earth will shudder beneath their feet.

~*~

Does it make you a monster?

~*~

Something sharp prods his mind to wake up. A nightmare, whispering toxic words in the darkness. He hears a vague ruffle in the webbed darkness of the night and he blindly reaches his palm to stroke her and finds himself abandoned. There is a knot in his gut and a storm brewing in his mind. Carefully and silently, he reaches for the loaded gun in his nightstand and slips out of bed.

Pale blue and humming, a soft light invites him to follow to the office next to his bedroom. His heart drums heavily in his chest, his face falling as his vision becomes clear. Bright pink winks through the molten mixture of shadow and light. She hovers over his open computer, spreading files and paper plans over the surface of his desk, all the while holding her digital camera, violating his secrets.

Whatever is in his chest shrieks and bleeds with misery.

“Would be more efficient if you’d switch the light on.”

The woman jumps as she hears his voice and a heavy flood of bright light showers her crimes as August flicks the switch on. She straightens up, as stiff as a frozen tree. Unable to face him right away, her face remains hidden from him. August can see the spasm of her legs beneath her nightdress.

“What are you doing?” August asks, his voice low and menacing, eyes travelling from the Nikon camera that hangs from her hand to his secret scribbles as they lay on his desk, right next to his open manifest.

“Look at me.” he demands, stern and composed as he can.

Lacey turns slowly to peer at him, her lips aquiver, eyes shining with guilt. The only sound from her is the shudder of her breath that rushes through her heaving chest.

The hurt must have blinded his thoughts. He doesn’t remember aiming his gun at her head, it’s only when he sees the woman’s surrendering gesture does he register his actions.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his gun and places it carefully on the floor. His hands splay in the air, disarmed, offering a truce as he stretches to stand straight.

“Was I…” he swallows the dryness in his throat and licks his lips.

It would take a real fool to be so blind to see what was in front of him the whole time.

“I was your mission?”

Lacey remains quiet, her eyes refusing to meet his. Tears glide down the apples of her rosy cheeks.

“Tell me the truth Lacey, please. I just want to understand.” The threat in his voice turns soft, becoming nearly a plea as he takes one step forward, watching the woman flinch and step back, her behind colliding with the desk.

The woman weeping in front of him is a trained CIA agent, yet the despair in her eyes shows no signs of panning struggle. The only way out of this room is through him, a man who is nearly twice her size and knows her every move.

“Erica suspected you’re the one who is leaking secrets, so she sent me…”

That’s why she inquired so much, wanted to hear his thoughts, to sleep at his home despite his reluctance. He agreed for the first time tonight, unaware of her insidious intentions.

Did you really think you deserve this?

August scoffs, his heart clenching painfully in his battered lungs.

He was wrong. There is something more painful than having someone you love never look back at you.

“Did she tell you to sleep with me?”

Lacey’s gaze drops to the floor in silence; her answer is nothing but a pathetic sniffle as she pinches her nose.

Bile rises in his throat as he sees shame on her face, so obvious, so obscene. Her purity was false.

There was nothing sweet or innocent about her, she was nothing but a whore.

“Answer me!!!” he rumbles, more beast than man.

Lacey jumps and sobs with panic, nodding her head at him with her confession. “Ye..Yes… any means possible.”

Running his palm through his face and groaning with frustration, the young CIA agent exhales hoarsely. He takes another small step towards her, gradually closing the distance between them, watching his shadow loom on her porcelain skin.

Lacey’s eyes widen with panic. Her ankles kick back the wooden legs of the desk, her hands scattering August’s belongings. White sheets of paper fly down to the floor, ink smudged by tears.

“Stay away,” she warns.

“Does she know? Did you tell her or anyone else at the agency?” he ignores her pathetic threats, taking another step closer. Her floral scent fills his nostrils, nearly triggering his instinct to claim her lips. His gaze softens with an ocean of mercy as she shakes in front of him so violently, breaking into tears of grief.

Delicate fingers cup her jaw, sliding across the slick moistness of her tears as he tilts her chin up. “Please, tell me the truth.”

Lacey lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes puffy and red, her plump lips swollen. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm. “I had nothing to report, until now.”

His grasp tightens around her chin, forcing her head back to look at the text flickering on the monitor. “All this talk about a better world, I thought this is what you wanted.”

She snaps her head back to glare at him, eyes narrowing with disgust and anxiety. “You thought I’d like this?! This is sick!”

August’s nostrils flare yet he gives a gentle nod of understanding and hushes her sudden surge of stress. His hand caresses her round, damp face. The thick pads of his thumbs wipe the salty tears away from her skin and his body presses into hers.

Even a tremoring mess, she is still so soft and warm.

“Did you ever love me?”

His lips are merely an inch from her temples as he whispers. His large hand slides down her cheek, stroking down her jaw and descending further below her chin.

Unable to muster another lie, she remains silent, aware of the fact that the sand in the hourglass has all but diminished, along with her chances of survival.

Words are unnecessary. The truth speaks loudly in her eyes, the poisonous infidelity was always there all along. Struck by her angelic beauty he was too blind to see, leeching onto false heaven, a childish fantasy of love that never existed.

Small spots of blood begin to form in her wide-open eyes as his long fingers lock around her thin neck, squeezing with intensifying force. Tighter, harder. His name remains caged in her throat as she fights for the air she thinks she deserves.

“No, you didn’t.” August whispers, his vision beginning to blur. “You never did.”

Strangled yips of pain wheeze through her mouth. Struggling frantically while August hardly even bats an eyelid, staring at her with no emotion on his face. Desperate arms reach out to both heaven and hell, her body squirms and her eyes plead for August to let go.

Begging for her life.

Something breaks inside her throat. Her last breath follows, a short gasp, frozen in her body for eternity as both her heart and her eyes become still.

August glances at her pale skin, her gaping lips stained violet, her bloodied eyes glassy, returning his broken reflection.

Sorrowful tears roll down the lines of his face as his heart pumps with pain black as tar. A loud gasp of agony rips from him, shuddering across his entire existence as the very base of his soul chars in his chest. Broken, he falls to his knees with Lacey cradled in his arms, his hand stroking her dull hair and her blue cheeks while husky cries of anguish come through his throat.

All emotions end. An empty abyss claims the spot where his soul once laid. The only thing left to him now is pure, undistilled hatred.

~*~

I am the one who reigns in hell.

~*~

Black cold liquid seeps into weary lungs. Skeletal hands caress his face unkindly, the thin bones, so hard and frozen as they travel down his grey cheeks. No grace is given to him, no redemption. This was nothing but a dream of a life.

As tar oozes from his throat, her voice continues to call for him.

His last memories are of Erica, sitting on her throne of lies, swallowing his accusations while peering at him through her dark eyes. Face filled with guilt, oh, she didn't have a clue. Everyone believed Lacey Hartmann was the double agent this entire time. Angelic eyes hiding dark secrets. He planted the evidence in her house, in her computer, sparing his manifest of course. Just enough to tarnish her name forever.

A painful wheeze splits his throat. Iron tinged his tongue.

The promotion was won right after the body was cremated. A fine medal given for having his life put at risk.

Glory and fame won over the woman you loved.

I never loved her. She was a lying whore, she betrayed me.

But you did love me, August.

Blood spills through his mouth as he coughs. His blue eyes shoot open, peering at a great hole in the ceiling and the dust that floats calmly in the chill air of night. The pain sears his shoulder, throbbing furiously to remind him there is still blood running through his veins. He grunts as he clutches at the gaping wound, trying to hold onto the blood that still remains in his wretched heart.

Run and hide, little Ingvild

I am no one but Lucifer himself.

I will have my vengeance.

__________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible franchise or August Walker

#August Walker #Henry Cavill #The Way to Hell #August Walker Fanfiction #Mission Impossible Fallout #Henry cavill Fanfiction #August Walker x OFC #henry cavill x ofc #Mission Impossible Fanfiction

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ikesenhell · 3 years

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Je Te Souviens

Elysium, Part Five. You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine in my Masterlist. NOTES: WELL WELL WELL IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. Yes, I’m still working on this. Yes, it’s been a minute. Yes, I’m helaciously busy. Yes, I hopefully will get the rest of this out in a relatively short amount of time. I’m back-ish babyeee

---

The idea of meeting a priest as a bandit’s contact was, put mildly, somewhat odd. Did it border on heresy? Jean wasn’t quite sure. It didn't feel right. If the clergy’s first responsibility was to God, what was a priest doing tangled in this web?

Still--August gave a very clear direction. If they wanted answers, they met the priest.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered.

Napoleon’s eyes stayed fixed at some unknowable point in the distance, but the corner of his mouth ticked slightly upwards. “No?”

“No.” Jean squeezed the pommel of his sword. It was still there. Overhead, the sky bled purple and gold, grey swirling clouds far off yet. Their boots clicked in tandem on the cobblestone streets. Why were the streets so ghostly still? It was like Penrith only flourished in its twisted corners. People shrank along the walls, pulled up hoods and skittered into waiting doors.

“We’re a bit obvious, don’t you think?” Isaac narrowed his blush-pink eyes at them, scurrying to keep up. “You two, all kitted out, me alongside you, and headed to the central plaza--”

Jean silently agreed. Between Napoleon’s typical dramatic flair (a black velvet capelet with a black and gold uniform coat? Really?) and his own distinct features, they attracted attention. It would be easy for the Guild to track them. But their fearless leader just smiled as he always did, fine lines of fatigue hovering around his eyes (did he ever sleep enough outside of his own bed?), and elbowed Jean in the ribs. “We’re going to church.”

Jean rubbed his side. “What?”

“Church. It’s been a moment since we’ve all been, and you certainly needed to drop in for a quick prayer…”

He contemplated the lie (which was a plausible scenario, but still a lie, and still a sin). It worked for cover. And as much as he didn't want to be here, sticking out like a sore thumb in the nigh-deserted streets, it brought them that much closer to whatever answers August promised.

Speaking of August! Unbidden, those bright eyes flashed in his mind’s eye. An arch of severe brow, the twist of lip, the toss of copper curls, the curve of a rolling shoulder--Jean swallowed. Why did the scent of the street rise up and not their lavender soap? God help him. What did those eyes hold that dragged him in? Why did he follow so willingly? Some said that eyes were the window to the soul. That couldn’t be true. There was no cathedral stained glass that compared to August.

What was wrong with him?

Isaac flapped a hand in front of his face, and Jean started.

“Earth to Jean.” The advisor scowled. “Why are we stopping? Is it Them?”

Oh. Jean collected himself enough to realize the Them in question was not, in fact, August. “No. No, They’re not bothering me any more than usual. I was… in thought.”

“Well, come on. We’re close.”

The central plaza was crowded. Civilians headed home, tired from work, arms laden with goods, children in tow. Napoleon visibly softened as a couple of tiny girls skipped by, skirts in hand and giggling (and what could he even say? Did he show his friend a kind word? Was it even the time for that, time to acknowledge what Napoleon had given up in exchange for--)

On a nearby bench, flipping a coin, sat a priest. He was a wizened old man with bushy brows and stooped shoulders. The trio exchanged glances. It felt almost too perfect. But--never the man to shy away from trouble--Napoleon swept his capelet behind him and settled in beside the elderly priest.

“Evening.”

The man glanced at them and smiled. "Good evening, my children. What brings you here?"

Napoleon visibly paused. What did they say? August hadn't given them any clear directions. None of them were good at subtlety. Doing his best, Jean cleared his throat.

"A… friend recommended we meet you. And I could use some prayer, Father, if you would allow me."

The man fixed the three of them with a wry, gap-tooth smile, dusting his knees and rising. "I'd heard some worshippers might visit late today. Very well. Follow me."

---

It was a strangely humble building. That was all good and well, but next to the Guild’s extravagance… well, Jean knew where priorities were. It wasn’t that he expected the city to set religion front and center--God knew Napoleon didn't feel that necessary for Elysium--it was more the unsettling realization that the Guild saw it more important to purchase silk chair covers and gilded spoons than front a single gold coin to anyone else.

Maybe that was what August wanted them to see. Maybe they’d envisioned how the creaking wood floors would sound under well maintained leather boots. Maybe they’d known that, against Napoleon’s cape, the rough-hewn benches and tattered hymnals told a different tale. This was Penrith. Twilight glow filtered through faraway paper slits serving as windows. Instead of the raucous colors and vivid golds from Elysium’s church, a humble, lovingly-carved wooden altar reached skyward.

God help him. Jean hesitated on the threshold, deja vu circling like storm clouds. Wasn’t his childhood church just like this one? Marae in the height of autumn, all the colors of fire that later tried to eat him alive, laughter in the beams and a dozen dirt-poor families who still found a thousand reasons to smile. He’d taken communion in a place like this. He’d tried (horribly, terribly) to flirt with Annaliese from the farm over behind a hymnal in a place like this.

He’d almost died in a place like this.

Napoleon’s hand wrapped around his.

“Friend,” he said, his green eyes understanding. “You’re missing the conversation.”

Sometimes breathing proved difficult. Now was one of those times. Jean gulped in the timber-rich air, forcing his lungs to remember that they weren’t full of smoke, that he couldn’t (but could still, always could) taste ash on his tongue and a sinner’s agony in his stomach. “My apologies.”

“That’s alright. Our new friend was just showing us around the chapel. Do you need to step outside?”

“No, no. I’ll be fine.”

Oh, Napoleon. His mouth quirked in that disarming smile, the weight of his confidence bolstering Jean’s resolve. Thank God for Napoleon.

Fortunately, they hadn’t missed much. The priest gave Isaac a cursory tour in their absence--the pulpit, the prized books, the church office--and then excused himself with a wink and a nudge to find some tome or another he’d ‘misplaced’. The invitation wasn’t lost on them. As soon as the doors to the priest’s chambers shut, Isaac swung open the church office. There wasn’t much. He spied a safe, a large desk, a number of record books, some miscellaneous odds and ends...

“Let’s go.”

Jean wavered in the door. “I don’t know if--”

“--this’ll go faster if you help me look--”

“--Isaac, I can’t read--”

“--I’ve been teaching you! You can at least manage some things--!”

Napoleon choked back a laugh and shunted himself into the tiny space. “At least stand in the doorway. We’ll look.”

Only the sound of flipping pages rustled in the eaves. Jean was a practiced hand at forced calm by now. It felt unlikely--so, so unlikely--that anything could appear in the ledgers of a neglected church. What secrets could the Guild and Penrith hide here?

“Nothing,” Napoleon murmured. “Isaac?”

“Mmm. I’m checking another book.”

Another book creaked open.

But then again, all sorts of places held secrets, didn't they? Marceche hadn’t descended on Marae for no reason. They hadn’t tracked him down through sheer dumb luck. You just had to know where to look. Usually, though, that was through people.

Oh.

Jean spun on his heel. “Is there a guest book? A parishioner’s book?”

Both Napoleon and Isaac stared. Impatiently, Jean pushed into the office. “Sometimes local churches keep records on who attends.”

“What do you think that’ll show?” Isaac demanded.

He didn't know. It was just the nagging sensation in the back of his mind, the faintest inkling that it was with people, not words, that their business lay. Jean pawed his way over the books until he pieced together enough letters on one to make a guess. “This one. Check this one.”

Napoleon flipped it open. Sure enough, neat columns marched down the page. Jean couldn’t read upside down to save his life, but he knew names when he saw them.

“I’m still not following.” Isaac ran the thick pages between his fingers, turning each one.

Look closer look closer look closer

The voices clawed around him. For once, Jean didn't fight them. He was part of that hivemind by nature; now, no doubt, They only reflected his own thoughts back at him. “August wasn’t looking to loot our caravan. If not money, or goods, what were they looking for? What would someone hide in a caravan?”

Silence. Isaac bent his face to the pages once more, rolling his fingers along the names until--at last--he stopped. “Some of them are marked with stars.”

“People.” Napoleon straightened. “Someone is taking people from Penrith.”

#ikevamp #ikevamp jeanne #ikevamp jean #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp fic #ikevamp fantasy fic #elysium #je te souviens #my writing #nonbinary mc #nb mc #August

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deadstrangeblog · 4 years

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The Sad Case of The Lipstick Killer

North Kenmore Avenue is a much sought-after residential area in the city of Chicago, with a children’s park surrounding the apartments and transport links within walking distance. It lies around the corner from a prestigious Catholic school and the uptown setting is popular with young families and elderly residents alike, it’s safe atmosphere and cheap living costs appealing to people from all walks of life. North Kenmore wasn’t always as safe though. In 1945, in Apartment 4108, a woman was brutally murdered there.

It was June 5th when 44-year-old Josephine Ross was found slain on her apartment floor. Police were greeted by a messy scene– Pools of blood surrounded Josephine and the smashed up apartment indicated there had been a struggle. She had been stabbed multiple times and a dress had been wrapped around her head. Usually, when a killer covers the face of a victim, it suggests that they feel a great deal of remorse about the crime they have committed and that death is almost always the end result of an impulsive sex crime. However, this seemed different. No evidence of sexual assault was present and death had definitely been the result of a frenzied attack. Police found a clump of dark hair in Josephine’s hand, as if she had been in a violent struggle with somebody. Naturally, police turned to her ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands, all of whom had an alibi. Although the neighbourhood was frightened at the prospect of a murderer living close by, the police assured people there was nothing to worry about and that Ms. Ross had been killed by a startled burglar. Her murder didn’t make the front page, and she was sadly written off by investigators.

Six months later, and we are in December. Our killer strikes again but, this time, police begin to take notice. On the 10th of the month, divorcee Frances Brown was found dead in her apartment. She had been stabbed and shot, the bread knife used in her murder still lodged in her throat when a cleaning lady discovered the body. The grim message shown above, written in unusual handwriting, was scrawled on the apartment wall in red lipstick (earning the killer his moniker) but apart from that, little evidence was found. Compared to the first murder, police did have a bit more to go on: a bloody fingerprint and a possible eyewitness. John Derick, the concierge for the lobby, said he saw a nervous man and heard “possible gunshots” at around 4 a.m. Given the lack of surveillance technology during the 40s, it was impossible to confirm John’s account.

The last known murder of the deluded “Lipstick Killer” was a truly shocking crime against an innocent little girl. Six-year-old Suzanne Degnan (below) was snatched from her bedroom in Edgewater, Chicago, on January of 1946. Her bedroom window had been left open and a wooden ladder was still propped up against it. At the time, police had no reason to believe her abduction was connected to the Lipstick killer, as kidnapping little girls didn’t fit his modus operandi. A ransom note left at the scene read “GeI $20,000 Reddy & wAITe foR WoRd. do NoT NoTify FBI oR Police. Bills IN 5’s & 10’s. BuRN This FoR heR SAfTY.” That night, a man persistently telephoned the Degnan residence demanding the ransom, only to hang up as details were being exchanged. Those phone calls would later turn out to be a cruel joke performed by two high-school students, Vince Costello and Theodore Campbell. Sick with anguish, her family could only hope that the police could find Suzanne before it was too late. Sadly, their worst fears were confirmed. Acting on an anonymous tip, detectives travelled to a sewer just a block away from the Degnan residence and found Suzanne’s decapitated head. Where was the rest of her body? Investigators were now faced with the grim prospect that somebody had dismembered a little girl, and they were unfortunately right. They found her torso in storm drain, and both her legs had been discarded in separate catch basins. Her tiny arms were found a month later in another sewer. Blood, presumed to be Suzanne’s, was found in the drains of laundry tubs in the basement laundry room of a nearby apartment building. This crime was truly grisly, and without advanced forensic technology, it was hard to bring the killer to justice.

In a desperate bid to catch the murderer, police questioned hundreds of suspects and gave polygraph examinations to about 170 of them. In several press releases, they claimed to have captured the killer terrorising the city of Chicago, but they were always mistaken. All suspects were eventually released.

In June, 17-year-old criminal William Heirens (below) was burgling an apartment when he was confronted by the janitor and fled. Police were called, and Heirens was subdued by an off-duty police officer who dropped several flowerpots onto his head to render him unconscious. From the day of his arrest on June 26, 1946, things travelled on a downward spiral for Heirens and this once lucky burglar had run all out of luck. For some reason, police believed that Heirens was the Lipstick Killer and decided to question him. For six consecutive days, he was interrogated by police officers. He was denied food, water, and the right to an attorney, and two psychiatrists even gave him Sodium Pentothal (a potent barbiturate) without his consent. Most shocking of all, the 17-year-old was given a spinal tap without any anaesthesia. For days later, he was in incredible pain and couldn’t perform a polygraph test because his adrenaline-fuelled heart was beating too fast. Eventually, he cracked. He confessed to police that he had committed these crimes under an alter-ego named “George.” He explained to psychologists that he always took the rap for the crimes of “George” including theft, murder, and everything in between. The Chicago police department were suspicious of this defence, and accused Heirens of lying in the hopes of getting an insanity defence in court. Apart from his confession, police had nothing to go on. No evidence linked Heirens to the murders, and this polite University of Chicago student seemed incapable of such heinous crimes. It seemed like a bizarre arrest, but for the general public, it was good enough.

As suggested by his defence attorneys, Heirens confessed to all crimes. On his court date on August 7, 1946, Heirens took full responsibility for the three murders. The prosecution had him reenact the abduction and murder of Suzanne Degnan in court multiple times, all of which he did inconsistently. On the night of September 4th, Heirens attempted suicide in his cell and had timed it to coincide during a shift change of the prison guards. He was discovered hanging and was revived successfully by prison guards. He said later that sheer despair drove him to attempt suicide; “Everyone believed I was guilty…If I weren’t alive, I felt I could avoid being adjudged guilty by the law and thereby gain some victory. But I wasn’t successful even at that. …Before I walked into the courtroom my counsel told me to just enter a plea of guilty and keep my mouth shut afterward. I didn’t even have a trial..”

The next morning, the prosecution and defence were making their closing statements. The judge, Chief Justice Harold G. Ward, formally sentenced Heirens to three life terms. Somehow, he had been lucky enough to avoid the electric chair. As Heirens waited to be transferred to Stateville Prison from the Cook County Jail, Sheriff Michael Mulcahy asked Heirens if Suzanne Degnan suffered when she was killed. Heirens simply replied: “I can’t tell you if she suffered, Sheriff Mulcahy. I didn’t kill her. Tell Mr. Degnan to please look after his other daughter, because whoever killed Suzanne is still out there.”

Likely innocent, William Heirens still spent the rest of his life imprisoned. In 2002, a petition for his release was filed but eventually denied. In his older years, he suffered from diabetes and was confined to a wheelchair with limited eyesight. He died of natural causes on March 5th, 2012, due to complications with his illness.

In 1994, Dolores Kennedy formed a team of forensic experts to look into the murders and they found several inconsistencies, most notable was that Heirens’ confessions didn’t fully match the evidence. Heirens claimed that he was forced to confess by the police, and this is also supported by other evidence. They also concluded that the handwriting of the lipstick message and that of the ransom note were not the same and that neither matched that of Heirens. They also looked into the police force working on the case: Before Heirens was arrested, police had taken particular interest in a janitor called Hector Verburgh. 65-year-old Hector was from Belgium, and struggled to write fluently in English. With this in mind, isn’t it odd that police still arrested him and accused him of the murders? How could a man with no knowledge of English writing, scribble such an eloquently written note on his supposed victim’s wall? It didn’t stop there. Like Heirens, Verburgh was subjected to extreme torture. For two days, police interrogated him and beat him so badly that he sustained a dislocated shoulder. After his terrifying ordeal, he successfully sued the Chicago Police Department for $15,000.

“Oh, they hanged me up, they blindfolded me … I can’t put up my arms, they are sore. They had handcuffs on me for hours and hours. They threw me in the cell and blindfolded me. They handcuffed my hands behind my back and pulled me up on bars until my toes touched the floor. I no eat, I go to the hospital. Oh, I am so sick. Any more and I would have confessed to anything.”

With such atrocious behaviour from the police department, it’s safe to say that the man convicted of these crimes was not the real killer, merely a scapegoat for shoddy police work. The true identity of the Lipstick Killer is yet to be discovered, and, sadly, it seems that those who were murdered were not the only victims in this disturbing case.

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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yasbxxgie · 6 years

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The photograph is one of the standout images of the 1970s black liberation struggle. An African American man, his hair in dreadlocks, chest bare, stands with arms outstretched as though emulating Jesus on the cross. A white police officer is jabbing a shotgun at him with the muzzle inches from his throat. Another officer clasps a police helmet in his right hand as if preparing to whack him over the head with it.

Forty years almost to the day after that photo was taken, the same black man described how he came to be standing there on a sidewalk, half-naked and surrounded by angry police. His account was almost too graphic to grasp, sounding more like something out of a movie than the recollection of what really happened in the heart of one of America’s major cities.

It was 8 August 1978 and he had just emerged from the basement of the house in Philadelphia that his black revolutionary group, Move, used as a communal home. In an attempt to evict them from the property, hundreds of officers had just stormed the building, pummeling it with water cannons and gunfire, and in the maelstrom a police officer had been killed and several other first responders injured.

“As I emerged from the basement I had the presence of mind to let them see I was unarmed, so I took my shirt off,” the black man said. “That’s when I put my arms out wide.”

The black man is Delbert Orr Africa, Del for short. When I went to meet him he was wearing a burgundy one-piece with a white T-shirt and blue shoes. Everyone else around him was wearing the same uniform of Dallas maximum-security prison in Pennsylvania that he has worn every day since appearing in that photograph 40 years ago.

I had come to interview him as part of a two-year project in which I made contact with eight black liberationists who have all experienced long prison sentences. They each agreed to embark on an ongoing conversation with me about their political beliefs today and their battle to secure their own freedom.

Del Africa, 72, and I talked for three hours in the prison visitors’ room. He spoke rapidly and intensely, as though he needed to get it all out, relating how he had joined the Black Panther party in Chicago and then switched to the Move organisation after relocating to Philadelphia.

He also told me what happened the second after that photo was taken, as though he were narrating the next few frames of a news reel. As it turns out, that police officer really had been about to whack him.

“A cop hit me with his helmet,” he said. “Smashed my eye. Another cop swung his shotgun and broke my jaw. I went down, and after that I don’t remember anything ’til I came to and a dude was dragging me by my hair and cops started kicking me in the head.”

Del Africa is one of the Move 9, the group of five men and four women, all African American, who were arrested 40 years ago this August during the 1978 police siege of their headquarters in Powelton Village, Philadelphia. They were charged as a nine-person unit with the murder of the police officer who died in the melee, James Ramp. Each was sentenced to 30 years to life, though to this day they protest their innocence.

The ranks of the Move 9 have slowly been depleted over the years. Two have died in prison. In June, the first of the nine to win parole, Debbie Africa, was released from a Pennsylvania women’s prison.

As the 40th anniversary approaches, six of the Move 9 are still behind bars, Del Africa included. They are among a total of 19 black radicals who remain locked up in penitentiaries across America having been convicted of violent acts committed in the name of black power between the late 1960s and early 1980s.

Along with former Black Panthers and Black Liberation Army members, they amount to the unfinished business of the black liberation struggle. Many of them remain strikingly passionate about the cause, even as they strive for release in some cases half a century into their sentences.

In the case of Move members, their politics are a strange fusion of black power and flower power. The group that formed in the early 1970s melded the revolutionary ideology of the Black Panthers with the nature- and animal-loving communalism of 1960s hippies. You might characterise them as black liberationists-cum-eco warriors.

That sense of passion for the cause leaps out from the first email that Del Africa sent to me from Dallas in September 2016, after I’d contacted him asking to talk.

“ON THE MOVE! LONG LIVE FREEDOM’S STRUGGLE!” he proclaimed in capital letters at the top of the message. “Warm Revolutionary greetings, Ed!”

He then launched into a long deliberation about the “plight of political prisoners here in ameriKKKa!”. Move members are still imprisoned, he wrote, “just because we steadfastly refused to abandon our Belief in the Revolutionary Teachings of Move’s Founder” and because of “our refusal to bow down to this murderous, racist, sexist rotten-ass system”. He ended with the quip: “But, hey, I don’t wanna burn you out the first time I reply to your email.”

There was a similar robustness to the first response I received in December 2016 after reaching out to Janine Phillips Africa, one of the four women among the Move 9. Unlike Del Africa’s email, she wrote to me by hand, sending the letter by mail as she has continued to do over the ensuing 18 months.

“Me and my sisters are doing good, staying strong,” was the first sentence she wrote to me. That was remarkable in itself coming from a woman who is not only approaching the 40th anniversary of her incarceration but has had two of her children killed in confrontations with police.

“Everybody knows how strong Move men are. We’re showing the world how strong Move women are. That’s how it’s been since our arrest in 1978,” she said.

In the course of that first letter, Janine Africa, who was 22 when she was arrested and is now 62, took me deep into the “torture chamber”, the cruel solitary confinement wing where she spent the first three years of her sentence.

“There were no windows, just a section of the wall with frosted panes. You couldn’t tell when it was night or day, they kept the lights on 24/7. They were ordered to break us but it didn’t work – no matter what they did, they were not going to break us.”

Over the months, I came to learn about the double tragedy in Janine Africa’s life. In 1976, Philadelphia police officers turned up at the Move house in Powelton Village having been called out to a disturbance. Scuffling ensued between some Move residents and police. Janine was shoved and her baby, whom she had named Life, was knocked out of her arms to the ground. His skull appears to have been crushed, and he died later that day in her arms. He was three weeks old.

Then on 13 May 1985, seven years after Janine Africa was imprisoned, she received further terrible news. Philadelphia police had dropped a bomb from a helicopter onto a Move house on Osage Avenue in the west of Philadelphia in an attempt to force the black radicals to evacuate the premises after long-running battles with the authorities. The bomb ignited a fire in the Move house that turned into an inferno.

Janine’s 12-year-old son, Little Phil, was being cared for in that house by other Move adults while she was in custody. The then mayor of Philadelphia, Wilson Goode, notoriously gave the go-ahead for the bombing, and the fire that ensued was allowed to rage, the blaze spreading across the black neighborhood and razing 61 homes to the ground.

Little Phil and four other children burned to death. So too did six adults including Move’s founder, John Africa, AKA Vincent Leaphart.

I asked Janine Africa how she coped with losing two young sons during clashes with law enforcement. She was reticent. “I don’t like talking about the night Life was killed,” she wrote in April. “There are times when I think about Life and my son Phil, but I don’t keep those thoughts in my mind long because they hurt.”

In that same letter she said she had turned grief into what she contests is a force for good: deeper commitment to the struggle. “The murder of my children, my family, will always affect me, but not in a bad way. When I think about what this system has done to me and my family, it makes me even more committed to my belief,” she said.

Del Africa also heard bad news on 13 May 1985. His 13-year-old daughter Delisha was also living in the Move house. She too died in the fire. When I asked him how he dealt with being told his daughter had been killed in an inferno that had been ignited by the actions of the city authorities, he wasn’t as sanguine as Janine.

“I just cried,” he said during my prison visit. “I wanted to strike out. I wanted to wreak as much havoc as I could until they put me down. That anger, it brought such a feeling of helplessness. Like, dang! What to do now? Dark times …”

Mayor Goode made a formal apology for the disaster the following year. But a grand jury cleared all officials of criminal liability for the 1985 bombing that killed 11 people, including five children.

The only adult Move member to escape the inferno alive, Ramona Africa, was imprisoned for seven years.

All Move members take the last name “Africa” to denote their commitment to race equality and their strong bond to what they regard as their Move “family”. “A family of revolutionaries” is how Del Africa once described it to me. Unlike the Black Panther party which formally dissolved in 1982, Move is still a living entity.

“We exposed the crimes of government officials on every level,” Janine Africa wrote to me. “We demonstrated against puppy mills, zoos, circuses, any form of enslavement of animals. We demonstrated against Three Mile Island [nuclear power plant] and industrial pollution. We demonstrated against police brutality. And we did so uncompromisingly. Slavery never ended, it was just disguised.”

Deeply committed as they were to each other, the Move “family” undoubtedly had the ability to incense those around them. They liked to project their revolutionary message at high volume from a bullhorn at all hours of night and day. Passersby were accosted with a torrent of expletives.

Then there were the dogs. When the 1978 siege happened, there were 12 adults and 11 children in the Move house in Powelton Village – and 48 dogs. Most of the animals were strays taken in by the group as part of its philosophy of caring for the vulnerable. Black liberation, animal liberation – the two are as one with Move. John Africa was known as the “dog man”, as he was rarely seen without one.

The unconventional nature of the Move community which drove some neighbors to despair in turn led to demands for their eviction, and ultimately to the fatal siege. Over time relations grew more belligerent. Months before the siege Move members made visible their threat to resist attempts to remove them from the neighborhood – they stood on a platform they had built at the front of the house dressed in fatigues and brandishing rifles.

On its side, the city was led at that time by the Frank Rizzo, Goode’s predecessor as Philadelphia mayor, a former police commissioner who liked to talk tough and was fond of dog-whistle politics. He once said of the Move radicals: “You are dealing with criminals, barbarians, you are safer in the jungle!” Another Rizzo classic was: “Break their heads is right. They try to break yours, you break theirs first.”

When Move refused to vacate the premises having been issued with an eviction order, Rizzo said he would impose a blockade on the house so tight “even a fly wouldn’t get in”. He was not kidding. For 56 days before the siege, a ring of steel was erected around the house, no food was permitted into the compound and the water supply was cut off. Rizzo bragged he would “show them more firepower than they’ve ever seen”.

At about 6am on 8 August 1978 the action started. Move members were battered by water cannon as they took refuge in the basement of the building. Tear gas was propelled into the house. At 8.15am shots rang out and a thunderstorm of gunfire erupted that is captured on police footage of the incident. Police and fire officers are seen scattering in all directions as bullets whistle overhead seemingly in all directions. It looked like a war zone.

Soon after Move adults and naked children began emerging from the smoke-ridden basement. Janine Africa can be heard in the police footage screaming. Next, Del Africa appears, his hands outstretched in that Jesus pose. The camera pans in on him as he lies on the street after he was hit with the police helmet. Two police officers begin kicking him on his head which bounces between them like a ball. Three officers later faced disciplinary measures but a judge dismissed the charges.

Prosecutors accused the Move 9 of collaboratively killing Ramp, even though he died from one bullet. They said the shooting had been started when gunfire erupted from the basement where the Move members were gathered, a theory supported by some eyewitnesses.

Move’s attorney gathered other witness evidence suggesting the fatal shot had come from the opposite direction – in other words, it was accidental “friendly fire”. At trial no forensic evidence was presented that connected the Move 9 to the weapon that caused the fatality. For the women in particular the prosecution did not even argue the four had handled firearms or had been involved in the actual shooting of Ramp.

Del Africa insisted when I interviewed him that though Move had guns in the house, none of them were operative. “There was no shooting from our side,” he told me. “No one in the house had any gunshot residue, none of us had fingerprints on any of the weapons they claim came out of the house.”

The Philadelphia Fraternal Order of Police has a plaque for Ramp on its memorial site. I reached out to the order many times in the course of a month to hear their reflection on his death and Move’s role in it, but they did not respond.

You can get a sense of the depth of feeling by reading the comments under Ramp’s page on the Philadelphia Officer Down Memorial website. Several commentators, some of whom vividly recalled the 1978 siege, sent blessings to the deceased police officer and his family.

Others expressed anger at the lack of justice for Ramp, though they didn’t specify what they meant. One woman, whose late husband was on duty at both the siege and the 1985 bombing, was more direct. She said of Ramp: “I was so sad to hear of your passing. I felt, and still do feel so badly for your family. Move were scum and cowards, hiding as they shot. You were SO brave. Never forgotten. RIP.”

As they approach the 40th anniversary of the siege and of their subsequent captivity, Del and Janine Africa described to me how they’ve coped for so long doing time for a crime they insist they did not commit. They each have their own survival methods.

Janine Africa told me she avoids thinking about time itself. Birthdays, holidays, the new year mean nothing to her. “The years are not my focus, I keep my mind on my health and the things I need to do day by day.”

Del Africa thinks of the eons behind bars not as “prison time” but as “revolutionary prison activity”. “I keep saying to myself: ‘I will not fall apart. I will not give in.’”

They’ve both experienced long stretches in solitary confinement, a brand of punishment that the UN has decried as a form of torture. In 1983, Del Africa was put into the “hole” – an isolation cell – because he refused to have his dreadlocks cut.

He stayed in the hole for six years. He relieved the stress and boredom by organizing black history quizzes for other inmates held in the isolation wing. Russell Shoaltz, a former Black Panther, helped him devise the questions, and shout them out down the line of solitary cells. Questions such as: when was the Brown v Board of Education ruling in the US supreme court? What year was the Black Panther party founded? Who was Dred Scott? For what is John Brown remembered?

Eventually Del Africa won the right to keep his dreads. When I visited him in Dallas there they hung, salt-and-peppered now, proudly down to his hips.

Throughout, the Move prisoners have drawn strength from companionship with other members of the nine. Janine shared a cell with two other surviving Move women – Debbie Africa and Janet Holloway Africa – in Cambridge Springs women’s prison in Pennsylvania. They called each other “sisters” and did everything together. “We read, we play cards, we watch TV. We laugh a lot together, we’re sisters through and through,” she wrote in a letter in February.

There was one other member of their gang: fittingly given the history of the organization, a dog called Chevy. The prison authorities let them keep the dog kenneled in their cell as part of a program in which they train the animal for later use as a service dogs for disabled people.

Life went on like this for years, and had acquired its own normality, almost a certain tranquility. Until last month when Debbie Africa was granted parole and set free. Her departure came as a jolt.

“It’s strange not having Deb here,” Janine said. “I keep expecting her to walk in from work. They snuck her out at 5.[:]00 in the morning. We only got to hug her briefly and watch her leave. Chevy misses her, he keeps sniffing her bed.”

In June, Janine and Janet Africa also went before the same parole board as Debbie and made essentially the same case that they had earned their freedom. The board asked Janine whether she would be a risk to the public were she to be let out, and she referred them to her pristine prison record: the last time she had any disciplinary rap was 26 years ago. “The way I’m in here is the way I’ll be outside, there is no risk factor,” she told them.

While Debbie was set free, both Janine and Janet had their parole denied. The board said they showed “lack of remorse” for the death of Ramp in the 1978 siege.

Janine Africa wrote to me a few days after she learnt of the denial, speculating that games were being played with her mind. The contrast of Debbie’s release with her denial was “either to make us resent Deb or make me feel hopeless and break us down. Whatever their tactic, it isn’t working!”

Debbie’s release also made a profound impact on Del Africa. “I feel overjoyed that Debbie is out,” he wrote to me. “Her release is a breakthrough! I see it finally opening the door a crack.”

Del Africa also hasn’t had a misconduct report in prison for more than 20 years. Yet he too was turned down for parole last year and must wait another four years before his next chance to convince the parole board that he can safely be returned to society.

Like many of the 19 black liberationists still behind bars, Del Africa is caught in a trap attached to the crime for which he was convicted. He knows he will only be paroled if he expresses heartfelt remorse. But says he cannot do that.

“How can I have any remorse for something I never did?” he said. “I had nothing to do with killing a cop in 1978. Have they shown any remorse for what happened to my daughter in 1985?”

Would he show remorse to the parole board if he felt it would secure his release?

“No, never going to do that,” he said. “That would be akin to making them right. They are the ones who were wrong.” [x]

Photograph:

The arrest of Delbert Africa of Move on 8 August 1978

Debbie Africa was released in June after 40 years in prison

Members of Move gather in front of their house. They were arrested 40 years ago during a police siege.

Janine Africa preaching to the crowd in front of the barricaded Move house in the Powelton Village section of Philadelphia

Move members hold sawed-off shotguns and automatic weapons as they stand in front of their barricaded headquarters

Debbie Africa and her son, Mike Africa, whom she gave birth to in her prison cell a month into her incarceration. She was released last June.

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justiiceserved · 6 years

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« Bury My Love »

This drabble is brought to you by painful headcanons from @warricrscribed & me of Casey’s experience when Alex was first taken into witness protection. Enjoy.

No one told her that her girlfriend was dead. Why would they? No one knew about them. They didn’t know that Casey was starting to lose her mind with worry. For three days, she thought Alex was just too busy for her. No phone calls, no emails, no surprise drop-ins to her office once everyone had gone home. But even when they fought, she didn’t just disappear like this.

No, she found out at an NYPD press conference. She was summonnd to stand among the crowd of D.A.s, lawyers, police officers, and even judges; an uncomfortable amalgamation built from her nightmares, surely. They wore black, their faces stiff, though that was nothing new. Casey stood toward the back of the room, lost in the crowd, and completely unsuspecting, until a police officer took the stage. She couldn’t see his face, just the shine of his bald head from this far back. Eyes narrowed. She looked around to her colleagues, then back to the stage, trying to hear what this was all about. And then he said it: “As most of you know, four days ago, on the night of September 29, 2003 at 10:27 PM, we lost one of our own, A.D.A. Alexandra Cabot.”

Casey blinked. No. Lips pursed. Ears rang. She couldn’t possibly have heard that right. She glanced around at the people around her. Their solemn expressions shifted from severity to grief, and her stomach dropped. Her hands went cold, but her cheeks burned. Her teeth grit so hard that her jaw began to ache. But she didn’t cry. She couldn’t cry. Hands balled into fists at her side, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to stand perfectly stoic until she was dismissed.

They were never supposed to be together, her and Alex... A couple. It was against all the rules. Alex was her mentor –– her boss, in a sense –– and a woman. But Casey was young, and perhaps a bit over-confident, and Alex was so unbelievably beautiful. Late nights together, staying up to discuss cases, to work on their arguments, researching precedents, began to lead to more. First to friendship, and then to the night when the youngest A.D.A. leaned in to kiss her. Alex had pulled back, afraid of the consequences, but Casey took her hand and she promised they were doing nothing wrong. No one needed to know. And their lips met by the fluorescent light of the old desk lamp.

Months, this had gone on. Stolen smiles across the courtroom. Momentary eye contact and hidden blushes. Private meetings that ran a little too long. Lunches at a little deli across town. Nights in each other’s apartments and beds. Hiding their truth brought on its own challenges and fights –– screaming matches in Alex’s kitchen, and tears on the balcony –– but it was worth every second. They had both loved before, but neither had loved like this.

Casey blew from the building like an ice storm onto the streets of Manhattan. The cold autumn wind bit at her skin and froze the tears stinging red rims beneath her eyes. She didn’t bother to look where she was going or dare to make eye contact with anyone passing by. The heels she wore left bloody blisters on her feet, but she couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

She found herself at Alex’s apartment well after sunset, hands shaking as she pulled out her key. It was messy, like someone had been there to look for something, and it briefly occurred to her that this might itself be a crime scene, but that didn’t matter. Still wearing her lilac wool jacket and heels, she curled up in the center of the older woman’s bed and closed her eyes. A loud, pathetic wail emanated from the back of her throat, her expression contorting as she began to cry. Clutching her own arm to her chest, Casey sobbed into the satin bedspread for what seemed like days, until at last she fell asleep.

The unforgiving sun blazed in, blinding her awake. Her head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, her stomach churning. She blinked herself grumpily back to reality, looking out over the room. It felt so empty now. Too many memories of them, burned into its walls. A single nail traced over a hem in the blanket beneath her. Her lip still quivered. She needed to get out of here, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She didn’t know where to go. She didn’t know what to do. There was just...nothing.

Casey sniffed, closing her eyes to steady herself against the overpowering helplessness. If she let it, sorrow would eat her alive. It would wrap its frozen tendrils around her arms and legs and waist and it would pull her down into its vacuum. Right now, that didn’t seem so bad.

Hazel eyes looked back out over the mess. Alex would hate it. And she would probably look at her now with a stiff lip and gentle eyes and tell her to get herself out of bed before she forgets how. She would remind her with a delicate firmness that one of them had to live. But all Casey wanted was just to feel her arms around her, and those lips pressed softly to her hair again.

Like a zombie, she pulled the dead weight of her limbs upright. She fixed her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and pulled her clothes straight. “No more tears, Novak. They won’t do any good now,” she muttered, brushing back her hair.

She strode out, ready to leave, but paused just for a moment. Her gaze landed on an oversized Yale tee at her feet, one she had seen Alex wear a dozen times to sleep. Casey pressed her lips together and snatched it from the floor. Balling it in her hand, she took off, refusing to let herself look back.

Casey skipped the funeral. It made things too real, and too complicated to explain. She couldn’t bear to see her name carved in stone, and it was just as well. She had a case to try that day; her first win, in Alex’s name. She ordered calla lilies to be delivered to the grave without a note, and went home.

Curled up on a leather chair in her own apartment, she pulled the t-shirt she had stolen tighter around herself. It still smelled like Alex; like the strange combination of coconut shampoo and citrus candles that made her so uniquely her. In one hand, she held a pen. In the other, she clutched the only polaroid of the two of them, taken at a conference in Chicago in August. Alex’s hand was around her waist, and the two stood a little too close for colleagues as they smiled for the camera. Hours later, they had gone out on the town together; their only real date. They held hands as they walked through the downtown streets, and kissed beneath a streetlight by their hotel. It was one of the best nights of her life.

She looked down at the paper in her lap and began to scribble:

I keep imagining you here with me; one arm around my waist, your body pressed against me. I think it’s the only way I’ll sleep tonight. I miss the way you felt.

I promise, one day, I’ll nail the bastard who did this to you... To us.

I love you, Cabot. I probably always will.

Casey.

Carefully, she folded the note in half, and tucked the photograph inside. She shoved them inside a leather-bound book, and lifted a glass of wine to her lips. All she could do now was go on.

#okay not my best ?? but i had a lot of feelings sooo #casey novak #alexandra cabot #law and order special victims unit #cabotiisms #✤. ❛say what you mean out loud ⇢ drabbles #✤. ❛cut and paste from dreams unfurled ... i swear i'm still your girl ⇢ dynamic : casey x alex

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susanwardmegsunsetbeachfans · 3 years

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SOD Editors' Choice

The Editor's of Soap Opera Digest Magazine salute the best in daytime!

Last Updated: December 1, 1999

Sizzling Storylines, SUNSET BEACH

Soap Opera Digest, August 24, 1998

When it debuted in 1997, SUNSET BEACH knew it had to do something to stand out from the pack and to attract those 18-39 year-olds that TV advertisers covet. It laid on the camp and played up pop culture references (the Scream-esque Terror Island storyline, Sara's FRIENDS fantasy, a guest stint by Jerry Springer).

BEACH set itself apart from other shows, all right. Almost too much so - the strategy drew younger viewers, but turned off soap fans who like their stories told the old-fashioned way. But the episodes that aired during the week of July 19 showed that if you like your soaps straight up, BEACH can serve 'em that way, too - with or without a twist.

There were no fewer than three storylines peaking that week. Ricardo was set to marry Gabi, when he saw a video of his intended making passionate love to his brother … a priest. Ricardo was rushed to the hospital with a stroke; during that week, he lay helpless in a hospital bed, haunted by visions of the horrifying videotape. To make matters worse, a clueless Antonio and Gabi (who don't know that Ricardo saw the tape), stayed faithfully by the patient's bedside, sending a seething Ricardo's vital signs through the roof. Then Gabi proposed that Antonio marry her and Ricardo right there in the hospital room! A weak and mute Ricardo could do nothing.

For those who prefer their drama over-the-top, there was the memorial service for a very-much-alive Gregory. A conniving Annie pondered revealing the truth that Gregory's son-in-law, Cole, is Trey's father (not Gregory), so that as Gregory's "widow" she would inherit his fortune. "You realize that would destroy a whole family," her lawyer warned. "That would be just a bonus," she replied a gleeful Annie. "It would also make me a very, very rich widow!" At the funeral, Gregory - disguised as a monk - watched in wonder as people genuinely grieved for him. "He was my life," sobbed Olivia, Gregory's ex. Caitlin cried "I loved my father, and I always will."

Then there was Ben and Meg's falling-out. "I don't have anything to say to you!" wailed Meg when she stumbled upon Ben and his ex, Maria, having sex. Who did she run to for sympathy? Casey - the man who Ben spotted Meg kissing, just before he fell into bed with Maria. Though Casey was Sara's boyfriend, he realized that her sister, Meg, is the one he loves.

A soap risks alienating fans if it strays too far outside the genre's traditional boundaries. Attention-grabbing gimmicks can backfire if viewers aren't also grabbed by the story. These days, BEACH is showing that you can be fresh, even cheeky, if you respect the audience enough to never lose sight of what makes people keep coming back for more.

Wedded Bliss-ters, SUNSET BEACH

Soap Opera Digest, 1998

It was the event that SUNSET BEACH had been building to almost since its premiere nearly two years ago: The wedding of country mouse Meg Cummings and city mouse Ben Evans - but this was no day as Disneyland. Mousetraps aplenty had been carefully laid, months in advance - all set to snap as the lovers journeyed down the aisle.

Except for a thunderstorm, the obstacles were not BEACH's usual fare. Instead of earthquakes and tidal waves, human relationships threatened the star-crossed lovers' bliss.

As the wedding approached, Carmen played by the deliciously hilarious Margarita Cordova, began to wig out. Plagued by the belief that her daughter, Maria (Ben'' drowned wife), was alive, she saw Ben and Meg's wedding as the apocalypse. As it turned out, the loony lady was dead on.

Things began to crumble the moment Carmen stormed into the Cummings house and pleaded with Meg to cancel the nuptials. This provoked an inspired performance from Susan Ward (Meg). "Why are you doing this to me?" the bride-to-be sobbed. Ward's ability to convey the compassion for and understanding of a mother's grief succeeded in gaining sympathy for both women.

When the action moved to the chapel, several subplots gained steam - all threatening to climax in a simultaneous eruption of licentious lava. A desperate Carmen slithered inside, as her son, Antonio, officiated the nuptials.

The padre was a little hot under the collar himself, unable to take his eyes off bridesmaid Gabi. Maid-of-honor Sara fantasized about marrying best man Casey. With all those lustful looks darting back and forth, we were caught off guard when Carmen rose from her pew, thrust her gun in the air and screamed, "You're going to listen to me - all of you!" And we did, as the eccentric psychic pushed Meg to the breaking point. "I am through listening to anything you have to say ever again!" the bride spat.

Carmen was promptly escorted out by her sons, who demonstrated just the right blend of shame and support for their hysterical mama. Another interruption arrived in the form of Annie and Tim, but they were quickly removed.

While all this was going down, the biggest bombshell was lurking in the wings, err, vestibule. Fans were pulling out their hair as amnesiac Maria's entry was delayed by one mishap after another. First, a broken heel forced her into the bathroom. Then, the doorknob fell off, trapping her inside. When Maria tried to escape through a window, she fell and was knocked unconscious. By the time she came to, Meg and Ben were married.

The newlyweds celebrated at the reception until Meg tossed her bouquet - rotating in super slow-mo - and it landed in wife No. 1's arms. Newcomer Christina Chambers skillfully conveyed the heartbreaking fear and confusion that Maria was feeling. When she fainted, we nearly did too.

Ben stared with disbelief and horror at his resurrected spouse as Meg realized the shocking identity of her new pal, Dana. It was a thrilling roller coaster ride for all three passengers - and it's far from over.

Sunset Beach's Kansas Connection

Soap Opera Digest, November 11, 1997

In any great fairy-tale romance, the man in white rides off with his lady love, promising to make all her dreams come true. Sunset Beach fans got their storybook ending when the dashing Ben Evans, dressed uncharacteristically in white, drove up to Meg's door in a convertible and swept her off her feet with a kiss.

The innocent far girl and the enigmatic businessman first found love on the Internet. Meg ditched her philandering fiancé in Kansas and cased her dream man all the way to California -- only to find that he was more Mr. Rochester than Prince Charming, haunted and glowering and ill-equipped for romance.

Meg finally did crake Ben's tough shell, only to face Annie and Tim's trickery. Courtesy of Annie's hypnosis, Ben called Meg by his late wife, Maria's, name once too often, sending her scampering home to Kansas with Tim. When Ben found out what Annie had done, he headed to Ludlow, Kansas, to reclaim his love.

Almost as sweet as the couple's reunion was their revenge. As Ben explained to Meg how Annie had manipulated them, the two realized that Tim must have been Annie's accomplice. Tim walked in on their conversation and our hero's fist sent Tim to the floor.

Of course, where Ben goes, Annie is sure to follow. After changing planes three times, Annie was carted to Ludlow in the back of a chicken truck. Stung by Ben's rejection of her apology, Annie shared a romp in the hay - quite literally - with Tim.

Meg has always been something of a misfit in the sophisticated, salty world of Sunset Beach, and it was fitting that Ben met her on her home turf to win her back. Beach took advantage of scenic middle America with exterior shots of Meg showing Ben around her hometown, including a romantic walk through the corn fields, Meg telling a touching tale of how she broke her arm as a child in the apple orchard by the bar, and a visit to the local country-and-western bar.

And what took place at that bar was as memorable a dance you'll ever see on daytime. Ben and Meg "battled" on the dance floor with Tim and a decked out Annie [shades of Cha Cha from Grease]. It was hilarious, refreshing and entirely within the context of the story.

Carol Potter returned as Meg's mom for the compelling heart-to-heart with her daughter. When Meg expressed her fears about giving herself to Ben, her mom pointed out, "you gave your heart to Ben a long time ago."

Meanwhile, Ben had his hands full with Meg's protective dad, Hank, played charmingly by daytime vet John Martin. Hank grilled Ben, questioning why he really came to Kansas. "Because I love your daughter," Ben replied, and Hank's wistful reaction betrayed regret as well as relief - he was no longer the most important man in his little girl's life, be he was leaving her in the hands of someone else who loved her.

Come to think of it, it was less a happy ending than a new beginning.

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brownskinsugarplum76 · 6 years

Text

Down by the Poolside, Part 2 of 2

And here's part 2 (NSFW FYI). See part 1 here.

When she surfaced, she splashed him and quickly swam away in a playful manner, but she forgot that he was a strong swimmer, even though she had been watching the evidence of it before she fell asleep, his sinewy, tanned body gliding through the water with strong strokes, his normally voluminous cotton candy cloud of honey blond curls now waterlogged but not really much of a drag on his speed.

He caught up to April, grabbed her, and scooped her up in his arms before she knew what was happening.

“Hey,” he said, looking down at her in his arms while still throwing that mischievous grin her way.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Plant,” April sang breathily, Marilyn Monroe-style, hoping an amateur singing to someone like him wasn't a foolish move.

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he deadpanned back with an Elvis impersonation featuring a spot-on American accent. They both laughed uncontrollably at his homage to his idol, and April stared into his eyes with as much flirtation and seduction as she could muster while nervousness and arousal battled for control inside of her.

“Mmm, you're one of the best birthday presents I've received today,” he said, eyeing her in a way that could only mean he was imagining the layout of her body underneath her swimsuit again. He smiled slyly, satisfied with what his lusty male intuition was telling him. “What's your name?” he asked.

“April,” she said, smiling back.

“Well, April, I think that's enough swimming for now, yeah?” he remarked in a velvet-soft murmur that was equal parts a hypnotic, gentle invitation and an assured command. And then he kissed her while he held her, so lightly that it felt like a dream, before it quickly turned into a strong, searching kiss that further jump-started a need in her body.

His advance caused her nervousness to melt away. Her tongue danced with his, and her body buzzed with electric waves of pleasure. He let her back down to her feet, and his hands rambled over her curvy, café au lait body, taking extra care with her full breasts, wide hips, and shapely ass. “Mmm, beautiful,” he exhaled with a ragged breath.

Her hands took a sensual survey of his body, easily gliding over his shoulders, arms and broad chest, all still a little slick with suntan lotion. The smell of the lotion and the odor of chlorine in the pool couldn't hide the scent of male desire that surrounded him, this handsome hippie who was known for having coaxed desire and romantic abandon out of scores of women with ease from his perch on many a concert stage. Somehow, he instinctively knew that women wanted romantic attention and reckless adventure, and he provided both with his maddeningly jarring blend of sweet and salacious behavior, the perfect surrogate lover for three hours and the cost of a concert ticket.

This is how April felt when she saw him perform at The Forum the night before, when her eyes stayed on him the entire night and she was thoroughly intoxicated by the band's sexy, hypnotic, complex rhythms. Those erotic concert night vibes were being directed her way now, in the broad daylight of late August, and magnified significantly by being inside of his strong embrace.

The effects of the trio of cocktails she had downed earlier to get herself out of an anxious mood and into a party mood still lingered, but she also felt incredibly tipsy with desire. Sensing April's anticipation, he slowly backed her toward the side of the pool. All too happy to be leaning against the poolside in her romantic stupor, she was floating even more when he descended upon her, with his hands and mouth leading the way for a lengthy kissing exploration that left her body wet and weak and his rigid and ready.

She roamed the long, muscular expanse of his body with her hands and mouth, making sure to pay admiration to his extra hard cock, firmly caressing its full length with long strokes. He writhed with pleasure, while she continued to tease him with her hands, satisfied moans escaping from his pursed lips.

And then she stopped. “I'll be right back,” she informed him.

“What? Where are you going?” he asked, with confusion mounting on his face.

“You’ll like it, I promise,” she assured him with a soft smile. Then she dipped down under the water and licked and sucked the tip of his thick cock for a precious few seconds, while he placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt a moan resonate through the water and wished she might get the opportunity for a more lengthy oral exploration session on dry land.

She found him tense, with his eyes closed, when she broke the surface of the water again. She traced his strong jawline with her fingers and kissed him. He buried his fingers in her wet waves of hair while she returned the favor to him.

Their hungry kissing and groping gave way to him hoisting her up higher against the wall. She wrapped long legs around him, and he pushed aside her bikini bottom and fingered her while she shuddered with uncontrollable spasms of pleasure and felt the wetness inside of her begin to match the wetness of their current environment.

“Time to open your present,” she managed to say between moans, gazing into his eyes, eager to get their private birthday party started.

“Gladly, April. I love a good present,” he said, his voice husky with need and his gaze boring deep into her eyes, while a ravenous, wicked smile unfolded on his beautiful face.

April was so wet that their bodies joined with ease, his legendary ample manhood filling her completely and sparking immense pleasure, to the point where a delicious orgasm ripped through her body effortlessly, causing her to gasp and tremble.

“Eager, aren't you?” he murmured, beaming a devilish smile. “Such a great birthday present so far. How many more do you have in you, old girl?”

“How much time do you have?” she whispered.

“As long as it takes to find out, love,” he purred.

They melted into each other, delighting in all the wonderful sensations of the romantic coupling, the steady building rhythm of their sensual labor, him taking her through a series of several more peaks and valleys of excitement, the wet friction of their increasingly frantic dance, and the radiant summer sunshine.

He filled her mind with the spectacle of his abandon. His pure enjoyment, his moans, screams and grunts, and his unabashed openness gave her permission to be equally, audibly, appreciative of everything she was feeling.

She felt more daring and unconcerned with the rest of the world than she had ever felt before, and more alive. She was surprised by how much she loved the scene they were making, their sounds joining the sounds of a few other couples who were equally enjoying the extremes of hedonism that were possible at the elite party.

She greedily tilted her pelvis to feel him even more deeply, and she was not disappointed. The depth of his cock inside her and the force of their pelvises colliding made her arch her back and stiffen. “Oh, Robert,” she exhaled, as tension began to build.

He tenderly cupped her chin with one hand and and willed her to keep her eyes open to look into his as they continued to work up a tsunami of pleasure between them.

He tossed his head back and trembled with satisfaction. “April, April, April,” he chanted as he neared the end. By that point, April was too far gone for her sounds of pleasure to coalesce into words. Instead, she wailed with delight and watched a range of emotions storm across his chiseled face. She lost control as well, arching her back as yet another expansive orgasm spread like wildfire through her body, from her pussy, up my spine, through her nipples, and then everywhere. Ecstasy.

In a flash, his release came next. “Oh yesss, ” he hissed as he shuddered and bucked a few times. He emitted a long, low purr, his chest heaving and his eyes closed. “Happy birthday to me, ” he said with a smile, opening his eyes again.

“I'm glad you liked our little party,” April said, smiling uncontrollably and tenderly placing a hand on his chest to steady herself after the flood of pleasure slowly subsided.

He lifted her out of the pool and then hoisted himself up and over the side. He took her hand and led her over to the lounge chair where she had fallen asleep, stretching out there on his back. He motioned for April to join him. She removed her wet bikini first. “When in Rome,” she said, smiling slyly. He matched her smile with a wolfish grin of his own as she climbed on top of him and into his waiting embrace.

And then they fell asleep, relaxed but buzzing with satisfaction as they held each other under the sun. It was a perfect California day at poolside, but certainly anything but typical for April.

#robert plant #led zeppelin #fan fiction #fanfic #70s #1970s #down by the poolside #brownskinsugarplumlibrary

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trashpersonwrites · 6 years

Text

On my miscarriage

On Love, Loss, and Vulnerability: My Miscarriage

On December 23rd 2017, I found out I was pregnant. I wish I could say my first reaction was that of immediate joy, especially since I had been trying. Instead I was in shock. It happened so fast. I’m not the mothering type. How am I going to be somebody’s mom? How am I pregnant when I feel like the trash person I’ve always been?

On the flip-side, I was excited. My body was going to change in ways it never had before. I was going to do something amazing. I was going to bring life into the world! And when Matt saw the second line appearing on the stick before I had time to return to the bathroom, I know he felt joy. I was going to bring something beautiful into the lives of my family and his family and for that I felt like one of the luckiest people on the planet.

I carried my news to Christmas like it was a big box with a puppy inside. Telling Matt’s parents Christmas eve and my own on Christmas day. I warned them it was early, but that I had been on prenatal vitamins since before I conceived and taking care of myself in preparation. I had great odds that this was going to go smoothly and that we’d have a baby by early September.

I started to feel nausea even before New Year’s. I was exhausted, I could smell things from a mile away, and I started to get emotional over nothing. The first time I cried I was driving to Whole Foods and a song came on that I liked.

In the meantime, I started to bond with it. I know it was just an embryo, and then at 8 weeks a fetus. It had no likes or dislikes, it had no personality, and it had no legal rights that surpassed my own. But to me it became my baby. I felt like it was a girl. I would place my hand over my stomach at night and wish her health, growth, love and light. She had Matt’s sunny personality and my blue eyes. She loved music. I was going to name her Melody.

My pregnancy was absolutely normal. I had no concerning symptoms and no indication that something was off. All my pregnancy tests were blaringly positive and my healthcare providers saw a 28-year-old woman who was a healthy weight and had no pre-existing conditions. My first visit to my OB was scheduled for January 22nd along with my 8-week scan. I was 8 weeks and 4 days that day. I couldn’t see my normal doctor, but I was okay with seeing one of the nurse practitioners at the practice.

I knew 2 things had to go right at that scan. I had to be measuring around 8 weeks and 4 days with only a couple of days, give or take, as room for error. I also had to have a strong heartbeat. If those two things went right, I could go forward and this would be real. I knew if I got those two things I would have a healthy baby due in late August.

The ultrasound room was darkened. There were murals of beaches on the walls. The technician had a calendar with scotty dogs by her desk. My mom and Matt’s mom were there with me. I laid down on the table with my legs in stirrups and the tech placed the ultrasound wand inside me. My mom gasped when she first saw there was something there. The NP asked for quiet while they took pictures and measurements. It didn’t take long before the NP walked over to me and said, “you’re measuring 8 weeks, 5 days. But there’s no heartbeat.”

My world crashed. My mom and Matt’s mom surrounded me, trying to protect me from the most devastating blow I’d ever received. I don’t even know when the ultrasound tech removed the wand from me. I asked questions.

“Am I not pregnant anymore?”

“You’re still pregnant, but there is no heartbeat.”

“What do I do now?”

“You have three options. Wait for it to pass naturally, take medication that will cause it to pass, or have a D and C.”

Waiting for the inevitable sounded like torture. Waiting could take a while, and there would be a risk that I wouldn’t pass everything which could cause complications in the future. I could request the medication (misoprostol, the same medication taken to induce an abortion), but I could also get a pharmacist who didn’t believe it was a miscarriage and that I was trying to get an abortion and deny me the medication. Getting into an ideological battle in a CVS on the worst day of my life also sounded like torture. I saw my baby on the ultrasound screen, I didn’t need to see it come out of me. I immediately asked for a D&C.

“I’ll call your regular doctor and see when the earliest we can schedule it is.”

“Does this mean I’m at an increased risk for this happening again?”

“Yes. If you get pregnant again we will want to see you much sooner and check your hormone levels early on.”

I started to cry and she left along with the student who was shadowing her and the ultrasound tech. I could hear my mom and Matt’s mom crying too. Both of them had miscarried before, and they knew how I felt in that moment. I’ve never been more vulnerable than I was in that moment surrounded by my baby’s grandmothers, crying, with only a glorified paper towel covering my exposed bottom half.

I collected myself enough to put on my pants, gather my things, and get papers to have blood work drawn. The NP said she’d call my doctor right away and that I’d be hearing back from her in the afternoon. Downstairs they drew 6 vials of my blood.

I left the building and got back in my car with my mom and Matt’s mom. I started to sob. I couldn’t keep my baby alive. I did everything right, and my baby still died. My mom asked if I was okay to drive. I pulled myself together. I felt like I couldn’t do the most natural thing in the world. I wanted to at least do something, so I drove home.

In the meantime, everyone who knew was contacted, including Matt who’d had a training that day and couldn’t be with me at the ultrasound. Matt sounded defeated on the phone. I felt guilty. I felt like I was causing the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Both of us have been extremely fortunate, and we’ve never had to really suffer. We have both sets of parents, both of our parents are still together, and both of us can still go to our childhood homes for holidays. We’re lucky people. I’d had people die on me before though. And I’d had parts of my childhood that were gone and I could never get back. Matt still has all of the grandparents he’s ever known.

We went to have lunch with him and on the way, we got a call from my dad who already knew about the miscarriage. On top of this, my grandma isn’t doing well. This is probably the beginning of the end. This day is shit.

I visit my grandma that evening. She has Alzheimer’s and she hasn’t been herself in years. This is a loss I’m prepared for. I feel guilty again because I’m bringing death to a dying woman. We stay for a while, but mom needs to get me home. She doesn’t want me driving right now.

Once I get home Matt holds me tight. He doesn’t hurt like I do, but he hurts because I’m hurting. This adds another crack in my already shattered heart. I ask him to drive me around. I don’t want to stay in one place. I get restless when I’m sad. As we head home it starts to storm. There is hail. It feels like the world is crying with me.

I have two days until my D and C. My doctor called earlier. She tells me she’s sorry this has happened to me. 3 months earlier I had been in her office asking her what I should do since I was ready to start a family. She could tell I was happy. She knows this is tough for me. She’s going to put me under general anesthesia for the procedure. There are risks, but they’re rare.

That night I have the first anxiety attack I’ve had in months. I’m afraid to be alone if I start to pass the baby. Matt asks his mom if she can come over. I also tell my dad I’m scared and he drops work to come stay with me that day. Matt’s mom, Matt’s dad, and my dad all watch me that day and I realize that parents never stop being parents. I also realize I’m loved. Really loved. Unconditionally loved.

Matt’s mom comes back the next day and we watch Big Little Lies. She makes me guacamole and washes Matt’s work shirts. My mom comes by that night with pizza. Everyone makes sure I’m not alone. In the midst of my sorrow I find immense gratitude. I can never adequately thank my family for being there for me when I needed it the most. They’ve gone above and beyond for me. I realize that as much as I love my baby, my parents love me and I understand them now more than ever.

It’s the night before the D and C. I haven’t been cramping or spotting. The next morning my dead baby is going to be scraped out of me. I know this sounds unpleasant because it is. I feel guilty. I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I know this way they can do genetic testing and I might be able to get some answers as to what went wrong. But it feels like an undignified end to something that was created in love. So I tell my baby goodbye.

I tell it that I love it. That I love it more than I’ve ever loved anyone, maybe even more than Matt. I tell it that even though I may have been apprehensive, I wanted it. I wanted it so badly it hurt. I tell it that it will always be my first. I tell it that it’s beautiful because it’s made from pieces of so many people that I love and have loved. It’s part of me and Matt and his parents and my parents and all of our grandparents. I tell it that I want it to be with my grandma because she will probably be dying soon. I tell it that I hope we’ll meet again, maybe in another time or universe and that hopefully next go around we get more time together. This brings me some peace.

I sleep fitfully again and wake up at 5 that morning. Matt takes me to the hospital and drops me off while he goes to park. I tell the guard at the front desk I need to be admitted for a D and C. While I wait, I see two other women being admitted. One looks about as happy to be there as I do. The other is very pregnant and is being induced. I hope that everything goes perfectly for her, but I’m jealous.

I’m admitted and taken back to pre-op. I put on the gown and pee in a cup. My main nurse’s name is Kristin. She tells me this has happened to her too. She’s kind and caring and very knowledgeable. I ask her for anxiety medication because this situation encompasses a lot of my phobias and she makes sure I get some. Her soft voice and caring eyes help put me at ease. She also had a nursing student with her doing her clinicals. I can’t remember her name, but she was warm, and did a great job taking out my IV needle when everything was done.

My doctor sees me next. She hugs me, she knows I don’t want to be here. She listens to my concerns and answers every question reassuringly. She tells me that in addition to having no heartbeat there appeared to be some abnormalities with the fetus. She lets me know that if this was a trisomy, that my odds for it happening again are no worse than my odds for it happening in the first place. She makes me feel better. She wants to do one more ultrasound to do her due diligence before she goes in, but, she’s pretty sure this is what it is and that I’m making the right call.

After I’m given Xanax, I start to feel less afraid. I make dark jokes with Matt. He knows I’m scared and he knows this is very high up there on the bad days list. I tell him this is way worse than the time I got my period in white shorts during band class. We laugh for the first time in days.

The doctor comes back in and does the ultrasound. She can see immediately that the amniotic fluid has gone down and that the placenta is closing in on the baby. The only heartbeat we can hear is mine. It’s time.

I’m given strong drugs, and I’m a lightweight. I don’t remember being wheeled into the OR, but I remember being in the OR. Between my doctor, my nurses and my anesthesiologist, I knew I was surrounded by smart women who were all there to take care of me and make sure I came out of this with the opportunity to try again if I want to.

I woke up back in the recovery room wrapped in warm blankets. I was shivering pretty hard when I came out of the anesthesia, but that’s normal. Everything went smoothly, they got everything out and I had no complications. I hurt a little so they gave me some Vicodin. Apparently, I thanked everyone profusely.

My bleeding was minimal and by the time I left my pain was at a 0. My doctor saw me one last time and told me next time we’d get it. She’s an amazing doctor.

Recovery has been easy so far. I don’t hurt, I’m just a little tender, and my pregnancy symptoms are already starting to fade. Hopefully I’ll know more about what happened to my baby in a few weeks when the genetic test results come back.

I don’t believe much in fate, I’m not religious, and I don’t think this happened for a reason beyond that something just went wrong. I still believe women should have the choice to do what they think is right with their bodies. But I believe even more strongly that every woman should have access to quality care and compassion when she needs it. The care and compassion I received during my D and C was incredible. It was the silver lining to a day I never wanted to come.

I also believe life is about learning lessons. When things happen to us, we need to learn from them. On a shallow note, I learned yesterday that my blood type is A-, which came as a shock since both my parents have positive blood types. In any future pregnancies, I would need RhoGAM shots since Matt is A+.

More importantly, I’m learning that I am immensely fortunate for the family and friends I have. To everyone who has offered me their time, support, care, or kind words, I cannot thank you enough. All of you have turned one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me into something I can look back on with positivity. Kindness and compassion are some of the most important gifts you can ever give.

I’m learning that parenthood is complex and beautiful and it lasts well beyond the years you spend raising a child. I used to look at being a mom as something that would over-simplify me. It was a label I didn’t think I fit into. Now I know that’s not true. I would be honored to be a mom.

I’m also learning that my capacity to love goes way deeper than I ever imagined. As a means of self-preservation and out of a fear of vulnerability, I’ve held myself back from experiencing love as deeply as I can. I don’t think I want to hold back anymore. Not with Matt, not with family, not with anyone I care about. I know I can get hurt, but it’s okay. I know I have more than enough love in my life to heal no matter what.

#miscarriage #d&c #pregnancyloss

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usuao · 7 years

Text

Requested: Kim Wonsik

“We Only Part To Meet Again” Kim Wonsik x OFC [Requested] by heart-baek-bleed A/N: I hope it meets your expectations.

A small breeze hits her face as she’s playing with the handle of the window. It’s one of those days, pouring and storming. Streets empty, filled with rain. Getting darker every minute, little yellow to orange lights appear in the distance. People didn’t even feel the need to go outside. “Let’s stay inside. Stay dry and have a cup of tea together.”

She’s calming down while counting the drops splattering on the thick glass. The trees waver as the storm hits them gently but so harshly. It’s as if the trees are being hurt, as the wind that’s hitting them also caresses. She dazes off, as always.

It’s going fast from the pretty blue to gray and she knows a day went away. Another day spend in emptiness, she was lifeless. She had only injured her leg, but here she was. Covered in white, tied to infusion.

Tears fill her eyes. She missed him. Especially at such weather where warmth was all she needed, she missed him. She wanted him to try to make her smile. She wanted to see him happy.

Wonsik knew she was at the hospital. He visited her several times after his work, in between or when he had a half-day off. He tried his best. She knew. She was grateful but sometimes she wished he didn’t.

She loves him. Even thinking about the words starts a little fire in her heart, she can feel it deep inside. The growth of their relationship changing every year. Developing every layer, putting every effort with every heartbeat they came to grow together, as one.

That's why she was more than afraid. She was catching these feelings on and off, thinking "but what if this ever stops" or "what do I do without him?" while pulling away from a kiss, staring into his brown eyes, dazing off with the questions in her mind. The problem wasn't that. It was that she was too deep in love.

August passed away gently. They faced the sun bare, they kissed in the cold nights air. August was all about that.

September and October flew away fast when everyone was busy with their lives. Suddenly everything set back to reality, to an order, the two lovers of August fell apart. Only able to connect their hearts by phone calls.

"You, I love you" "So much so much I love you so much" "Really? How much is that?" "Enough to make me run the world around for you."

Coughing with ache in her chest she goes back to her bed and rolls to the side. Facing the window, she continues to daze off to her memories of him. Back to the day that made her end up here.

The timing was oddly off. One would say; it was at a wrong place at the wrong time but for her it was the right place but wrong timing. It had taken them longer than "just a few months" to face each other. December was around the corner and they took a big step. Moving in.

The anniversary.

Wonsik told her clearly every phone call he was fed up with the distance so he made sure to find a decent place for them to move in together around early Winter, so that it would be his gift to her.

"I want you to be by my side, as long as your heart’s at ease come to me, move in."

For her there wasn't really something that made it hard for her to move. The new apartment he had found was almost in between their distance, a bit closer to his but it wasn't hard for her to go to work. It made her trip only 5 minutes longer. There were no worries. Everything went smooth unexpectedly until a normal human behavior made her end up two stairways down. She would have never thought that her tripping would also make her find out about the unknown.

Coughing blood, dizziness and feeling weakness started months ago. Even in the sunny August she was coughing. Brushing it off as allergy but deeply worrying about it has eaten her alive. She knew her mother and grandmother had suffered from hemoptysis, there wasn’t really something in her body that proved it yet, but she knew that there was a great chance.

Day by day her worry grows, even talking to Wonsik becomes harder. Now that she’s at the hospital he could get to know about it too, it was unusual for her to stay this long at the hospital for a leg injury. “She’s at the hospital, can’t they do something about her cold?” “Why is she still coughing? Why isn’t anyone taking proper care of her?!” were the words that he kept snapping at the nurses. No one answered though. It was silent. It was like no one knew but the only one in the room not knowing was Wonsik. Making a fool of himself every day as he came to visit.

The emptiness in her heart was like a hole in her chest. Her mind was full, starting to suffer from overthinking and stressing- how to tell Wonsik all of this? Not knowing how much there was left for her or how, what would happen when the day would come were questions piling up every day.

The doctor had told Wonsik that she had coughing because of an allergy and that treatment of infusion would heal her wounds and take out the virus of her body. She should sweat it out was what he told him and he believed it instantly. Any explanation from anyone would ease his heart, knowing it wasn’t something serious he would be running to her to tell it. So, she could be happy. Happy to get out and live together.

Every visit he would tell her anything. His mood always started with excitement and ended in sorrow. He told her how he was building every furniture on his own. Showing off his arms with his bright smile. He said he was doing great, that there was no need to worry. Sometimes he would say he was not okay, saying she should get better soon and take care of him. It was all laughter’s with him. His eye smile warming her, her hands melting in his, that’s all what she asked for. A little bit more time in his bubble of happiness and warmth. Just a little bit more.

Weeks pass by. She had somehow grown hope, unwantedly. When the doctor said the therapy was showing a good sign her whole perspective on future got a new color added to the black and white.

“It must be god’s will.” She coughed later the same day as the nurse helps her out in silence, while the saliva’s dripping off her chin. The blood doubled it the past few days and her heart beats at unusual paces. The good may have been for the moment. The good had taken another way and the bad was about to come.

“It’s the heart. There were a few injuries inside your vessels but with the therapy of medicine and infusion we were expecting to have it show better results but your heart has gone too far behind. We can’t do anything about it, neither do we know- “

“How long… How long until it stops beating?”

“It could happen in a month or even before that. You have weakened quite a lot during the process as well, I would assume a few weeks max… I suggest you let your loved ones know.”

“Oh…”

With a click of the door it followed by another. It was soundless in the room. It was just like the first few days of her coming here, it was raining and storming at the same time. The world froze as the rain was cleaning out everywhere.

Her mind is a straight horizontal line. She hasn’t reacted at all. It was all blank. Her eyes moving to every object in the room her thoughts were stabbing her inside.

“You won’t live. You won’t see this again, feel this blanket again. You won’t feel warm again, you won’t be able to breathe the rainy air again you won’t, you won’t, you won’t” It repeats in her head, several times until it drives her crazy to the point where she runs to the window and opens both sides fully. Strong wind brushing her face she takes in all the air. “You won’t feel this again. You won’t smell the rain like this again. You won’t be there, you won’t be there under the rain and feel it, be there with him…”

“You won’t be there under the rain with him, in his arms. You won’t be alive. You are going to die.”

Sitting under the open window she hears once every 3 or 4 minutes an object fly or fall. The storm is strong so she lets it be.

Her phone rings a few times and it’s quiet. She wraps her arms around her legs as it won’t stop. The reason why she isn’t even doing anything about it is because she knows its him. Wonsik calling that he’s late again, or asking what flavor milk she wants so he could sneak in. She knows, she can hear his deep voice so clear. She can feel his smile on her skin. Everything is so clear and that’s why she can’t face it anymore. She doesn’t know how to explain the reality to him when he was living in another world. Did she really want to ruin him?

It’s Monday and days go by fast. Nothing changes it only worsens. She tells him not to come for a few days because she will be having family visiting. In truth, no one visits other than the nurse. Those days pass by with calling families, friends just for talking. Asking how they are doing. Lying. Pretending. Laughing. Hanging up and crying without feel. Having the nurse help at some free moments, she takes her out for a walk. It’s early winter and it has started snowing, thick layers build within an hour. It’s white everywhere, so pure and beautiful she can’t take her eyes off it. She decides to spend her time mostly outside, the doctor knowing of the situation ends up allowing her.

Wonsik is on his way to the hospital. As he’s hurrying to go inside he’s welcomed by her gentle voice. “Come! It’s so pretty!” Fast walking to her he immediately takes off his jacket. His voice stern and offended. “What are you doing in this cold weather. You will get sicker!” “I’m fine I swear” she turns around to the side fast, trying not to cough hard and loud. She looks at the tissue in her hand. A few splatters but not much to make him worry. They decide to sit at the café of the hospital. Facing the field covered in white she’s resting on his side, her cheek on his chest.

“Wonsik.” “Hm” “You remember Romeo and Juliet, right?” “What about it?” “What would you do if I died?”

His chest stops midway of breathing for a slight second and continues. He clears his throat and looks at her.

“Why would you ask that. Especially at the hospital? It’s such a mood breaker”

He didn’t like to talk about it. Wonsik knew he would prefer her to leave him, break up, than seeing her die. Ever since she was here, longer than expected the thought occurred his mind often but he remembered the doctor’s words. It was normal for her to lose weight and look sick. It was the side effect. She was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. Just a little bit more and she would be sleeping in his arms again. "Do you remember when that one time I told you about how long it would take for me to stop loving you...-" she starts, waking him up from his thoughts.

"Yea, and we never got the answer of it. I said we, because I don't expect you to remember the answer anymore." Showing a small grin, he’s back to his goofy self. Placing his hand on her cheek he pushes away small hairs behind her ear. Viewing her whole face, he takes in everything.

Slightly grinning at that she can only pretend to think. For a moment, for both the world changes. It’s almost as if they are not at the hospital. She is not sick and he is not missing her while having her in his arms. It’s like the old times. It’s warm and alive, the way her hearts beat.

"I don't know. I might still remember." She chuckles. "It was silly, but it suddenly came to my mind."

"Hmm."

"What was it again.... Oh right. I said; How long will it take to make me stop loving you and you will question "how long will it take" and I, wait why are you laughing? Stop laughing I'm serious!” She can’t help but blush to his laugh. Looking back at him she continues.

“And what I will say is...” wait for it, maybe then it will come and then...” Wonsik stop it, I love you and I want to say something why are you laughing" just like that day, he’s interrupting her again and making her laugh. Deep inside she’s facing a wave of sadness, her smile hangs there. Knowing the truth wasn’t the difficult part. It was her feelings. It was keeping her away from confessing. If she didn’t have Wonsik, maybe she could have faced death easier. Her mother died. Her grandmother died. She was familiar with death.

"Fine now tell me; what will I say?" he bumps her nose with his. Waiting for the answer.

"You ruined it. Die out of curiosity."

"Do you want me to die? I think I heard you say you loved me."

"See that has nothing to do with it you never let me finish."

"Won-"

Warm but sweet mocha lips press onto hers, tasting him, smelling his scents, she’s blown away. She still got goosebumps as he was kissing her. She still loved him, a lot.

He makes her stop talking. As always. Ending her sentence midway with kisses, knowing she’d say the same thing, say how much she loves him in a happy mood, say how much she’d love to live with him in a sad mood. Wonsik didn’t know how to answer any of her moods ever since the thought of death passed by his mind. He already had a difficult time seeing her in this state, he didn’t want to think about bad things. He wanted the good to come.

Pulling away from his lips, eyes closed both leaning to their touch she speaks quietly.

"And you will say; no, until death tears us apart."

The next day he comes early. The earlier he comes, the harder it is for her to hold herself together. If he comes to surprise her it’s even harder. She can take medicine to lessen the pain in her throat and coughing ends up being small. Fortunately, she had taken them a few minutes ago, it would only take a few long minutes to see the results.

He’s wearing the sweater she bought him on their first anniversary. He looks handsome as ever. Just as he appears at the door of her room, her whole body softens to his presence.

“I love you. “God, I missed you so much”

Words always rolled out their mouths so easily, sincerely and painfully. His hugs were rough but with care. His toughness and kindness was why she fell for him. His tough appearance and caring, child-like personality was what she loved the most about him. He had times where he had the most ridiculous ideas but once a person would pay a bit attention it always ended up being funny and interesting. He could talk for hours and she would laugh at him, stare in his eyes and that would be enough for her to confess her love, for the thousand time.

“Our anniversary is tomorrow but I will try to stay until midnight and maybe sleep here. Do you think I can sneak in like that? Or hide? Under the bed” He’s showing moves and looking around with his fingers forming a gun.

“Or should I kidnap you?”

He has bought his laptop with him. Telling her that while she was here, he was inspired to write more and better lyrics because his love was growing stronger. Even over the phone or messages he’d say the same thing. "I'm telling you. It's you. Without your presence, without seeing your existence right in front of my eyes, without feeling your energy I can't write”

"Wonsik, just say I'm your muse."

"Why won’t you let me explain it with love and passion babe, but- yes exactly I was searching for that word too, and believe me, it's crazy, now that we're talking I'm full of new ideas”

Biting slowly inside her cheek she's dazed to memories that often came back.

The rest of the day they spend it on listening to his composed music, going through pictures of them and walking outside and around the hospital. The snow was still thick, it was pouring once an hour or two. She liked to see it, while he’d complain about it.

“I hate the weather. The traffic is killing me! It takes another 20 minutes to arrive here!” he pouts while watching her cut the cake he had brought. Strawberry cake with macarons on top. Her favorite.

Its winter time. Their day flies away so fast that by the time they’re done with half of the cake it starts getting dark outside. The medicine starts working off and she coughs whilst eating her cake. Wonsik freezes for a second and watches her handle it. As it gets louder and harsher, he stands up and ask for water but she refuses. It won’t stop and he runs out the room to call the nurse. She tries to call him but he’s gone far. Left alone in the room, with a half cake and presents next to her she swallows the piece of cake in her mouth in tears. Faking it was hard. It was hurting her more and more. By the time he comes back pulling a nurse with him she's just sitting there and waiting for him. He’s completely confused to what he sees and what he remembers a few minutes ago. After checking up on her 3 times the nurse leaves and Wonsik takes her into his arms.

“I was scared for a moment. Sorry if I worried you baby…” “It was nothing to worry about though”

He swallows hesitating his words. It’s past 11 and they’re lying down in her bed. Her head on his arm they’re both looking outside.

“You asked me about death and ever since I can’t stop thinking about it” He pours out the words slowly. His deep voice monotone and deeply scared. He doesn’t want her to have thoughts like she couldn’t get better or that she could die.

“I did. What about it?”

“Why did you ask me that?”

She buries her nose in his chest to the answer. He moves his head closer to her and stays with her in the silence. She replies after a while though. When she’s sure of it. When the only courage and energy in her body leaves with the words.

“One day it might happen. We all die one day… I just wanted to know your answer”

“We all die one day, but that’s not something you should be thinking about, especially in this state.” He suddenly feels it burning in his heart. He’s slightly angry at her reaction but he tries not to be mad at her. “I could die now. I could die after week or a month, who knows” she continues.

“Stop talking about it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Wonsik”

“Let me tell you about the mixtape I’m working on okay? So- “

“Wonsik”

“I was meeting with the hyung of- “

“Wonsik I don’t have much left.”

He freezes. His eyes shake, looking into her eyes for more. Was it a joke?

For the remaining two hours, he yells, screams, argues with her for a good hour. He doesn’t get any answer. He builds the anger and fear. He holds her face, he yells in her face to look at her but all he faces with is truth in her silence. She’s quiet. Her eyes water but she’s tough to keep them together. Crying would make it worse. He gets out of bed. As she’s not replying he runs out the room, searching for anyone that could help but no one is around other that the nurses on their night shift and all they know is what she knows. Its Hemoptysis caused by a heart disease.

He doesn’t know who to believe. He reads the words repeatedly. He walks back to the room finding her in the same position. They stare at each other.

“How long has it been going. Why didn’t you tell me about this?!” “The doctor lied to me. He said you were going to be fine. He laughed. He smiled he assured me it was going to be fine, look at me you knew it all along, didn’t you?”

Holding on to her shoulders he shakes her body. It hurts her. It hurts her a lot but she deserves this one. Looking up to his eyes she nods. She nods and with that he collapses in her lap.

“What do we do? What do we do? You can’t leave, you can’t die” Repeating the words, running out and coming back, getting the same answer over again he gives up. Sitting on the bed with her he’s exhausted. His heart hurts.

“How long…” he starts the words but it sounds ridiculous for him to even ask. He's ruined. His shoulders collapsing, his face down he can't cope with any of it. Covering his forehead, he looks away. Tears rolling over his cheeks he bites his lip. “How long is there left?” he wipes his tears and makes sure to face her straight.

“I don’t know. A few years maybe.” She replies lying, as her heart aches. He was beating himself up, it hurt, she should be the one hurting not him. There should be a way to confess but make him at ease. He looks at her, both shed tears in the silence, “I’m sorry’s’ leaving from her lips.

The last 30 minutes until the next day he holds her tight in a hug. He doesn’t ask further questions, he fears everything, he’s scared but he knows it must’ve been harder on her. There was no time to be mad at her when he should be there for her. Comforting her.

Taking position on the bed again, her resting her face on his chest, she slowly drifts away into sleep.

“I love you, you know that right? Even if death tears us apart I’ll die with you.”

“I do Wonsik” She whispers. Feeling his thumb caressing her cheek she looks at him, feeling her throat burn and heart skip slow at an unusual beat her eyes start tearing. She’s lightheaded as she’s staring into his eyes. It was dark in the room but the light of the moon was enough to make her see his beautiful face. His worried, fearing eyes were looking into hers, but his love was showing through. She wasn’t worried. His eyes told her everything.

“I love you too” closing her eyes she breathes out the words. His fingers in her hair he kisses her forehead, feeling the beat of her heart stop.

It was the beginning of the ending. She always believed in that sort of a thing, that when one thing started there would be an end to it.

23 notes · View notes

teachanarchy · 7 years

Link

For 50 years, Noam Chomsky, has been America’s Socrates, our public pest with questions that sting. He speaks not to the city square of Athens but to a vast global village in pain and now, it seems, in danger.

This interview comes from Open Source with Christopher Lydon, a weekly program about arts, ideas and politics. Listen to rest of the conversation with Chomsky here.

The world in trouble today still beats a path to Noam Chomsky’s door, if only because he’s been forthright for so long about a whirlwind coming. Not that the world quite knows what do with Noam Chomsky’s warnings of disaster in the making. Remember the famous faltering of the patrician TV host William F. Buckley Jr., meeting Chomsky’s icy anger about the war in Vietnam, in 1969.

It’s a strange thing about Noam Chomsky: The New York Times calls him “arguably” the most important public thinker alive, though the paper seldom quotes him, or argues with him, and giant pop-media stars on network television almost never do. And yet the man is universally famous and revered in his 89th year: He’s the scientist who taught us to think of human language as something embedded in our biology, not a social acquisition; he’s the humanist who railed against the Vietnam War and other projections of American power, on moral grounds first, ahead of practical considerations. He remains a rock star on college campuses, here and abroad, and he’s become a sort of North Star for the post-Occupy generation that today refuses to feel the Bern-out.

He remains, unfortunately, a figure alien in the places where policy gets made. But on his home ground at MIT, he is a notably accessible old professor who answers his e-mail and receives visitors like us with a twinkle.

Last week, we visited Chomsky with an open-ended mission in mind: We were looking for a nonstandard account of our recent history from a man known for telling the truth. We’d written him that we wanted to hear not what he thinks but how. He’d written back that hard work and an open mind have a lot to do with it, also, in his words, a “Socratic-style willingness to ask whether conventional doctrines are justified.”

Christopher Lydon: All we want you to do is to explain where in the world we are at a time—

Noam Chomsky: That’s easy.

CL: [Laughs]—When so many people were on the edge of something, something historic. Is there a Chomsky summary?

NC: Brief summary?

CL: Yeah.

NC: Well, a brief summary I think is if you take a look at recent history since the Second World War, something really remarkable has happened. First, human intelligence created two huge sledgehammers capable of terminating our existence—or at least organized existence—both from the Second World War. One of them is familiar. In fact, both are by now familiar. The Second World War ended with the use of nuclear weapons. It was immediately obvious on August 6, 1945, a day that I remember very well. It was obvious that soon technology would develop to the point where it would lead to terminal disaster. Scientists certainly understood this.

In 1947 the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists inaugurated its famous Doomsday Clock. You know, how close the minute hand was to midnight? And it started seven minutes to midnight. By 1953 it had moved to two minutes to midnight. That was the year when the United States and Soviet Union exploded hydrogen bombs. But it turns out we now understand that at the end of the Second World War the world also entered into a new geological epoch. It’s called the Anthropocene, the epoch in which humans have a severe, in fact maybe disastrous impact on the environment. It moved again in 2015, again in 2016. Immediately after the Trump election late January this year, the clock was moved again to two and a half minutes to midnight, the closest it’s been since ’53.

So there’s the two existential threats that we’ve created—which might in the case of nuclear war maybe wipe us out; in the case of environmental catastrophe, create a severe impact—and then some.

A third thing happened. Beginning around the ’70s, human intelligence dedicated itself to eliminating, or at least weakening, the main barrier against these threats. It’s called neoliberalism. There was a transition at that time from the period of what some people call “regimented capitalism,” the ’50s and ’60s, the great growth period, egalitarian growth, a lot of advances in social justice and so on—

CL: Social democracy…

NC: Social democracy, yeah. That’s sometimes called “the golden age of modern capitalism.” That changed in the ’70s with the onset of the neoliberal era that we’ve been living in since. And if you ask yourself what this era is, its crucial principle is undermining mechanisms of social solidarity and mutual support and popular engagement in determining policy.

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It’s not called that. What it’s called is “freedom,” but “freedom” means a subordination to the decisions of concentrated, unaccountable, private power. That’s what it means. The institutions of governance—or other kinds of association that could allow people to participate in decision making—those are systematically weakened. Margaret Thatcher said it rather nicely in her aphorism about “there is no society, only individuals.”

Since the Second World War, we have created two means of destruction. Since the neoliberal era, we have dismantled the way of handling them.

She was actually, unconsciously no doubt, paraphrasing Marx, who in his condemnation of the repression in France said, “The repression is turning society into a sack of potatoes, just individuals, an amorphous mass can’t act together.” That was a condemnation. For Thatcher, it’s an ideal—and that’s neoliberalism. We destroy or at least undermine the governing mechanisms by which people at least in principle can participate to the extent that society’s democratic. So weaken them, undermine unions, other forms of association, leave a sack of potatoes and meanwhile transfer decisions to unaccountable private power all in the rhetoric of freedom.

Well, what does that do? The one barrier to the threat of destruction is an engaged public, an informed, engaged public acting together to develop means to confront the threat and respond to it. That’s been systematically weakened, consciously. I mean, back to the 1970s we’ve probably talked about this. There was a lot of elite discussion across the spectrum about the danger of too much democracy and the need to have what was called more “moderation” in democracy, for people to become more passive and apathetic and not to disturb things too much, and that’s what the neoliberal programs do. So put it all together and what do you have? A perfect storm.

CL: What everybody notices is all the headline things, including Brexit and Donald Trump and Hindu nationalism and nationalism everywhere and Le Pen all kicking in more or less together and suggesting some real world phenomenon.

NC: it’s very clear, and it was predictable. You didn’t know exactly when, but when you impose socioeconomic policies that lead to stagnation or decline for the majority of the population, undermine democracy, remove decision-making out of popular hands, you’re going to get anger, discontent, fear take all kinds of forms. And that’s the phenomenon that’s misleadingly called “populism.”

CL: I don’t know what you think of Pankaj Mishra, but I enjoy his book Age of Anger, and he begins with an anonymous letter to a newspaper from somebody who says, “We should admit that we are not only horrified but baffled. Nothing since the triumph of Vandals in Rome and North Africa has seemed so suddenly incomprehensible and difficult to reverse.”

NC: Well, that’s the fault of the information system, because it’s very comprehensible and very obvious and very simple. Take, say the United States, which actually suffered less from these policies than many other countries. Take the year 2007, a crucial year right before the crash.

(Illustration by Susan Coyne)

What was the wondrous economy that was then being praised? It was one in which the wages, the real wages of American workers, were actually lower than they were in 1979 when the neoliberal period began. That’s historically unprecedented except for trauma or war or something like that. Here is a long period in which real wages had literally declined, while there was some wealth created but in very few pockets. It was also a period in which new institutions developed, financial institutions. You go back to the ’50s and ’60s, a so-called Golden Age, banks were connected to the real economy. That was their function. There were also no crashes because there were New Deal regulations.

Starting in the early ’70s there was a sharp change. First of all, financial institutions exploded in scale. By 2007 they actually had 40 percent of corporate profits. Furthermore, they weren’t connected to the real economy anymore.

In Europe the way democracy is undermined is very direct. Decisions are placed in the hands of an unelected troika: the European Commission, which is unelected; the IMF, of course unelected; and the European Central Bank. They make the decisions. So people are very angry, they’re losing control of their lives. The economic policies are mostly harming them, and the result is anger, disillusion, and so on.

Noam Chomsky: What Did Adam Smith Really Mean by “The Invisible Hand”?

We just saw it two weeks ago in the last French election. The two candidates were both outside the establishment. Centrist political parties have collapsed. We saw it in the American election last November. There were two candidates who mobilized the base: one of them a billionaire hated by the establishment, the Republican candidate who won the nomination—but notice that once he’s in power it’s the old establishment that’s running things. You can rail against Goldman Sachs on the campaign trail, but you make sure that they run the economy once you’re in.

CL: So, the question is, at a moment when people are almost ready… when they’re ready to act and almost ready to recognize that this game is not working, this social system, do we have the endowment as a species to act on it, to move into that zone of puzzlement and then action?

NC: I think the fate of the species depends on it because, remember, it’s not just inequality, stagnation. It’s terminal disaster. We have constructed a perfect storm. That should be the screaming headlines every day. Since the Second World War, we have created two means of destruction. Since the neoliberal era, we have dismantled the way of handling them. That’s our pincers. That’s what we face, and if that problem isn’t solved, we’re done with.

CL: I want to go back Pankaj Mishra and the Age of Anger for a moment—

NC: It’s not the Age of Anger. It’s the Age of Resentment against socioeconomic policies which have harmed the majority of the population for a generation and have consciously and in principle undermined democratic participation. Why shouldn’t there be anger?

CL: Pankaj Mishra calls it—it’s a Nietzschean word—“ressentiment,” meaning this kind of explosive rage. But he says, “It’s the defining feature of a world where the modern promise of equality collides with massive disparities of power, education, status and—

NC: Which was designed that way, which was designed that way. Go back to the 1970s. Across the spectrum, elite spectrum, there was deep concern about the activism of the ’60s. It’s called the “time of troubles.” It civilized the country, which is dangerous. What happened is that large parts of the population—which had been passive, apathetic, obedient—tried to enter the political arena in one or another way to press their interests and concerns. They’re called “special interests.” That means minorities, young people, old people, farmers, workers, women. In other words, the population. The population are special interests, and their task is to just watch quietly. And that was explicit.

Two documents came out right in the mid-’70s, which are quite important. They came from opposite ends of the political spectrum, both influential, and both reached the same conclusions. One of them, at the left end, was by the Trilateral Commission—liberal internationalists, three major industrial countries, basically the Carter administration, that’s where they come from. That is the more interesting one [The Crisis of Democracy, a Trilateral Commission report]. The American rapporteur Samuel Huntington of Harvard, he looked back with nostalgia to the days when, as he put it, Truman was able to run the country with the cooperation of a few Wall Street lawyers and executives. Then everything was fine. Democracy was perfect.

But in the ’60s they all agreed it became problematic because the special interests started trying to get into the act, and that causes too much pressure and the state can’t handle that.

CL: I remember that book well.

NC: We have to have more moderation in democracy.

CL: Not only that, he turned Al Smith’s line around. Al Smith said, “The cure for democracy is more democracy.” He said, “No, the cure for this democracy is less democracy.”

NC: It wasn’t him. It was the liberal establishment. He was speaking for them. This is a consensus view of the liberal internationalists and the three industrial democracies. They—in their consensus—they concluded that a major problem is what they called, their words, “the institutions responsible for the indoctrination of the young.” The schools, the universities, churches, they’re not doing their job. They’re not indoctrinating the young properly. The young have to be returned to passivity and obedience, and then democracy will be fine. That’s the left end.

Now what do you have at the right end? A very influential document, the Powell Memorandum, came out at the same time. Lewis Powell, a corporate lawyer, later Supreme Court justice, he produced a confidential memorandum for the US Chamber of Commerce, which has been extremely influential. It more or less set off the modern so-called “conservative movement.” The rhetoric is kind of crazy. We don’t go through it, but the basic picture is that this rampaging left has taken over everything. We have to use the resources that we have to beat back this rampaging New Left which is undermining freedom and democracy.

Connected with this was something else. As a result of the activism of the ’60s and the militancy of labor, there was a falling rate of profit. That’s not acceptable. So we have to reverse the falling rate of profit, we have to undermine democratic participation, what comes? Neoliberalism, which has exactly those effects.

#neoliberalism #economics #government #politics #class

19 notes · View notes

knight-of-trash · 7 years

Note

1-47?

Oh dangie you went there! Okay. Here we go.

1.Do you want a boyfriend or girlfriend?

Yes, I want a girlfriend. I miss having someone in my life who is an endless supply of support. I miss having someone to send mushy stuff to, because I am mushy and full of feelings. I miss inside jokes and daydreaming about the next time I see her. I just miss that.

2.When did your last hug take place?

Mm…Last Tuesday. I hugged my friend Tia.

3.Are you a jealous person?

Oh yes. But in my defense, it’s mostly because of my mental illnesses. I feel super insecure, and that can make me bitter.

4.Are you tired right now?

Yes, I just got back from jogging.

5.Do you chew on your straws?

Not anymore.

6.Have you ever been called a tease?

Believe it or not, I have.

7.Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?

No. My record is 39 hours.

8.Do you cry easily?

Only when I’m alone.

9.What should you be doing right now?

Cleaning floors.

10.Are you a heavy sleeper?

Ehhh…I wake up when people enter or move around the room I’m sleeping in, but I can sleep through tornado sirens, violent storms, and supersonic jets doing practice drills overhead.

11.Do you think you can last in a relationship for 6 months?

Honestly? No. I never seem to make it past 5 months. Most people just can’t handle my needs for validation and attention, so we end up breaking up for one reason or another.

12.Are you mad at someone right now?

Yes, though I probably have no right to be. So, my ex hasn’t spoken to me directly in over a month. No big deal…Wouldn’t be the first time this has happened. Except this time it’s different. In the past month, my cat Oliver was diagnosed with Lymphoma, I was in my first car wreck, totalted my car, and then a week after starting Oliver on chemo, we had him put to sleep because he wasn’t responding to it, and he was clearly suffering. So during all of this, I tried to get a hold of her, because I really…really wanted her comfort. I know it might be unfair to put that much on another person, but really I just wanted her to tell me it was going to be okay, and was there for me. The most I would’ve probably asked of her was to spend time with me after Oliver’s death, because I haven’t been without that cat in over 9 years, and he was basically my biggest source of emotional support for the past 9 years, and has kept me alive during some serious suicidal moments in my life. But I didn’t hear anything from her. I know we’re exes, but we are trying to be friends at the very least, and friends don’t let friends go through that alone. Especially not when I’ve told her during every crisis in her life since I came into it, in every hardship, that I’m here if she ever needs me. It just feels like I don’t matter, and to have that happen during all this negativity in my life, it’s been very detrimental to my self worth. So yeah, I’m angry. It’s like Rowan all over again when Spice died, except Rowan took it a step further, and said “It was just a cat.” But at least Rowan had the wherewithal to text me a, “U ok?” text and tell me “No” when I asked them to come over, despite being close to a mental breakdown and being highly non-verbal at the time of Spice’s death. (And Spice wasn’t even my cat, she was my brother’s. She just went into like cardiac arrest when I was home alone with her.)

13.Do you believe in love?

Sort of. True love isn’t something that just happens. It takes time, and equal effort. You need someone who can meet you halfway, and makes an effort to make you an active part of their life for it to be true love. You both need to be willing ot work through things, and admit when you hurt the other, and then NEVER do that thing again.

14.What makes you laugh no matter what?

Space Jam vines.

15.Who was the last person you talked to?

My mom.

16.Do you get butterflies around the person you like?

If I am around someone I like I get butterflies, yes.

17.Will you get married?

Gotta have a long relationship first, but we all know that’s not my forte.

18.When was the last time you smiled?

Like really smiled? I was at Target with my friend Emily, and we were buying a shit ton of Capri Sun, The Oregon Trail board game, a box of 120 Crayons, and some suer cheap Pilsberry Valentine’s cupcake mix and frosting.

19.Does anyone like you?

My Finn, Raphael likes me. He tries to flirt with me a lot and always calls me beautiful, but honestly, I’m not really interested in him.

20.Do you secretly like someone?

No. Wait. Yes. I’ve had a secret crush on a friend for like three years. I won’t tell her though, because number one, we don’t talk much, and I feel like we’re better friends than anything, but got'damn if she ain’t my type.

21.Who was the first person you talked to today?

Technically…If we’re going off of what time it was, Rheann. If we’re going off after I fell asleep and woke up earlier today, my mom, when she handed me my new pocket knife.

22.Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?

Emily probably. She knows I’m a dirty robot fucker, and there’s really no coming back from that.

23.What are you NOT looking forward to?

Developing the roll of film from Oliver’s last 24 hours alive. There’s roughly 35 shots on the film, and my professor REALLY wants me to develop it on Tuesday, but…If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not when the last picture is-…Is after it was confirmed his heart stopped.

24.What ARE you looking forward to?

Spring break. My birthday is during spring break this year, so I don’t have to be at school on my birthday, so I get to sleep in, despite it being on a Monday. That’s really the only thing I’m looking forward to when it comes to the near future, and my birthday. I don’t really like to celebrate it, but sleeping in on it is definetly a plus.

25.Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you they loved you, and meant it?

Yeah, and it’s ridiculous.

26.Suppose you see your ex kissing another person what would you do?

Honestly? I would be pretty hurt. There are still some complicated feelings there, at least for me, and I would probably walk off, find a place to be alone, cry for a while, then cut all contact, and not speak to literally anyone for a while until I accept it, and allow myself time to heal and move on, before trying to become friends with her again.

27.Do you plan on moving out within the next year?

Wish I could.

28.Are you a forgiving person?

You have no idea the shit I have been able to forgive. I was able to forgive my abusive ex boyfriend, Lewis, despite him emotionally and mentally abusing me for a year. Now we play Minecraft together every so often. I can forgive people for canceling plans with me as long as they don’t cancel the next plans we have together, unless it’s like a family emergency or they got called into work, or freak weather happens. I can forgive almost anything if a person is sincere enough in their apology, and finds a way to make it up to me. I’m very easy in that sense. I pride myself on being a very understanding, very forgiving person. It’s one of my only virtues.

29.How many TRUE friends do you have?

…One? I guess? Emily has been my friend since freshman year of highschool, and has put up with my shit more than anyone else has. There’s never been a time where I’ve questioned her being my friend, nor have we ever really fought before.

30.Do you fall for people easily?

Okay listen here you little shit…I MAY have a problem with seeing pretty girls and going, “Holy fuck! Marry me?????” but listen! LISTEN! …I am an innocent little bean, just looking for love, and therefore, no one can judge me!

31.Have you ever fallen for your ex’s best friend?

Pfffhahaha that implies I know my exes best friends.

32.What’s the last thing you put in your mouth?

My headphone. Why do I do that???

33.Who was the last person you drove with?

Baker. I drive her home after class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

34.How late did you stay up last night and why?

3:30am. Rheann was having a hard time, and my mom friend mode activated, so I needed to make sure she knew that she is doing her best with school, and that she shouldn’t compare herself to others, and that she’s not going to fail, because she is way smarter than me, and I believe in her, and know she’s perfectly capable of suceeding in school, even though she feels overwhelmed right now. AND SHE BETTER NOT FORGET THAT!!!

35.If you could move somewhere else, would you?

California. I hear they want to succeed from the US, and I am DOWN for that. I don’t give no fucks about no drought or cancer everywhere, get me out of the Trump regime now, pretty please.

36.Who was the last person you took a picture of?

Myself, post-jog.

37.Can you live a day without TV?

I mean…Realistically I could. I think I managed to not watch TV last Tuesday.

38.When was the last time you were extremely disappointed?

August 14th, 2016. The last Monday before I started school. My girlfriend at the time was supposed to come over and hang out with me on her day off. She never showed up, and when I texted her asking her if she was coming or not, she said no, and wouldn’t explain to me what was going on. So I flipped out and broke up with her because lord have fucking mercy, that was like the twelveth time she had flaked on me that summer, and I was livid! So I guess that would be the last time I was extremely disappointed.

39.Three names you go by..

My lastname, Ali, and Kiki.

40.Are you currently in a relationship?

No. Do I want one? Yes. Have I ever had one in February? No. Am I depressed by this? Fuck yes. Am I looking forward to Valentine’s Day? Hahaha I’m going to throw myself off a bridge.

41.What is your all-time favorite romance movie?

Titanic I guess. I’ve only seen it 70 times.

42.Do you believe that everyone has a soul-mate?

I believe there are people who are soul-compatible. In your life time, you’ll meet many people like that. Friends, pets, romantic partners. Those that are truly your match will find ways to stay in your life for years and years and years. But in my opinion, souls change. Rarely though, you will find someone who’s soul changes with yours. Never let them go.

43.What’s your current problem?

I have 99 of them, and at least 4 of them are the fact that my cat just died. 1 of them is my sever lack of pink roses in my life.

44.Have you ever had your heart broken?

My heart is fragile. Even after years of abusive relationships both platonic and romantic, child sexual abuse, betrayals, and bullying, my heart is as fragile as butterfly wings. I trust too easily, I love to quickly, and believe too strongly. I set myself up for heart break after heart break, but you know what? I like being hopeful, and being intense with my heart. It’s apparently what makes me so charming.

45.Your thoughts of long distance relationships?

They don’t work for me. I require a lot of attention, so they’re a no can do. Kudos to others who make it work though.

46.How many kids do you want to have?

Hmm…I used to have vivid dreams of having three kids. Figure it gives me a chance to have a boy and girl, and then whatever happens happens.

47.Have you ever found it hard to tell someone you like them?

Yes. I don’t like to inconvenience people. Part of the reason my secret crush is my secret crush is because I didn’t want to hold her back. I don’t want people to feel obligated to return my feelings, and I don’t want people to date me, only to leave me a month later because I’m “too intense”. That’s why I find it hard to tell people I like them most of the time. The last person I told I liked them though, I did it because it felt right to me. It felt like if I didn’t I was going to miss out on the most important thing in my life. You know what I mean?

#people write the knight #long post #personal

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wendyimmiller · 4 years

Text

In Defense of The Lawn

Last week, Susan Harris emailed me regarding my recent article “In Defense of The Lawn” in the July/August issue of The American Gardener magazine. “Can we use it for the Rant?” she said, “Where it belongs?”

Susan is right – it is a rant of sorts, though I like to think of it as a well-reasoned argument. In any case, it’s a discussion I think we should all have; and when I contacted David Ellis, editor of The American Gardener, he kindly permitted us to run an excerpt here to start that discussion. David has also generously provided a discount membership offer to the American Horticultural Society, so you can read the rest of the article (and there is much more) either digitally or in print, and take advantage of other wonderful member benefits.

I am certainly not paid to say this, but I believe that if you’re a gardener in the U.S – or a gardener interested in American horticulture, you should seriously consider joining this excellent organization. More information is provided at the end of this piece.

Now let’s get back to the ranting…

________________________________________

Mine is not a lawn by the standards of the HOA protected subdivision that dominates the landscape less than three miles away. It is not the lawn of golf-courses and nervous groundskeepers further east towards the city. It does not cry out its nitrogen dependence in shades of electric green, nor does it bankrupt the resident gardener with various expensive treatment programs meted out on a meticulous schedule and marked with little yellow flags.

Claytonia virginica in my lawn in mid-April.

Each week, cropped at a machine finished four inches, my lawn in Northern Virginia provides recreational space, control over rampant woodland invasives, and the necessary void spaces that connect cultivated and uncultivated parts of the property and give our eyes needed rest.

Unlike conventional turf lawns, which are usually a near monoculture of one or two lawn grass species, my lawn is a hodgepodge of species—natives and non—including many common broadleaf thugs such as dandelions and plantain. But to chemically eradicate these less desirable plants would mean the loss of other, sweeter species—the claytonia… the violets…and the vast network of trout lilies (Erythronium americanum), whose lovely spotted leaves make up for the rare sighting of a flower.

To term this open space a “lawn” is therefore to be exceedingly generous. But I, and many others who maintain their lawns in this way—and who don’t have to rely on summer irrigation to keep them alive— look out upon them and are satisfied.

Right up until the minute a friend or neighbor informs us we should be ripping them out and planting a meadow instead.

The concept of being judged by one’s lawn has had a long and painful history. Knowing this, it is worth reflecting whether our laudable desire to be excellent stewards of our environment means we are continuing to mete out this judgement clothed in a different set of robes. Are we ignoring the desire of average homeowners to keep their beloved lawns, and, at the same time crippling our own ecological argument by offering idealized alternatives that do not meet their needs?

Untreated but beautifully usable. In pre-COVID days, this space was used once a week with friends during the summer.

A PERSPECTIVE SHIFT

Meticulous standards of lawn care might very well be considered a legacy of growing suburbs in the mid- to latter half of the 20th century. For decades, urged on by a continually “improved” chemical arsenal, homeowners were instructed to treat their lawns like a prized rose bed.

No weeds. No bugs. No discoloration. And, to this gardener at least, no life.

By this standard, the masses were judged, and yet it was only attainable for your average weekend gardener in an average-sized American lot with average amounts of staff (that is to say, none), through the regular application of hundreds of pounds of fertilizers, herbicides, and pesticides every year, with known and unknown collateral damage to personal health, ecosystems, and watersheds.

In 1962, Rachel Carson’s groundbreaking book Silent Spring forced society to think deeply upon the costs of chemical warfare. The average homeowner, however, could neatly categorize such issues as a problem with industrial agriculture, and ignore their own part in the process. The chemical quest for the perfect lawn continued throughout the ’80s and into the ’90s.

And that is only half of the story. Such lawns required at least one inch of water per week to remain healthy and hydrated. In areas of abundant summer rainfall, there was no issue; but in many other areas of the western and southwestern United States, one inch per week required that gardeners tap into a rapidly dwindling resource.

No matter. The subtle and not-so-subtle influence of television, magazines and other national media sources, aided and abetted by the lawn-care industry, pushed a onesize-fits-all approach. So, gardeners continued to treat, water, mow, and obsess about their lawns; and as the end of the century approached, many handed homeowners’ associations further power to require similar, exacting standards of them. Or perhaps more accurately, of their neighbors.

It is no wonder then that gardeners in a new millennium were open to burning their bras. Over the last 20 years, we have seen a positive shift in the way we look at gardens, wildlife, chemical treatments, and our moral obligation to conserve the many fragile ecosystems around us.

Trends towards meadow gardening and the evolution of the New Perennial Movement have opened the eyes of many to the rich ecosystems that can develop in the presence of species diversity and the lack of chemical intervention. Increasingly, gardeners and naturalists find themselves working together to create cultivated spaces that radiate exciting, uncultivated energy. That’s a beautiful thing.

It doesn’t come much more beautiful and ecologically vibrant than this. Waves of perennials offer texture, movement, habitat and food sources at The Delaware Botanic Gardens (Piet Oudolf design).

But in their desire to free both the environment from harm and the homeowner from drudgery by advocating against the sins of the past, is it possible experts have begun to swing the pendulum too far in the opposite direction? Fellow garden writers, horticulturists, Master Gardeners, naturalists, and nursery people, I’m talking to you.

Respectfully of course.

We are ignoring the many commendable functions of a lawn, chastising people for wanting those functions, and ignoring a large proportion of homeowners who do not artificially treat their lawns and are instead content to mow a vigorous and herbaceous green space wherever it grows. To those homeowners we offer a—highly arguable—“low-maintenance” solution to a functional space that is neither a problem, nor a high-maintenance headache.

Wouldn’t it be more effective to focus our efforts on helping homeowners to maintain the lawns and open spaces that they love in ways that can equally be loved by the planet?

My Jack Russell Mungo lives and breathes for chasing balls on the lawn. I’d hate to take that away from him.

PURPOSEFUL AND PLEASING

Functionally, a lawn or open space not only provides an outdoor exercise area for children and adults, but a recreational space for gatherings and entertaining—recreational space that a meadow cannot offer. It is versatile, permeable, comfortable to walk upon, and invites the play of outdoor games.

As Paul Tukey, author of The Organic Lawn Care Manual and Tag, Toss & Run: 40 Classic Lawn Games wryly remarks, “It’s no fun to play badminton in a meadow when you can’t find the shuttlecock.”

In addition, lawns discourage tick populations where devastating tick-borne diseases like Lyme, babesiosis, and ehrlichiosis proliferate, and they allow pets to roam without harming expensively landscaped areas elsewhere in the yard.

Lawns with healthy root systems act as sponges. When compared to garden beds filled with more double-shred than plants (an unfortunate but popular method of planting in America), lawns provide excellent capture of storm runoff. And carbon. And airborne particulate matter. Where summer rainfall makes lawns viable, they may also be utilized as aesthetically pleasing firebreaks against the ever-present threat of wildfire.

THE LAWN AND LANDSCAPE

From a design standpoint, lawns or other open expanses create areas of rest for our eyes and our senses. “Emotionally, they are breathing spaces,” says Carolyn Mullet, garden designer and owner of the garden tour company CarexTours. “Design is about the interplay of mass and void, and there is a very different intensity to each. Both are needed. Mass is framed and enhanced by void.”

Gardener or no, we recognize this instinctively. Majestic mature trees dotted through open lawns feel calming and restful; conversely, we find ourselves invigorated and energized by the life radiating from tall meadow grasses and wildflowers.

Getting the balance right between these two elements is a skill. Too much void and you are left with a sense of emptiness. Too little and the planting can feel suffocating or chaotic.

A mown framework can help us to appreciate other ecologically dynamic areas in our landscapes, communicating a sense of familiarity and comfort through what Joan Iverson Nassauer, a landscape architecture professor at the University of Michigan, terms a shared “landscape language.” Just as wide, mown paths through the meadow of a large public garden allow us to immerse ourselves comfortably in an inherently energetic environment, mown areas abutting a woodland or meadow at the borders of our yards make the area feel tended and approachable.

A carefully curated late fall meadow at RHS Wisley.

Though some might protest against the ecologically negative and often arbitrary effects of culture on the landscape language being spoken, studies show human beings are naturally and unintentionally fluent in the language of their region. To effect positive ecological changes, it is therefore wise to become fluent ourselves, and stop shouting at them in a different tongue.

Open spaces play a vital role in our landscapes, and for areas of the country where abundant rainfall creates green whether you want it to or not, a mowed lawn is the simplest answer to unending maintenance woes—no matter how the experts protest otherwise.

__________________________________________

This excerpt is reprinted with permission from the July/August 2020 issue of The American Gardener magazine, which is the bimonthly membership publication of the American Horticultural Society (AHS). To view the article in its entirety, click HERE to become a member of the AHS at a special discounted rate for Garden Rant readers. In addition to receiving The American Gardener, other benefits of AHS membership include free admission to more than 340 public gardens nationwide, discounts on seeds and gardening books, and discounts on select educational programs.

In Defense of The Lawn originally appeared on GardenRant on August 13, 2020.

The post In Defense of The Lawn appeared first on GardenRant.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2020/08/in-defense-of-the-lawn.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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turfandlawncare · 4 years

Text

In Defense of The Lawn

Now let’s get back to the ranting…

________________________________________

Claytonia virginica in my lawn in mid-April.

Right up until the minute a friend or neighbor informs us we should be ripping them out and planting a meadow instead.

Untreated but beautifully usable. In pre-COVID days, this space was used once a week with friends during the summer.

A PERSPECTIVE SHIFT

No weeds. No bugs. No discoloration. And, to this gardener at least, no life.

It doesn’t come much more beautiful and ecologically vibrant than this. Waves of perennials offer texture, movement, habitat and food sources at The Delaware Botanic Gardens (Piet Oudolf design).

Respectfully of course.

Wouldn’t it be more effective to focus our efforts on helping homeowners to maintain the lawns and open spaces that they love in ways that can equally be loved by the planet?

My Jack Russell Mungo lives and breathes for chasing balls on the lawn. I’d hate to take that away from him.

PURPOSEFUL AND PLEASING

THE LAWN AND LANDSCAPE

Getting the balance right between these two elements is a skill. Too much void and you are left with a sense of emptiness. Too little and the planting can feel suffocating or chaotic.

A carefully curated late fall meadow at RHS Wisley.

__________________________________________

In Defense of The Lawn originally appeared on GardenRant on August 13, 2020.

The post In Defense of The Lawn appeared first on GardenRant.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/3fU49AD

#GardenRant

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