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gwynrielendgame · 3 years

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Gwyn one shot

Idk I just write shit I think is chaotic

TW(possible): SA

Devlon was, once again, trying to invalidate the females who had won the blood rite. Gwyn didn't see why it was necessary for the three sisters to help train the other female Illyrians in their own camps. It would be much more beneficial for them to train at the house of wind training ring, away from all the male scrutiny. Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta knew how much it bothered Devlon that they had done so well in the rite. He had made comments here and there invalidating them and went as far as embarrassing them in front of other war camp leaders, suggesting that they only won because the Illyrian males went easy on them. Cassian and Azriel could only do so much. It was really starting to piss Gwyn off. She knew Devlon was provoking them, but Gwyn no longer seemed to care. He would continue to do this until one of the girls proved him wrong.

"I mean if we are speaking honestly, you females only did so well because you had each other. Individual hand-to-hand combat is a completely different playing field." Some of the higher rank males laughed along with Devlon. Nesta rolled her eyes while Emerie could not have looked less interested if she tried.

"Fine. Who do you want me to fight?" Gwyn snapped at the pigheaded male. It caught everyone by surprise. While Devlon was trying to goad them, he didn't think they would call him out by proving him wrong. Cassian and Azriel sent Gwyn a wary look. They knew her and Emerie won the blood rite, but they haven't seen any of the females actually fight. They would continue to underestimate her too.

"I don't expect you to actually fight any of my males, darling." He sent her a toothy grin as if they were in on the same joke. "It wouldn't be fair."

"Pick your guy and I'll fight him." She insisted. She would shut him up once and for all. Devlon had never seen her fight either. She would show him exactly where he could shove his "darling."

"Gwyn." Emerie muttered. Clearly hoping for Gwyn to shut up. If anyone knew of the Illyrians ruthlessness, it was her. Devlon smirked before scanning the area. There were several men training on the opposite side of the ring. Gwyn, her two sisters, Cassian, and Azriel (for some reason) were currently standing on the females side along side Devlon. They were supposed to be giving helpful tips, but the arrogant male had been too busy undermining them to allow any teaching to occur. Devlon stopped his scanning and turned to Gwyn.

"Trev. Come here." Devlon called to the other side. Almost predictably, the largest man over there came strutting over to them. When Gwyn made eye contact, she immediately froze. He was in the same group as her in the blood rite. He also woke up early. He seemed more fascinated by the weapons on the playing field than her, so she took his distraction as her time to escape. Trev stopped a few feet away from them and looked towards Devlon.

"You're going to do hand-to-hand combat with the half-breed." He sneered out the last word as though it might hurt Gwyn. She rolled her eyes. He was going to have to do a lot better than that if he wanted to hurt her. To his credit, Trev looked apprehensive.

"No weapons?"

"No." Devlon almost looked gleeful as he said this, but it caused Trev's eyes to nervously glance over to Nesta's.

"Seems unfair. Does the witch promise to leave me alone if I hurt her friend?" All eyes seemed to turn to Nesta who was glaring as per usual.

"I don't make promises I can't keep." Her response was curt, but it had Gwyn elbowing her in the ribs. If this was how she had to prove herself, then so be it. It appeared she would need her sisters on board for it though. "Fine. No witchy shit." Nesta conceded after an intense stare down with Gwyn. Cassian spoke up next.

"This seems like a bad idea." Gwyn shot him a glare. She knows he doesn't mean to do it, but comments like that undermine her ability as much as Devlon's. She could handle herself against anyone. She would never allow a man to have the upper hand again.

"She can do it." Azriel's quiet confidence had her sliding her eyes to meet him. She could find only support behind them which strengthened her resolve. She stepped inside the ring and quickly ran through her stretches. Just as Trev stepped in, she began her mind-stilling.

"Go." It was a singular, quiet word spoken by Devlon, but Gwyn was off. She knew that Trev wouldn't make the first move with his apprehension. Gwyn shot her fist into Trev's neck which had him bending over in a coughing fit. Gwyn grabbed the back of his head and shoved it into her knee. He was sprawled on the floor for less than a second before he hopped back up.

"Bitch." He muttered as he spit blood from his mouth. Gwyn could now see the anger simmering in his eyes. This is where the real fight began. They traded a series of blows, and punches, and kicks. Gwyn got hit so hard in the temple she started seeing stars, but she refused to give up. Her stubbornness wouldn't allow her to lose this fight. Gwyn once again got the upper hand by kicking the back of his knee which had him falling once more. She jabbed her fingers into his eyes which had him screaming. He managed to shove her back while yelling profanities at her. She wasn't playing fair and she knew that. She was taking as many low blows as she could. Trev wouldn't be used to this kind of combat considering other males liked to play by certain rules. Gwyn didn't have that sort of luxury being at such a physical disadvantage.

"Fuck you." He shouted then a small smirk quirked his lips up. "You should hear what the other males have to say about you." They were both circling each other at this point. The exhaustion was setting in for both of them and they needed a second to breathe. Gwyn didn't think the other males would gossip like teenage busybodies, but apparently she would be proven wrong. He threw out a fist that she barely blocked. It still clipped her jaw though.

"Didn't realize the great Illyrian warriors were such gossips." She huffed out. Stupid males.

"Those Illyrian warriors talk about how much they wanted your friends that day. How they would have been willing to lose the whole thing for one night with either of them. Didn't hear quite the same thing about you." Gwyn suddenly knew where this was going and blood roared in her ears. She impulsively threw a punch into his ribs that he easily blocked and responded with a punch of his own to her ribs. She realized then that that was his plan. Piss her off enough that she becomes sloppy. She started her mind-still again, but he wouldn't stop talking.

"I'm curious what's under those leathers. I didn't get a good look that day." He paused for only a second to drag his eyes up and down her body. It was enough to make her skin crawl. "I hear it is quite the canvas of scars. One of my brothers said one look at you in that nightgown had him gagging." Gwyn's breathing became much more labored.

"Shut up." She spit at him. She sent a kick to his thigh, but he stepped away too quickly.

"Another one of my brothers said your skin was so mutilated, he'd rather fuck a suriel." Trev laughed at that. Gwyn didn't peg him for a vindictive male, but she supposed he didn't like being made a fool of so quickly within their fight. "It's hard to know for sure without seeing with my own eyes though. Why don't you show a little skin?"

"You know what I have noticed about men?" Gwyn started. Her rage had peaked and she was about to let it out. "They don't play by the rules. So why should I?" Gwyn dropped down to her knees and swung her legs out. Trev fell hard, too slow to notice what Gwyn was doing. She was sitting on his chest. His arms stuck under her legs. She had pulled a hidden dagger out and shoved it through his lips. She held his tongue between two fingers and pressed the dagger heavily to it. Trev's eyes widen and Gwyn could hear shouts from outside the ring.

"What was that, Trev? I couldn't quite hear you. What were you saying about my body?" Trev was squirming with all his might but he had exhausted most of his energy by now, and Gwyn's anger was insatiable. She felt as though she had increased strength even for a fae. He was muttering and mumbling, but none of it made since with his tongue in her tight grasp.

"Don't get shy now. Speak up." Gwyn felt as though her anger could shoot out of her like a ray of light. It was uncontrollable. The shouting outside of the ring continued but Gwyn was only focused on the male in front of her. It wasn't until she registered the fear in his eyes that her anger started to dim. She finally could hear what they were saying.

"Gwyn, stop." That was Nesta.

"Gwyn, he didn't mean it." Emerie.

"Let him go." Cassian.

"Are you fucking crazy, you dumb bitch?" And that one was definitely Devlon.

It was as if she was burned by fire. One second she was about to cut his tongue out of his mouth and the next she was throwing herself off him and scrambling away. It appeared Trev was on the same mind set because he also was scrambling away from her.

"Sorry." Gwyn could barely choke it out. She didn't know what overcame her. She just hoped it never happened again. Her breathing was heavy as she searched her family's faces for the judgement that should be there. Nesta and Emerie looked concerned, Cassian looked wary, and Azriel looked...supportive? He had that same look on his face as before. As though he understood the rage that was boiling over inside before she shoved it back down.

"Sorry." Gwyn tried again. Devlon was looking over Trev at this point who still looked spooked. Both of the females jumped out of whatever daze they were in and grabbed Gwyn.

"We need to go." Nesta whispered. "Before Devlon can dish out any punishments." The beautiful high fae female was hurrying them over to Azriel to winnow them away. Cassian was staying behind. Probably to do damage control if Gwyn had to guess.

It wasn't until the were back in the personal library of the house of wind did Gwyn break down. She was so startled by her own wrath that she didn't know how to cope. Gwyn had never been cruel before, but in that moment, she felt cruel. Azriel left the females to comfort their sister, but not before whispering so only Gwyn could hear.

"Good job."

#gwyneth berdara #azriel #acotar #acosf #headcanon

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wearejapanese · 3 years

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By Akemi Johnson

Akemi Johnson is the author of “Night in the American Village: Women in the Shadow of the U.S. Military Bases in Okinawa.”

When she was a young child, Elizabeth Miki Brina lived in her mother’s homeland of Okinawa, Japan’s southernmost prefecture. She rode on her grandmother’s back, played under the subtropical sun, heard the roar of military jets and spoke Japanese.

Then, her parents moved her to the United States, and she didn’t think about Okinawa for three decades. As she grew up, she spoke only English, knowing nothing of her mother’s history. “Which is to say,” Brina writes, “that I grew up not knowing my mother or myself.”

Brina’s poignant memoir, “Speak, Okinawa,” is the story of her discovery of Okinawa as an adult — and discoveries about her mother and herself. Brina also explores Okinawa as an overlooked piece of the American story in need of hard scrutiny.

Once an independent kingdom, Okinawa was taken over by Japan in 1879. In World War II, it was the site of a brutal battle between the United States and Japan, and as Brina points out, many Americans know of Okinawa only in connection to that battle. But the wartime clash, which decimated the civilian population, wasn’t the end of the United States’ involvement in Okinawa. After the war, the United States occupied Okinawa for 27 years, forcing thousands of Okinawans from their land to build sprawling military facilities. Even after the United States “‘sold’ [Okinawa ] back to Japan” in 1972, the bases remained, Brina writes. Today, about one in eight U.S. servicemembers abroad is stationed in Okinawa. The U.S.-Okinawa relationship has long been a fraught one because of the bases, which many locals protest as sources of noise pollution, traffic and training accidents, and crimes committed by U.S. servicemen.

Brina’s mother was born three years after World War II. Like many Okinawans, her family survived the U.S. occupation by working for the U.S. military — building bases, serving cafeteria food, cleaning barracks. They lived in poverty, eating sweet potatoes for every meal, as military installations took over their island. Brina’s mother dropped out of school in the eighth grade to work in a factory and later became a waitress in a nightclub. By then the Vietnam War was raging, and the U.S. military had turned Okinawa into a weapons depot and rest-and-relaxation destination, with tens of thousands of American troops stopping over on the island.

At the club, Brina’s mother met an American soldier from Manhattan, a college graduate from a wealthy white family. Brina imagines their meeting. He is “Elvis handsome” and seems “like a way out.” “She is beautiful, exotic . . . too vulnerable to resist.”

They married and eventually settled in the suburbs of Rochester, N.Y., where Brina grew up in a 99-percent-white community. In her eyes, her father was her hero, the one with all the answers, who navigated their world with confidence and power. “He knew what to say, and he said it so well,” Brina writes. “His pronunciation was perfect.” Meanwhile, her mother struggled to learn English and seemed “never entirely welcome” in their town, “never [able to] fully participate.” Her mother coped by drinking, sometimes once a month, sometimes once a week, until she passed out. Brina, internalizing the racism of her peers, idolized her father and was “cruel” to her mother. She alternately ignored her and mocked her; she cut up her dresses and kimonos for scraps.

As an adult, Brina contended with her own challenges with drinking and relationships, and began to empathize with her mother’s pain. Visiting her parents one weekend at age 26, she engaged in her “typical rant-exchange” over politics with her father during dinner, the two of them shouting different views and ignoring her mother, who drank two bottles of wine and then crawled under the table. When her mother started screaming and kicking, knocking over glasses, Brina joined her on the floor, curling their bodies together. In earlier days, Brina might have run away, but in that instant she saw that “her trauma is my trauma, that our pain comes from the same source.”

Brina’s curiosity grew, and at age 34, she traveled to Okinawa and began to delve into its history of war, colonialism and survival. In her mother, she began to see strength instead of weakness, the weight of history instead of personal failing. She detected traces of Okinawa’s subjugation in both her own life and her mother’s, in the way they were “fighting to be acknowledged and understood. Fighting to matter.” This battle was most evident in their relationships with men. Brina’s father treated her mother “more like a daughter than a wife.” As a teenager, Brina began believing she must say yes to anything boys and men asked of her. When they found her attractive, she didn’t know “how to channel this attraction toward respect, toward care, toward love.” The memoir becomes a testament to the importance of their lives as Asian women, as mother and daughter, and an apology for all the years Brina thought otherwise.

“Speak, Okinawa” is strongest when Brina is recounting, with piercing candidness and clarity, the almost claustrophobic world of an only child and her parents — their shifting allegiances, the wounds they inflict on each other and their rocky path toward acceptance, apology and forgiveness. The memoir is also a portrait of the devastating effects of imperialism and racism on a person’s identity, self-worth and relationships—and offers a perspective on how a person can combat these legacies.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/a-return-to-the-okinawa-she-never-knew/2021/03/31/eb143236-7dd2-11eb-85cd-9b7fa90c8873_story.html

#Akemi Johnson #Elizabeth Miki Brina #Mixed Race #Okinawan #Okinawan American #Diaspora #Japanese Imperialism #Okinawa #Shimanchu

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juistheseminarian · 5 years

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Eccentric, part 2 : now I’m here

I was planning to be done with this by now - both with this article and with the illness. I can’t believe that it’s been almost 15 years and I still get people congratulating me for acknowledging that I have an issue and going it’s-the-first-step-to-recovery, which they’ve learned was an appropriate thing to say since you don’t want to stand there and be embarrassed like I do with my boyfriend’s mom when she starts crying (which she does a lot). I’ve stirred things and realized things and I intended this to sound like a sort of retrospective from a place of unadulterated success. But guess what!

I ended the last bit on my return from anorexia and lasting relationship with a psychologist I described as abusive, although that may be excessive and may come from the resentment of a long therapy seemingly not having “worked”. I started seeing them around age 12, before the eating disorder really declared, and i was referred to them at the end of an endless session of musical chairs through which I met many, many ‘emergency’ professionals whose schedules couldn’t accommodate another patient. I had to tell the whole story every time as if I were filing a police complaint or justifying an ailment that had long thinned beyond recognition, losing more of its meaning every time; I worried often, and I still do, about making myself sound ill enough to be considered, knowing I was taking their time when they could be curing people with actual issues.

Having been sent to therapy after the school phobia I developed as a 5 or 6-year-old, and then again as a 12-year-old, and on and off ever since, means I’ve barely lived without framing my every breath as something to be treated and fixed, analyzed and made normal, insufficient, dependant, bending the wrong way. I entered this longest bout of therapy as a child and left it a decade later as a child. I believe for the first few years the psychologist was reliable if a little too set in her ways: there was no talk of medication outside of an apparent agreement to exclude it, which comforted my irrational fear of treatment with just as little medical basis as I previously had. However, her patient-based approach helped me feel like this time around it wouldn’t be an issue if I wasn’t “really” anything, or that’s how I viewed it at first. I don’t mean to dismiss the entirety of what happened there, only, you know, the bits where a refusal to diagnose me lead to a refusal to treat me, which in turn lead to desperation to fit me into the superstitious ramblings of an unstable person who refused to treat herself. Fuck that person. Call it what it is.

I resented the amount of information she gave me about herself, the description of her previous marriage leading up to ten years of unhappiness she couldn’t get out of, the description of her current partner’s superior attitude, the way her life was a mess and the way I viewed her as honest instead of genuinely intrusive. She’d offer to pay me to iron her clothes, she’d talk to my teenage self about her finances, about her gynecological health, and I listened, and my mother became concerned. By then she had framed my parents as unable to understand me the way she would, she whose child had run away from home and I had to know all about it, apparently. I defended her.

After the anorexia bit I grew alright for a while. I went to high school, I had a boyfriend, I neglected my own friends in order to make him my first priority at all costs, in short I was playing my role very well. My writing got noticed, as it should be, and I was exempted from english class, as I should be. I was bad at maths, I was good at history, I enjoyed latin class, I had friends I looked cool to because of the whole having had sex thing. Over one year my boyfriend and I had split up and I saw a few boys from my grade, most notably a wreck of a teen who regularly said he could be doing this with any of my friends and prided himself for using me “as an experiment”. When I broke up with him to go have the world’s least satisfactory sex with a friend of his, he called me crying hundreds of times. He had read somewhere that cool people had open relationships so he wanted one: when I took him up on that he said I disgusted him, turned around cause he “couldn’t look at me”, and masturbated in my bed. It was terrific. I was a sheep in shame’s clothing.

There were the “can we do this without a condom”s and the “I want to see you shove that shower up your vagina to clean out the danger and I’m watching you”s and the “I can’t believe you cheated on me”s (he was kind!) and the “I’m storming out of your birthday party because you and your friends are little bitches”s. I don’t like how this is taking the same turn my life took - revolving around boys and men the second it got the chance, which is something I still haven’t worked out today as I live under the constant scrutiny of my several imaginary sugar daddy-leaning role models, but I’m keeping that topic for next time. This is, of course, she says in a white girl voice, about me.

During the last year of high school, the boyfriend and I broke up for good because I had fallen in love with a guy we had met at a music festival and had pursued email after email. I felt glorious cracking the shells of emotionally unstable dudes and making them rely on me for subcontracting introspection: now I take “you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had” as a red flag, poisonous edible paper that dissolves in my water tank and kills me. It seems I do know better now, and it seems no woman ever told me that, and I keep being scared of them, and I keep being gay too, that’s my life’s familiar ghost. I’ve never gone far enough to confront the very real fact of loving women: I saw it as a kid when female nudity made me react, when I didn’t feel any sense of belonging with either boys or girls, when I felt like a monster. That desire is different because I don’t let it exist. Funny i’m only mentioning it now. What’s it like to be out to yourself?

Do you relate to princesses? To female leads? Sometimes I can’t allow myself to replace fictional characters cause how realistic would it be to have the man of the story want to fuck me when my buttcrack isn’t even shaved? Obviously that would never work. Obviously cinderella’s ass is smooth. I never feel polished enough, or good enough an actor, or intelligible enough: expanding like a red giant, I feel like a stomach with needs, and the picture is grotesque - nothing like those Degas ballerinas. Dripping, eating itself, round but not motherly, the hunchback from Ken Russell’s the Devils is too feminine next to me. Suppose i’m fattening from storing all that shame.

***

These days I resent the other diseased. Everyone hates my uncle cause he’s got it too and he drinks and he takes medication that people view with contempt; he lets himself die but it never seems to work even though he acts like it. Somehow something is still barely holding his limbs attached, miraculously, precariously. And my friend’s mother too, brain locked in a hamster wheel, hanging on to people like smeagol consumed, no longer in touch: filtering words like a beekeeper, only letting the crazy in. She makes me afraid to give birth. Would my children grow with a devolved being, Lovecraft’s blind cave-dweller, who once was human and is now condemned to live? Avoiding it in hallways, fearing it under their bed?

By the fourth year of the relationship with festival boy my anxiety had become the decisive factor in every single move I made. I could no longer travel, be spontaneous, laugh, orgasm or breathe. The lump in my throat had grown bigger than I was and my face felt numb, I evaporated, I had emergency doctors drive a camera through my nose only for them to confirm I was choking myself this whole time. It really felt strange: like you’d have tried to swallow turkish delight but it piled up in your throat, invisible. The doctor wrote: patient known for anxiety. I thought: great, now when I die for real they’re gonna think i’m crying wolf and also they’re gonna be right. Fortunately enough, I then was relieved from the constant imminence of choking, you’d never guess how.

I called a therapist my mom had taken me to when i was about 12 and we both liked her a lot - serious and a little intimidating in just the right way, a little soft yet clearly not one to let me bullshit my way out (my mom liked those). I was in the uni hall with some friends when her assistant called me back and scheduled an appointment for me later this same week: it was a huge deal. She remembered me. I suddenly felt safe, suddenly felt myself slip from my own consciousness like the narrator in Janice Galloway’s depression book when she enters a clinic: she’s no longer her own problem, or so she thinks at first, before realizing care never comes in the shape we expected.

I started treatment almost immediately and was in shock at the realization that I did not need to suffer any more. I wasn’t aware, I didn’t KNOW of the existence of medication that would prevent me from spending hours and hours in inescapable pain, contorting my body between screams and frantic sobs, persuaded I was about to die a solitary death that’d leave me to witness my loved ones moving on in relief. Everything around me felt temporary and fleeting and treacherous. And most of all, each of these occasions were a trial for my failure to live, and I sat accused as my chrysalis life developed before me, never free, never daring, hidden, waiting. Every time, I realized how much I was missing out on. Every time I was too tired to seize the day after recovering and just dozed, scrutinized always, for a respite I knew would be short. My idea of living was a xanax in front of any distracting tv show: suddenly sleep was warm, and I wasn’t dying, and things lifted by the tornado gently fell back into place, and disappeared.

(river) Oh, I got plenty of help. Therapists and medications and EMDR and - hypnosis and transcendental meditation. Nothing made me feel better (...) I feel everything. There just wasn’t enough positive emotion to balance me out. (payton: so it wasn’t because of me?) (river) no. you were my only relief. (“the politician” (2019) ep.6)

My trust in festival boy was broken: I felt that if I was ever overcome with the looming fear and froze, he wouldn’t help. I have no idea if it was true: I’m very prone to blaming others for my feeling abandoned, often with no relation to their behaviour. I never could learn his language (i’m sure I can now) and the required travelling to see him became too much, even though we had met through travelling and didn’t feel at home anywhere. This continent of my life was infected and we steeped in sepsis for months and months, resentful, picturing other people when we touched, searching for admiration elsewhere. It’s the worst thing you can do to a bond, demand things from it when it’s dead, as if it was gonna answer. You know it’s been dead for months but when you try and bury it, you can swear you saw it squirm, and then it’s gone, and you took out the doubt.

In this case I didn’t, Martin did. Martin was an old friend I knew through my first partner, and he came back into my life with an exact timing, like he was taking up an offer I was about to throw at someone else. It was all i wanted, car rides at night, feeling desired, watching him on stage, not being shamed. Comfort and help and reassurance, feeling small next to him, and knowing for certain that he understood: everything he says I take seriously, because there’s no way he doesn’t know, I could never lie, and I don’t want to. Well - I omit a little bit since that’s what it takes for me to grow guilt-free: I’m a fangirl and have never felt the need to stop, I let the obsession continent drift and crash, and perhaps it will become submerged and perhaps it won’t. Point is, I can defend it now, all the pieces I feel,I’m no one’s moodboard.

I took a step back and realized I had no way of relying on the trope of a positive ending to this, since there isn’t one. I see no perspective for myself, and I recently understood why antidepressants were considered a risk factor for suicides. It did make me indifferent to things that used to be matters of life and death: school grades, my weight… I care, and I don’t. I gained over 10 kg that sports don’t affect at all: I run all the time, cycle all the time, and it piles up forever, and I don’t recognize myself. I don’t fit in myself anymore. I don’t want to celebrate this thing i haven’t chosen and that I can’t deal with, and when I start thinking about it I end up in a frenzy. I just pretend it’s not there, but I feel so heavy carrying all that me.

It’s a good time to be lost, if you’re okay with it. I’m not. I’m not free enough to be lost: I’m merely pulling on my leash and choking myself, looking at the shop displays, window shopping for life, shiny presents in a snowy christmas street, the others singing while I watch. I watch, I drift off, they see me lose focus, we’re too tired to get me back. There’s so much to experience and when I look back, so much I’m glad I’ve done before realizing I was doing it, because clearly it would be too late by now. I’m not a recluse by choice: I’m one of the weak ones, the eternal witness, or a loser, depending on how you see it. I like both. I think taking myself as seriously as i do now is both a symptom and a cause of why I’m such a bore: what’s so bad about looking stupid? I do it all the time while trying to not look anything at all. It’s not that deep, if I do say so myself, and as you’d expect, I never do. Ah the clever girl’s burden, say the adults, and together we mock the monster we’ve created and the monster takes it personally.

So see, that’s where I’m at: no longer can I lazily bask in the excuse of a shitty partner, this time it’s on me, it’s on being sick, it’s on being sick without an excuse. My parents support me. My partner supports me. My friends would support me if i let them anywhere near me. But I take the crazy and I give it an incubator, I show it films with role models of crazy so it can grow and grow and finally make me special, isn’t this what I do? Look at joaquin phoenix and lose weight, I tell it; you’re not very good at the crazy, looking so plump and healthy. At least show your scars: they’re fading, it’s been over a decade, so now what, we’re just gonna look like someone who should get a makeover without the moving story of why they’re neglecting their appearance? What’s funny is, I’m actually a very ambitious person, mediocre is my rock bottom - listen to me when I tell you. There’s no such thing as effortless when effortless is a mountain.

(payton: i’m scared.) (river) don’t be. There’s more honor in defeat than there is in unused potential. (“the politician” (2019), ep.8)

My therapist recently told me that if I was catholic I’d be in trouble. Duh, right? Jokes aside, she went: then people would see you as a waste because you do nothing with your force. You wouldn’t be allowed to just have that and not live it. I pondered: don’t you think I know that? Is more guilt really the solution?

I know i want things. I know I love things, and people, and sounds, and places, and smells, and being alive. But do you see the difference between ‘knowing’ you shouldn’t be doing something, and understanding it in your very flesh, by experience, growing from it with the intimate conviction that it’s something you must stay away from? I know those things, and I don’t feel them really. I’m a fast learner, I’m a semi competent person, I can almost seem okay in a group. But I have shackles for lungs and I have concrete for breath. It’s got brutalist charm and warmth almost doesn’t spread.

So that’s where I am with the dreams I have and the love I feel and the way it won’t come out. I suppose I’m awake but I’m not quite there. Martin feels it first: the pain on his face when I disconnect is breaking my heart. He’s just trying to bring me back. I’m loved. I’m locked away. And once my arms break I’ll dig my way out with my teeth if I need to.

#my writing #mental health #juistheseminarian

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deathbyvalentine · 5 years

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Dreams

Dream #1

There are three types of magic. Mirror, self, blood. Mirror is done by copying the abilities of someone else, mundane or otherwise. You can never be original. Everything you are is a mimic of someone else. Self magic is internal. You can only effect yourself. Transform, disappear, become stronger or weaker, taller or smaller. You’re both the magician and the assistant. Blood magic naturally caused the most suspicion. You bled and imposed your will on the world, reality bending, other people no obstacle, nothing more than dolls. It hurt you but it could hurt others more.

Will was the most important part of magic. You had to know what you wanted. Internalise the desire so deeply it became like a second heartbeat. That type of surety took practice. A lot of it. It was why children could be so dangerous. All of the desire with none of the planning. They felt things so strongly. Usually adults could have that trained out of them.

It usually fell to families to teach their children, especially as it tended to be hereditary. Not reliably, not one hundred percent of the time, but enough that it was a trend. Of course, if you weren’t a Superior and you ended up with a kid that was, well, things got messy for you real quick. It wasn’t like the population knew about them. Only the government. So what usually happened was a tragedy, followed by some men in black suits showing up at your door and telling you your kid now belonged to them, legally. They could send you letters, time to time, but they probably wouldn’t.

The government said it was for safety purposes and they were mostly right. What they didn’t mention was how it was a hell of a recruitment scheme.

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Dream #2

The school was like nothing she had ever seen before. The stone was light and sandy, giving it a clean and bright look. There were turrets and archways, stone carvings and gardens overflowing with garish flowers. She touched the petals of one, making sure that they were real. The petals felt like velvet underneath her fingertips. It had been years since she had seen them. The camp grounds were all grey concrete and chainlink fences rattling in the wind.

Cora clicked her fingers at her from up ahead, impatient as she always was. Abigail hurried to keep up, her new shoes clickclicking on the pathway. Everywhere, there were students in smart blazers, reading, talking, sharing food. Many turned curiously to watch her passage and she felt her cheeks begin to burn under their scrutiny. She could see her fumbled introductions already, her instant marking of herself as an outsider.

Back at camp, it was easier. They were all outsiders. They were all weird and lacking in various people skills. Tina preferred to chew the end of her ponytail rather than have a conversation. Ellie stared at her shoes. Kitty giggled madly whenever she got nervous which was frequently. Maybe this was why she had been picked. Best of a bad bunch. Not that she had wanted to be picked. They had not only had to threaten her, but Tina as well. It was for Tina’s sake she had agreed - she couldn’t bare to see her with another split lip.

She went over the briefing one more time in her head. The elites were those in the drama club. They were clever - she would have to keep up with them. They liked reading, especially the classics and Gothic romances. They didn’t socialise with those outside the group so she would have to integrate herself quickly and efficiently. The ringleader was Alistair. He had black hair and blue eyes, a short stature. He was very possibly a genius. He didn’t play well with adults or those he perceived as rivals. He liked lacrosse, Oscar Wilde and pistachio ice cream. He was posed to inherit the company from his father well, soon. His father had been sick for some time and couldn’t have much longer left. But he hadn’t inherited it yet, which begged the question what exactly had he been funnelling money into?

Privately Abigail thought it was likely to be some teenage boy thing - girls or cars or a gambling addiction. But The Network didn’t want to take that chance so here she was, being lead to the central office to pick up her student welcome pack. A boy opened a door for her and she bowed her head, his proximity alarming. Even more so when she raised her eyes and realised it was exactly the boy she was meant to be observing. A moment of electric eye contact and he was gone, out the door, leaving Abigail blinking in his wake.

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Dream #3

The sounds of the forest mixed with the sounds of the sea. Twigs cracked, animals moved through thick leaves and waves crashed against the rocks below. The rocks were a mixture of natural and ancient stone bricks abandoned by over ambitious builders. Once, there was meant to be a castle here. If you broke cover from the trees without tumbling down the incline, you could get a little more light, the moon reflecting off the shifting sea. Inside the forest though, it was almost pitch, the leaves conspiring with each other to keep the moonlight out. Occasionally a fragment would make it to the path and sit, stubbornly illuminating its patch.

The path lead to a house that had been abandoned for more years than it had been occupied. There was no glass in its window frames, no furniture in its rooms. Only some old ashes and the smell of salt prevailed, the wind carrying in the occasional leaf or misguided insect. The roof had holes in it, letting in rain and the cries of the lonely seagulls above. In short, it was a perfect place to hide. Nobody came here and nobody loved it.

She knelt in the centre of the room, flensing knife clenched tightly in a fist. In smooth, practiced motions she ran it down the length of the bird, stripping feathers from it with alarming ease. The feathers wouldn’t be wasted. The chest ones would be stuffed into her coat to help keep her warm. The flight ones, spectacular in the common way pheasant feathers inherently are could be sold at markets for noble’s pretty hats. She doubted they would buy them if they knew they came from so uninteresting a bird as a pheasant but a key feature of the nobility was not knowing where anything you adored came from. She worked like this for some time until something unexpected made her head jolt up, cat-like eyes narrowing.

She heard voices. Bandits, most likely. Who else would know about this little ruin? She had no time to hide herself or her work. Standing with the small knife presented boldly, she waited to defend her prize.

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Dream #4

Their wedding day had been uneventful. It had rained, as they knew it would, making the town hall steps slick with water. Their relatives had held newspapers over their heads as they threw the handfuls of rice. Pigeons had fluttered over and begun pecking at the grains. Luckily Lucy had decided to wear a hat that day, protecting her fine blonde pin curls from being utterly ruined. And of course, the entire Shelby clan had worn their flatcaps, so all in all, they got off pretty lightly.

They had ran off, hand in hand, laughing. They would be expected at the Garrison later for the reception, a party for the ages. Tommy Shelby finally married! But for now Lucy wanted to steal a few minutes of him just for herself, before she had to share him with the entirety of Small Heath once more. They walked until they had reached their destination. A small food van, with a tarp making a veranda, white plastic chairs and tables sheltering under it. They had met here, when they were teenagers. She had been still growing into her new height and form, graceless but with the future promise of grace. He had been as intense then as he was now. She had felt his eyes on her from across the queue. His look had been enough to make her cheeks hot.

Now look at them. They shared a skin full of chips, picking companionably at them as they chatted, legs tangled underneath the table. Inspecting his face he definitely looked content, if not relaxed which was really all she could hope for. She had long since given up trying to make him switch off, but she could maje him wind down a little.

The peace was short-lived. A taxi pulled up across the street and out came Ada, cello case clutched in her arms. She didn’t notice them. In the window of the taxi, another woman sat. She was older by some margin, possessing expensive lipstick and golden curls that tumbled from her head like Rapunzel’s. Lucy felt Tommy’s attention sharpen like a knife beside her. Ada leant down to the window and kissed the woman, making Lucy’s heart lurch in surprise. It wasn’t the fact it was a woman. It was the fact not a single one of them had known about her. Ada straightened and the taxi pulled away. Before she knew it, Lucy had stood up, placing a hand on Tommy’s elbow and whispering in his ear ‘woman’s business, I’ll take care of it’ and marching over to wrap an arm around Ada and hiss angrily at her. Another day like any other.

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Dream #5

It was the day the ships came in. The sky arcing above them was so blue it made your eyes water, not a single cloud daring to mar it. The red containers stacked one on top of the other reached up towards it but ultimately failed, only carving out a small section of it for its own.

The first ship was huge, as all of them would be. Its hull was painted black, the upper decks the traditional white. It towered above them, the workers standing on the brick dock to look up, shielding their eyes from the sun with a hand. The ropes trailed like tentacles from a jellyfish and they surged forward to grab hold of as many as they could. Slowly, one by one they were siezed, and then the real work began. They took (very almost in sync) steps forward, struggling with every single one. The ship, reluctant, began to move down the canal towards its final docking destination.

Occasionally a man would lose his footing and plummet into the canal. They would be safe, if they were smart. If you kept hold on the rope you could float along, dragged by the ship until the job was done and you could be rescued. Let go and you risked being sucked beneath, trapped by the mound of metal, hopelessly drowning.

______________________________________________________ Dream #6

The fields either side of the path were lush, spotted with daisies and lazily humming bees. It was a hot day and the cool entrance of the forest beckoned. She wouldn’t be the only one taking refuge in there today. She imagined deer, geese, dogs all lying together and sleeping in the shade, protected by the trees. She hoped to join them soon, but first...

Every few steps along the path she discarded a jewel. Emeralds as big as her finger, rubies glistening like fresh beads of blood. Pearls a thousand miles from the sea, diamonds crystal clear. They formed a candy trail that she left peter out before she reached the treeline. What she was hoping was the guards persuing her would become distracted. Why chase a highway woman on a hot day when they could retire with the profits reaped from these stones? If she was really lucky, they would bicker with each other, each wanting more than his fair share.

Everybody won. She got to escape the noose and they got to retire from a thankless job. She was practically a philanthropist.

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Dream #7

It was a peaceful place. The path followed the route of the river, curling next to it like its more solid twin. Each stone in the river seemed to be a perfect grey oval, overlapping neatly with the ones around it. Jess wondered if the monks had shaped them too, arranged them. Everything here despite being natural felt arranged, perfected. The bushes were trimmed into circles. Flowers bloomed in groups of three. The gate (the only manmade item in this section) had no moss growing on it. There were no dead leaves, no wasps, no fallen petals.

The monks were almost as pristine. Their robes were shining white, broken only by a blue-grey stole and belt. The robes reached just above the line of grass, not quite touching the blades. Their hair was cut to the same length, a short sharp buzzcut. They didn’t speak above whispers and bowed every time they came close to one of the visitors.

In short, it creeped Jess out. ______________________________________________________________

Dream #8

Once upon a time, the sky might have been a colour other than orange. It might have gotten dark and light in a way that made sense rather than seeming entirely dependent on mood or whim. The ground may have been something other than a washed out yellow. Maybe. If it ever had been, nobody could remember it. It had been too longer ago.

Cynthia woke up this morning with only one eye, right in the middle of her forehead. She sat around the fire glumly, torn between letting her fringe hide the new development or not hindering her ability to see. It was a shame - she had been hoping for vampire. Ironically, none of us had really seen cyclops coming but we did know vampires were rare.

“Cheer up.” Said Frances. “At least you don’t have to hunt for razors.” She was mostly being facetious. Only the most insecure of the werewolf girls bothered to shave. It was the end of the world and there were no boys to make fun of hairy legs or unibrows. And even if there was, well, they could rip them apart now, without even blinking.

Cherie whined, her voice high and droning. Wouldn’t surprise me if she ended up being a harpy. She was convinced it was going to be siren. Wouldn’t bother me, we could dump her in the green lake and be done with it then. “When am I going to change?” “You’re only thirteen.” Frances said patiently, leaning down to tighten the laces on her paws. “You’ve got ages yet. Unless you’re an early starter and that’s okay too.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Tilly. Tilly had been hideously embarrassed when her transformation had came on at fourteen. She’d mostly gotten used to the beak now but still flushed when her age was brought up. “Cynthia, wanna come with me to high school?” The place had mostly been picked clean of anything useful and was little more than a ruin. Tins and pudding had been the first to go, lipstick and padlocks the next. But Frances had got into her head and idea about learning chemistry so she could make lights that didn’t need a battery, and just glowed. Preferably without giving us radiation poisoning but I got the sense she wasn’t all that fussy.

I put my bowl and spoon on the floor, stretching. My teeth bit into my lower lip, making me wince. “I’ll come with you. I wanna see if the gym has any mouth guards left.” Frances nodded approvingly and swung her backpack on effortlessly, as though it weighed nothing at all. Her biceps bulged and I admired them, not for the first time. She made it easy - most t-shirts didn’t contain them anymore.

“Time for adventure.”

#dreams #random #prose #writers on tumblr #yes these are all dreams i actually had

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bestillandremember · 5 years

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“Never Too Broken”

As Bible School and my time at Capernwray comes to a close, we are spending our last week diving into a specific subject that interests us. I chose the 5 women of Jesus’ genealogy, their broken pasts, and how God used their mess for his glory. I presented it to the class this morning, and thought I’d post it so others could read it. Please let me know what you think!

“Mara gazed, transfixed with her reflection. The mirror in front of her showed only the surface, as it was designed to. Today, somehow, she marveled at how it managed to identify the depths of brokenness within her. Every day previously, she had passed in front of it, tugging at her shirts, pulling at her shorts, evaluating how much of herself she wanted on display. She fixed her hair, mended her make up. It was if she was perfecting a daily costume, a disguise in which she could walk the streets of her world and not be recognized for who she truly was. It was only when she couldn’t recognize herself, that she would walk away from it. Secure in the fact that everyone else would see only what they wanted to see anyways.

Today though, Mara had no mask to wear. No foundation, no cover up. Everything she currently was stared her down in all it’s shattered glory. She saw every mistake, every damaging decision, every compromise, and every betrayal. She saw nothing but scars, both internal and external, that traced a broken roadmap of her past. Cracks, chips, and dents, like a used car. One many people had driven across the country, through desert heat, wild storms, and bitter winters. One they had left behind with crumbs, stains, and rips in her upholstery like memories of a life she almost had. With very little left to offer, her purpose was leased to those who decided her worth for themselves.

Despite what the world told her, she was not an object. She was a human. One with a soul, thoughts, and feelings, expressed through a heart that was worn on her sleeve and readily offered to others. Even now, the words of those that received it rang in her ears. After a lifetime of dedication, she had ministry leaders tell her she hadn’t done was was necessary to deserve their support. So for years she worked to meet their standards, and lost any sight of a higher calling. Christian leaders that followed told her she created a bad image for their mission by simply being who she was. Though she placed ministry first in her life, followed every rule, performed every task, and respected all boundaries- she was told it was not enough. Over time, she discovered there was nothing she could do to earn their approval. So she decided, almost by default, that her heart belonged elsewhere, as it was clearly misunderstood by those within the Christian community.

The world welcomed her with the open arms that ministry and the church couldn’t. It was charming, captivating, and almost addicting. The people within it asked for everything and nothing at the same time. Men wrapped warm words around her, whispering promises that slithered around her heart like a boa. They increased constrictive control over her slowly, in the name of a type of love that filled a void within her long enough for her to forget to question it. Their demands were masked in deep affection, and she gave freely, deceived by their performance. They asked for her world, and in turn, they became hers. Around and around she went, caught in a lonely orbit over her fragmented life, and they were her sun. In that isolation, the darkness worked away at her light as each person left her denounced and alone. If they gave any reason at all, they called her ‘less than’ and disgusting. They told her she was garbage, a waste of their precious time.

Crying out, she sank to the ground under the weight of an ache that bore down on her soul like a jackhammer. Completely helpless, she had no other choice but to acknowledge the chasm she had long ignored, even as it grew. Tears pooled until they blurred her vision, and the image of the girl in front of her was unrecognizable. Air caught suddenly in her lungs when she realized that she wasn’t alone in the mirror. Four figures had formed, two on either side of her, and she blinked to bring them to clarity. A quartet of women materialized, each laying a hand on her. She jumped at and away from the contact and turned rapidly in either direction, finding she was still alone in her room. How is this possible? she thought, as she came to face her reflection again. The women were still there, each greeting her with a kind, but knowing smile.

The woman farthest to her left was mostly covered. She was draped in several shades of dark and maroon cloth, and a veil shielded her eyes. She wore jewelry, but it was her porcelain face that drew you to her. With just the lower half of it exposed, you saw only the most delicate features. The black that covered her eyes casted a shadow, and had the word “Liar” stitched in beautiful letters across it. Mara’s heart fluttered at the proximity of someone so openly guilty, especially knowing she deserved this label as well. When she asked who she was, the woman tightened her grip briefly on her shoulder and said nothing but,

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

With these words, her veil was lifted, revealing honest eyes that implored her to trust as she looked the woman next to her. As she came into focus, Mara saw she was clothed in extravagant shades of red and gold. Jewelry and gems hung so low on her hips that she imagined if she started dancing, that they would chime and jingle as she swayed. Her skin was soft, and perfumed. She smelled hints of vanilla and a musky sandalwood mingled with ancient scents she didn’t recognize. Her hair was twisted and pinned in an intricate mix of curls, pearls, and other jewels. She was beautiful and alluring. She touched Mara with hands that were bound by a scarlet cord, that wrapped around each her wrists like chains. Before she could ask anything else the woman said,

"For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin- because anyone who has died has been set free from sin.” (Romans 6:6-7)

As she finished, her bindings lifted into the air like smoke and she was free. The next woman could have been her polar opposite, but they smiled at each other like sisters. The third had dusky skin, darkened by hours in the sun and manual labor. Dressed modestly in black fabric that wrapped around her head and framed a gentle face, Mara got the feeling she was mourning. Not just a person, but a life, security, and prosperity. She was simple, but in her brown eyes you saw a spirit and light that was genuine and willing. She spoke boldly as she told her,

"For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.” (Romans 10:10)

Her last word echoed, ricocheting off the walls of Mara’s empty heart, and the woman’s clothes transformed into light blues and whites. With the added illumination, she recognized specs of green in her eyes that brought life to her face. A simple marriage band appeared on the left hand that played with her hair fondly, and she gazed at the last woman. Power and influence dripped from this fourth female force. She was stunningly captivating, wrapped in royal purples, bright teals, and garnished with gold. Her hair fell in long ebony waves, braided around her face so that it stayed out of her light eyes that contrasted intriguingly with her olive skin. Her wrists and fingers were layered in bracelets and rings that glittered in the sun that came in rays through her window.

Mara’s eyes were led to a bright “A” that was threaded into her clothing. A modern reference for a woman clearly not of this century. She lifted her gaze to the woman that straightened under her scrutiny. There was a conflicting shadow that crossed her face, one that clashed with the pride in her features. Loss. Grief. Honor. Virtue. She was torn between something. Maybe love and duty, since they are often separate and can exist outside of each other. She took Mara’s right hand, and placed it in hers. Holding it gently she said,

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

Her scarlet letter disappeared, and was replaced by a crown. She smiled, and each woman knelt around Mara. She felt a spirit flow through the five of them, uniting and binding them in something she couldn’t apply any logic to. Though she fought it, there was a tangible connection that transcended time. It knit them together intrinsically, like roots in the same tree. Suddenly they were joined by a fifth, who stayed back to examine the women on display. Mara realized with some discomfort that she couldn’t have been more than a teenager. Innocence radiated from her, and waves of maternal warmth washed over all of them as she approached each individually.

“Tamar,” she addressed the first woman by name. “Who lied to save the bloodline of Judah.”

The girl laid a kiss upon Tamar’s head, and she leaned into Mara’s image in the middle of the mirror. Like two lanes merging on a highway, they became one. She blinked, but otherwise remained motionless, fear and doubt still holding her hostage.

“Rahab,” she named the second one. “The prostitute that hid Joshua’s spies and deceived the guards searching to kill them.”

The scarlet lady received a similar loving gesture and laid a hand on Mara, only to evaporate into her like the first. This time, she shivered and closed her eyes. Something called her to acknowledge the two women within her, but she held back. They were chipping away at the bitter denial within her, but she wasn’t ready to give in. Instead, she opened her eyes again to find the third woman reaching out for the newest arrival. They joined hands, and the younger nodded to the older.

“Ruth,” she called her. “The widowed outsider.”

Ruth wrapped inviting arms around Mara, compassion reaching to her very core. Her head fell, overwhelmed by the presence filling her. When she looked up again, only the woman dressed like royalty remained. She bowed her head, showing incredible humility to a girl half her age. When she raised her face again, the younger released the older to join the others, but not before calling her by name.

“Bathsheba. The adulteress, and accomplice to murder.”

Suddenly Mara found herself alone with this spirited youth that somehow commanded the respect of all four women before her. Surprise lifted her brows as the girl sat next to her. She took her hand gently, and nodded towards her reflection. Fearing being left alone again, she hesitated to look back. However, the girl wouldn’t let her avoid it, and lifted her chin with a gentle finger so she could face the mirror. Breath hitched in her chest as she did, and tore from it in the form of a sob. She didn’t just see herself this time, but the eyes of Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba staring back at her. Their stories settled into her soul. They radiated and related to her own, comforting and calling her to peace. They welcomed her to the knowledge that she had sisters in sin, with a history equally darkened by transgressions they could not hide. Mistakes that they could not escape the consequences of, and yet the Lord conquered and used them all.

The girl next to Mara, barely more than a child herself, wrapped a thin arm around her to steady the trembling that shook her body. Taking inventory of all her Bible knowledge, she went through each person she had met in an effort to identify the stranger. The minute her heart inquired, it became abundantly clear, as if this woman could ever be unknown. In humbled awe, Mara was finally able to recognize the girl next to her.

“Mary,” she breathed. “The virgin. Mother to Jesus, the Messiah.”

The girl smiled and nodded, lifting a hand to her cheek she said,

"Therefore, my friends, I want you to know that through Jesus the forgiveness of sins is proclaimed to you. Through him everyone who believes is set free from every sin.” (Acts 13:38-39a)

She put specific emphasis on words she knew were meant just for her. A message she needed to hear. Redemption. The women within her echoed the same good news. Our weaknesses are His strengths. He is the only Creator that can take broken people and turn them into a purposeful masterpiece. Furthermore, there are no mistakes in His kingdom. God is unchanging, and so are His plans. Jesus himself came from a long line of messy humans, and the Lord used each of them to bring salvation to all. Our sin is only a testament to His power and what he can overcome.

Together they stood, and Mary faced her, palms open. Within them, a smooth stone. Confused, Mara looked to her imploringly. This couldn’t be it. She wanted to ask so many questions, because answers would surely quiet the chaos within her. Heal cuts and injuries too deep to reconcile with. The women warred inside her head and heart, trying to unite them. Not everything in this world had a righteous solution, and justice would not be her own. They fought to remind her stubborn spirit that there was nothing she needed to do. He had a plan, and she could be a part of it, just as they were. If she could acknowledge the Creator and His sacrifice, He would do the rest.

Mary took pity on her tormented mind and gave her one final reminder,

“Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” (Isaiah 30:20-21)

Mara thought of the voices of her new teachers, and knew they were rejoicing in this message. If all she had to do was say yes to the gift Jesus gave her in death and trust Him, who was she to deny His power to use even her pain for His glory?

“What do I do?” she asked the angel in front of her.

Mary reached forward and gave her the rock. The weight felt strange, but a nervous hope began to bloom. Nodding her head towards the mirror, she gave her a simple instruction,

“Break it.”

A refining fire erupted in her, and with one last look at her reflection, her resolve hardened like the stone in her hand. A holy calm washed over her, like a sea of cleansing water. She brought her arm all the way behind her head, and released it forward with the force of all her hurt and regret. The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, every version of herself with it. All of her sin was in fragments, catching light and casting brilliant colors on her walls. A kaleidoscope of pain she kept hidden for years, now splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting around her room.

Filling her lungs with a breath of air that no longer suffocated her, she turned to Mary. The smile on her face was tender, both proud and grateful for what she had witnessed. She offered her hand once more, and this time, Mara didn’t hesitate to take it. Together, they walked through the open door, and into the light.”

#bible #biblestudy #jesuschrist #genealogy #creative writing #women #storytelling #testimony #old testament #new testament #redemption #brokeness #christianity #god #godisgood #godisgreat #godislove

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ladygloucester · 6 years

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Here of all places - Chapter 4

So sorry for the delay! I’m in the middle of moving out, new city, a lot of weeks without the hubby home… Well, life, pretty much xD

Hope it’s worth the wait!

Previously... 1, 2, 3

Claire inhaled deeply while the door closed behind her, leaning against it and trapping her hands between it and her back. It still smelled the same way she remembered it. A mixture of old wood and roses. His father would always make sure there was a fresh dozen of them in the living room, by their wedding photograph. The image of them dancing to the beat of Tony Bennet, the verses running through her mind.

Some day, when I'm awfully low,

When the world is cold,

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight.

She used to sit on the staircase, holding the balusters and staring at them wondering why they needed to do that every single Friday night, to the same song playing in the old turntable. The sound of her mother’s heels sliding on the crumbling pine floor, his father’s smile against her hair, his hand laying on the small of her back, her cheek resting on his shoulder. That was the most recurrent memory Claire had of them, and one that had been on the back of her mind since they passed away.

Moving to their house after so long was something she hadn’t come to terms yet. Part of her felt an intruder, an obnoxious uninvited guest that would break the living images of a past long foregone. But it also felt like an uncomfortable return home, one that hadn’t been so since she was barely a teenager. The floor creaked under her steps, carrying her to the couch and plopping on it. In front of her, last night’s evidences lied on the floor, a combination of underwear, clothes and blankets she’d have to deal with sooner rather than later.

Her eyes closed with exhaustion and the remnants of latent hungover she had kept at bay with a couple of Aspirins and tons of coffee. She leaned against the cushy sofa and rested her head, allowing herself to lose in the sensation of warmness.

She stood there, her eyebrows almost meeting her hairline with absolute perplexity. He hadn’t listened to a single word she had said, and had the nerve to even touch her in the middle of the corridor, where anyone could see them. Nice, very nice to start a job and be known as the woman that banged Captain Hot— Fraser in her first day.

“Did you listen to what I just said?” Her bafflement was such she needed to check if maybe he had just missed her words. But there, again, that bone melting smile and a carefree shrug.

“Aye, I just thought it would be nice to have a drink.” He stepped closer and her cheeks blushed with rage. And unwilling excitement. “Last night was…”

“Last night wasn’t. Don’t say it,” she threatened pointing him with a finger and huffed in annoyance. “Really, you just didn’t listened to me at all!“

He raised his hands, meaning no harm.

“All right, lass. Dinna fash about it. But if you ever change your mind,” he wiggled his eyebrows and started laughing wholeheartedly when Claire turned around and almost run into the female locker room.

The next week went by surprisingly quietly. Tending to the patients, getting familiarized with the protocols and getting ready for the arrival of Lt. John Grey filled her hours. Dr. Abernathy, or Joe, as he had insisted to be called right on her second day, revealed himself as a well full of useful knowledge, both medical and regarding any questions she could have about Helwater. He got her acquainted with some of the other doctors there. Willie Hertog was a younger physician, that being his first job. Specialized in general surgery, he was quite eager to learn from a trauma surgeon such as Claire, and they immediately became good partners. Geillis had more work load, being one of the main neurologists in Helwater, but always managed to sneak out and join them for lunch while going over any case she had she could use their input.

It didn’t take them much to realize a couple of drinks after work could be a nice way to put the pressure of their day behind, and they began to meet at one of the pubs, The Covenanter, to play darts and drink ale. It was the same pub where she had met Jamie that night, and whenever she crossed the threshold, her limbs tingled with the memory. Now she knew it was pretty much the place where all the facility met afterwork, owned as it was by a retired sergeant who had switched the kaki for the apron.

Claire fit into this new routine like a tired foot in a snug slipper. Being able to laugh with new —and old— friends was a welcome improvement from her past life and she threw herself carelessly into it. Slowly, she stopped looking over her shoulder from time to time, feeling like an invader in a foreign peaceful country. And besides her friends helping her adapt to a new home, casually encountering with certain redheaded captain here and there managed to elicit a smile almost daily. She was powerless to resist the way he stared at her, so boldly she couldn’t keep her cheeks from blushing every time. But since her negative to join him for drinks, he had maintained the most perfect professional willingness towards her. Salted by that crooked smile, of course.

That Friday morning, Geillis and Claire were leaving the female locker room to join Willie and begin their rounds, when Geillis grabbed their arms and forced them to stop, a conniving smile plastered in her face.

“I just know what ye need, Claire, to stop ye from pouting whenever Captain Hottie leaves yer sight.” Claire smacked her arm

“Jesus, is that what you’re calling him now?” She retorted restraining herself from elbowing her on the ribs and chastising herself silently for having already thought about him that way.

“They all do now,” Willie confirmed while setting his stethoscope around his neck.

“He would die of embarrassment if he heard us,” Geillis laughed. “But that’s no’ the point. We need to throw a party!!” Willie’s face lighted up and nodded excitedly despite Claire’s grimace.

“A party would be so cool,“ he assured and looked at the blonde. “We could invite a few selected people—“

“Where?” And seeing her eyes glinting, she shook her head and resumed her walk. “No way, Geillis, we’re not throwing a party at my place. What are you, fifteen?“

“Ye say that an awful lot these days, ye buzzkiller.” Both of them followed her and each grabbed one of her arms.

“Come on, Claire, it will be fun.”

“I don’t know how many catastrophes have begun with that same statement,” she pointed while pushing the elevator button.

“Just a few of us! Ten tops!“ Claire’s façade started to melt, fantasizing with the idea, and they pushed it further.

“I’ll get the drinks—” Willie stated.

“—And I’ll get the people,” Geillis finished.

Seeing no other routes of escape, Claire raised her hands and yielded.

“Ok, but I tell you now, I’m not cleaning afterwards,” she warned them while the elevator doors opened, while the two of them already began to conspire.

“Do ye think one keg will be enough?”

“Two, better safe than sorry. A party without ale isna a party at all.”

When Claire’s eyes stopped rolling and focused in front of her, Captain Fraser was already leaning against the wall of the elevator, his arms crossed over his broad chest, waiting for them to get in. Her cheeks blushed as she entered, muttering a polite good morning, while Willie and Geillis stared at them.

“Sorry, I just forgot, you know, Willie—”

“What?”

“Come,” she muttered with her teeth clenched and pulled from his arm away from the elevator. “See ye later, Claire.”

Once inside, the doors closed in front of Claire, purposefully keeping her back turned to him. Seconds slowed down to a tedious pace. She knew he’d be smiling. His lips were always slightly curved in the corners, good-humored. She braced herself as the floors marched by in the LED screen. 0, 1…

“So ye need a keg for a party?” His voice startled her and she bit the inner side of her cheek, cursing under her breath.

“Ehm— Well, I don’t— It’s their idea.” 2… Come on…

“Ye’re throwing a party. At yer place?”

“Yes, actually,” Claire admitted, turning to face him.

“Am I invited?“

There it was, that stupidly sexy smile, flashing in front of her and turning her knees to water. Did he know the effect he had on her? How that night together haunted her unexpectedly? In the middle of the day, while performing surgery, right before sleep… It wasn’t healthy. And now he was trying, not very subtly, to get invited to the party. She had already rejected him when he asked her out for drinks, and pretty blatantly so. But Claire realized there was something about him that irradiated hope. The kind of hope that has someone who always tries to look at the brighter side of things, who gives importance to the things that have it and relativizes those that don’t. His insistence came from that place, rather than the need for the chase most men she had met had. So she tried to look as nonchalant as she could before answering.

“Sure, if it’s up to Geillis she’ll invite half the base,” Claire said rather uncommittedly. His eyes glanced at her, piercing through the thoughtful layers of friendly indifference, introversion, privacy and professionalism, leaving her exposed, naked under his scrutiny. “I… I’ll text you the address,” she offered handing him her cellphone.

His deep blue eyes searched hers, slanted and utterly distracting. For a second he seemed to consider the situation, probably trying to decide if he was stepping on her toes. But the wavering smile her lips drew finally settled it for him. The tip of his fingers grazed her hand when he grabbed her phone and typed carefully his contact information.

“Dinna leave me hangin’.“

Next…

#Outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fic #outlander in the xxi century #ladygoutlanderfic #Jamie Fraser #jamie x claire #claire beauchamp #here of all places

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domfck-blog · 7 years

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hi !! i wrote a novel long intro ( YIKES sorry !! ) below, but here’s dom~

(CHRIS WOOD - MALE, 24) — have you met DOMINIC CAVANAUGH yet? word is that he is ASTUTE & FERVENT, though if you catch him on the wrong day, he can also be PARANOID & ALOOF. i heard that he is a CRIMINAL INVESTIGATOR, but don’t take it from me. when he was moving in, i thought i heard RESTLESS by COLD WAR KIDS playing from his apartment. pretty appropriate, right?

BACKGROUND:

dominic cavanaugh was born and raised in chicago, IL. — up until the age of 16.

he was the second born of four children; one older brother, one younger sister and a younger brother.

dom could almost say that he had the perfect, white picket fence life. ALMOST. however, there was one factor that consistently proved to be an obstacle for that reality — his older brother.

although first born, the eldest cavanaugh always appeared to be the black sheep of the family. his personality, for some odd reason, hadn’t blended well with the rest of the tight knit family. for as long as dominic could recall, he and his brother had a rocky relationship; the other always finding himself drawn to the wrong type of crowd and getting far too deeply involved with their antics.

dominic ended up being the one to bare the responsibility on his back of taking care of their family; as said older brother was always far too busy vanishing during the daytime hours only to return back home, sneaking through the door and up the stairs during late night/early morning. he learned a sense of responsibility early; taking his younger siblings under his wing.

in spite of everything juvenile he’d done, dom still loved his older brother and in some ways, wanted desperately to look up to him. as much bad as he brought upon the family, there were rare moments that shone through which showed how much he truly cared for dom; always fiercely protective over him. no matter what, dom was the first person who’d rush to the scene to pick his brother up from stumbling along the sidewalks or lost in a shady abandoned warehouse.

HOWEVER, times took a drastic change when one day, after he finished his sophomore year, his brother had overdue debts owed to a certain rather notoriously dangerous group of men (men that he clearly underestimated), that they made sure the entire family would pay for.

(TW: VIOLENCE/DEATH) he’d decided to go on a road trip away with some friends for a week to the beach, taking a break from all of the stress from both school and his family, and that’s when he’d received the phone call that literally changed his life. five days into his vacation, and at 2 in the morning his dad began ringing his phone off the hook. ignoring it the first couple of times as he was trying to sleep, he eventually answered as it seemed to be urgent. “your mother has been stabbed.” was a sentence dom wasn’t bracing to hear at this time of night or so suddenly, and once it finally hit, he wasted no time in getting his clothes, etc. together and driving straight back home.

sure enough, he’d arrived at the hospital too late, when he came through and received news from the doctors that his mother had succumbed to her injuries. his father, only coming out with a few cuts and bruises thankfully, was distraught and devastated. it soon became clear that this was a message given by the gang that his older brother owed heaping piles of money to.

this was the final straw that broke the camels back so to speak for dominic, and when the police began questioning the motives behind such a brutal attack, dom had no hesitation in throwing his brother and his illegal/reckless ways under the bus. soon enough, with the charges catching up to him, the eldest cavanaugh had been thrown behind bars — put in prison for a decade. with the knowledge now that dom and his family had been relieved of their careless sibling, they decided to up and move away from chicago; as they very clearly weren’t safe there. who knew when that sort of horrific incident would occur again, and to which member?

they moved to san fran, far enough away from their troubles. from there on out, dominic finished and graduated from high school. he went on to college where he majored in criminal justice and obtained his degree. inspired by the events that haunted his teenage years and the horrible decisions repeatedly made by his older brother, dom went down the path of becoming a criminal investigator. the people who murdered his mother had still been out there, and that nightmare would live on forever to linger over him like a storm cloud until he brought justice to her killers.

his father owns a bar called Cavanaugh’s (naturally), where dom will commonly be found helping him during any free time he can manage to make for himself. whether he’s bartending thanks to lack of staff, or cleaning around the space, or just enjoying a drink, Cavanaugh’s has become a favorite spot of his.

PERSONALITY:

dominic is somebody who had to grow up quickly too young, so he’s far more matured than most 24 year old men his age at the moment. he’s also trying his hardest to stay true to his roots and remain a good guy, despite all the shit that life has thrown at him. with the immense stress of his job and the cases that weigh heavily on him, along with the past that he still has yet to overcome mentally, he’s constantly found drinking. not to say that he has a problem, per se, but he definitely tends to like to get drunk far more often than not.

despite his maturer side, he still loves to be playful, a bit sarcastic, but overall he cares far too much for people that sometimes could make him an easy target to be taken advantage of. he puts his family first, always, and will make his brother, sister, or father his number one priorities above all else. this has proved to come between a few relationships of his in the past.

OVERALL, DOM IS JUST NOT A GOODY GOOD GUY, BUT NOT A BAD GUY EITHER. he also hates drugs, clearly, he can’t be doing drugs with his field of work as he’s drug tested all of the time. but he is breaking some rules considering he’s going into records he’s not supposed to, looking into his mother’s murder case that had been closed years ago, and he also abuses his power to obtain information regarding his brother’s whereabouts and updates from his life in prison.

CONNECTIONS:

sibilngs, duh ( but more so wc so... )

exes (girlfriends/flings)

a roommate?? (possibly someone that was his best friend from high school or s/t

considering his field of work there could be plenty of connections made involving that !! whether it be that he deals with your char all the time because they’re always getting in trouble, or helped your char at one point in time w something?? IDK anything !!

bros

um if anybody has a bartender job he could know them through his dad’s bar or w/e ?? could also just know him whenever they stop through his dad’s bar and he’s always there either serving them or hanging out w them.. you know, stuff.

bad influence !!

even cousins ?? idc

m/f brotp ( love !!! )

maybe a messy girl who’s just loads of trouble but he can’t help himself from caring for her and sometimes would bend the law in order to keep her out of scrutiny.

ok i’m done typing shit in here, hmu if you wanna plot :~)

#alton:intro #death tw #yikes just making this now at 9pm on a sunday

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impracticaldemon · 7 years

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I have a request: Can you write a short scene with the Hakouki characters (in a modern AU) ~ A summer day at the beach? Extra points for Saito in a speedo. 👌👍👌

May the celestial spirits help us all.

Words: ~2800 (it just happened I swear!!!) | FFN | AO3

For DWS aka @nalufever (tumblr): a faithful reader, reviewer and hilarious collaborator. You have an evenstranger imagination than mine at times. I hope you enjoy this offering!

Hakuouki Vignettes: The Shinsengumi in the Sunshine

The sun blazed in a blue sky, through which a few white clouds driftedlike wispy cotton balls. It t looked like a painted background instead of areal sky. It was only just starting to get really hot when a silver minivan anda slick dark convertible pulled into the small parking lot overlooking thepristine beach area.

“Oh man this is perfect!” shouted a smallish teenage boy,flinging back a sliding door and racing down across the sand toward the water’sedge. “Look! The tide is just starting to come in now–awesome!”

The back hatch of the minivan began to rise automatically while threemore passengers disembarked: a tall red-head in his mid-twenties, a muscularguy in a green bandanna and matching trunks of about the same age, and a thirdman who looked young until you noticed that the unusual green eyes had finelines around them that suggested some kind of pain or trouble in the recentpast. To call the middle of the three muscular was saying something, becauseall three men had sinewy, corded arms and walked with the light, springy stepsof natural athletes. A casual observer might leave it at that. A more observantsort would take a second look (for more than just aesthetic reasons!) andmore-or-less correctly conclude that the visitors were officers on leave from anearby military base or maybe a larger city police force.

“Yo, Heisuke! Get your ass back here and help unload or you canforget about your share of the beer!”

The teenager—who was presumably older than he looked—waved a middlefinger back at the man with the green bandanna, but ran back across the sand todo as he was told. The gesture earned him a “friendly” tap on thehead when he arrived, which he shrugged off with almost startling indifference.

In the meantime, a lean, compact man with dark hair had gotten out ofthe driver’s seat, his movements almost unnoticeable against the backdrop ofhis louder and more colourful colleagues. He was wearing a plain black t-shirtover plain black trunks with some kind of white logo at the hem. He brieflysurveyed his passengers, giving a slightly longer scrutiny to the green-eyedman, and then walked over to the convertible.

A slightly older man with black hair and movie-star good looks hadalready gotten out from behind the wheel of the other car and was unpacking thesmall storage space in the back that passed for a trunk. The young—and indeedonly—woman with the group was just getting out of the passenger seat, her warmbrown eyes bright with excitement. Like the youngest of the men, she appearedto be in her late teens.

“Hello, Saitō-san,” she said cheerfully to the quiet,dark-haired man. She showed no surprise at his rather sudden—andsilent—presence. “The wind made a mess of my hair, but Hijikata-san saidthere was no point in having a convertible if you didn’t have the top down innice weather. Oh well, I think I’ve finally gotten it all straight again.”

Saitō nodded, since the young woman’s hair appeared to be tied up in itsusual short, neat ponytail. Without waiting for him to speak—or perhaps awarethat he wouldn’t —the woman smiled and went on:

“Did you have a good drive? Did Heisuke get picked on too much? IsOkita-san doing alright?” The last question was asked in a low voice;apparently she didn’t want Okita to hear her.

“The drive was fine, Yukimura. Heisuke is in good spirits. Soujidid not cough at all during the trip.”

“Well I hope he doesn’t overdo it now that we’re here,”growled Hijikata, stalking up to the two of them, his arms full of an oddassortment of objects. The strangest of these was a large pink inflatable duck,which he thrust unceremoniously at Chizuru (as she was invariably called byanyone other than Hijikata or Saitō). “Any trouble, Saitō?”

“No, Commander.”

“Then why the hell are you over here instead of frolicking down onthe beach with the others? Or at least off finding a convenient place fromwhich to silently watch the others frolic while you drink?” Apparently thequestion was rhetorical, since he didn’t wait for an answer. “Wellwhatever. You can carry some of this junk. I swear Yukimura filled most of thecar with food and the rest with toys.”

Saitō nodded calmly, as one used to such situations. He turned to theyoung woman.

“I thought it might be best for me to carry and, ah, look after thefood.”

There was a brief, thoughtful silence from the other two, and thenYukimura nodded emphatically and Hijikata smirked.

“Yeah, good point. Don’t want Heisuke and Shinpachi making a messof things as usual and getting sand in everyone’s lunch. Fucking morons.They’ll think twice if it’s you.”

“You’ll help me carry the beach balls then, Hijikata-san?”Chizuru asked tentatively. “And the posts for the net?”

The Commander sighed irritably. He had a soft spot for the girl, butnobody knew if it went any farther than that. In fact, due to the odd circumstancesunder which Yukimura Chizuru had (temporarily) joined their unit, everyone kepta close eye on her, and seemed to go a little out of their way for her. To whatextent depended on their various natures. Harada Sanosuke, the tall red-head,was the most obviously protective and charming, while Tōdō Heisuke was thekindest and most accepting. Nagakura Shinpachi was more of a rough and readysort, but he treated her like a younger sister and often looked out for herwhen he thought nobody was looking. Nobody really knew what Okita Sōji thought,but even he tended to tone down his sharp edges around Chizuru, although healso teased her mercilessly when he could. Saitō just tended to show up when hewas needed; however, that was how he behaved with the rest of them as well.Okita insisted that Saitō—a known stickler for order and discipline—went easieron Chizuru than he should, but so far he was alone in his opinion, at least outloud.

“I will find an appropriate spot for the net,” Saitōvolunteered. “We must also leave sufficient space for the water gunfight.” He managed to say the last three words both disapprovingly andwithout inflection, a skill that many aristocratic butlers trained for years toperfect. Chizuru had never had a butler, but she had heard of them, and it hadoccurred to her before that Saitō-san would make an excellent butler.

Eventually, everyone was settled—or active, as the case might be. Theso-called baka trio had brought surf boards, and were eyeingthe incoming tide. It still wasn’t quite right, but according to what they’dbeen told, it should be getting there fairly soon. In the meantime, they wereengaged in a no-holds-barred beach volleyball competition—which pleased Chizurugreatly—refereed by Okita—which apparently pleased nobody but theself-designated ref. Heisuke was at a significant height disadvantage, but hemade up for it with exceptional acrobatics and apparently limitless energy. Allthree were drinking copious quantities of beer. Chizuru tried to get them to drinkwater between matches instead, but Okita stepped in and (in his words)preserved their inalienable right to get drunk in whatever way they wanted,even if it meant raging dehydration and severe hangovers later. Saitō, from hisvantage point not far away, noticed that Sōji’s words were more effective thanChizuru’s. All three beach volleyball players surreptitiously started to drinkmore water, and nobody commented further on it.

Hijikata-san sat against a nearby palm tree, head tilted back and eyesclosed between sporadic fits of furious writing into a handsomely-boundnotebook. Since his facial expressions always became particularly contortedduring these times, Chizuru found it best not to bother him, although she wasas intensely curious about the contents of the book as usual. Okita-san hadtold her that Hijikata-san wrote erotica, which was why he refused to read fromhis writings; Saitō-san had quietly contradicted this and told her that whatshe had seen was the Commander writing poetry. The latter was more believable,but didn’t explain the senior officer’s refusal to share his work. It hadtaken some time for Chizuru to realize that perhaps the two categories weren’tmutually exclusive. Moreover, Saitō-san hadn’t actually denied that Hijikata-sanwrote erotica—in retrospect, his precise wording could have been deliberatelymisleading.

Okita had just declared himself the winner of the volleyball tournament,to good-natured laughter and cat-calls from the actual participants, when thefaint noise of a motor-bike caught everyone’s attention. Somehow, Saitō wasalready in the parking lot, his alcohol of choice—nobody had noticed what itwas today—already stowed neatly away and his face showing neither the merrimentnor the inebriated flush displayed by his colleagues. Hijikata looked up, hisexpression registering annoyance (although as Okita often said, how could youtell?).

The motorbike arrived very shortly thereafter, indicating that it wasboth fast and surprisingly quiet for its speed. Yet another fit young man, thisone on the shorter side, sprang off the bike and hurried over to Saitō, who hadbeen joined by Okita. The three surfing enthusiasts down on the beach did notlook happy—the waves were just about perfect and the water was calling.

“Dammit, I knew this was too good to betrue,” Okita snarled as the biker gave Saitō the unwelcome news that somerich kids—the son of the beachfront owner and his pals—were on their way andmight be looking for trouble.

“Chief Kondō said that the owner was happy to oblige him with aninexpensive rental,” noted Saitō calmly.

“Yeah, well Kondō-san always thinks the best of everyone, doesn’the? Why didn’t Hijikata-san look into things better, that’s what I want toknow! That’s his job, isn’t it?”

“Thank you for alerting us, Yamazaki,” said Saitō, ignoringOkita’s complaint with the ease of long practice. “Now that you are here,however, I feel that you should change into more appropriate apparel so as notto appear out of place.”

Before Yamazaki could respond, or Okita could continue to enumerateHijikata-san’s shortcomings for failing to protect Chief Kondō from theconsequences of his over-trusting good-nature, Saitō had turned away to briefHijikata-san. He also made a point of smiling and waving at Harada, Shinpachiand Heisuke, to let them know that it was alright to get on with their surfing.Unfortunately, the unprecedented nature of these actions caused all three ofthem to abandon their surf boards and come hurrying up from the water.

“What the hell did you signal to them?” demanded Hijikata,taking in Saitō’s surprised expression.

“… I’m not sure, now,” his faithful aide-de-camp murmured.

In the end, everyone gathered around Hijikata’s palm tree to hear thenews that they were on the verge of being invaded by high-class guys looking tothrow their weight around. Chizuru, holding tightly to a large, bright pinkduck, and looking very sweet in a hearts-and-flowers two-piece bathing suit,was clearly the most worried.

“Oh no! I hope they don’t ruin your day off! Maybe they just wantto welcome you on behalf of the owner?”

Several pairs of eyes met above Chizuru’s head and exchanged theunspoken message that the girl was cute, but deluded. Only Okita took it uponhimself to explain the situation in no uncertain terms:

“Don’t be an idiot. The owner’s probably involved in all sorts ofcorrupt activities—wouldn’t be so rich otherwise, would he? Anyone"—otherthan Kondō-san, thought most of those present, but silently—"would wonderwhy a guy like that would want to be nice to a bunch of federal investigatorslike us. He’s probably set things up with his son to create trouble with us sothat he can make us look bad.” Okita rolled his eyes. “It’s notlikely they’re here to be nice to us.”

“Let’s not give them a chance to complain,” Hijikata put in atthat point, arms folded. “You three—Heisuke, Harada, Shinpachi—go surf.That’s an order! And act normal.”

“Sure thing Commander,” said Harada. He winked at Shinpachi,who picked up Heisuke, and the two tall men raced back down to the water todunk their smaller colleague and grab their boards and some more beer.

“Yamazaki—glad to have you with us—why the hell haven’t you changedinto swim gear or something yet? You look like a ninja in that bikingoutfit.”

“But—” Yamazaki began to protest, before being cut off bySaitō.

“Yukimura brought extra swim gear. You can change in that smallcabin.”

Chizuru stared at Saitō. “Did I tell you that? I didn’t think Itold anyone. Hijikata-san was, um…” She trailed off uncomfortably asHijikata raised a sharp black eyebrow at her.

“I told you not to stuff my car with so much crap, that’sall!”

The noise of a motor made them all go silent, and then Saitō starteddragging Yamazaki toward the tiny beach hut. Hijikata told Chizuru to go looklike she was having fun with the surfers.

“And act natural!” he shouted after her, as she scrambled awayacross the hot sand, clutching her duck.

Meanwhile, in the beach hut, Saitō was stripping off his black trunkswith a resigned expression on his impassive countenance.* Yamazaki, recognizingthat he was going to have fun at the beach whether he wanted to or not, peeledoff his biking gear. He accepted the black trunks without comment. According toOkita, the unit’s two top security experts preferred to operate on asemi-telepathic level when not required to speak to normal people. The twoofficers in question secretly agreed, but—naturally—never discussed the matter.

Moments later, Saitō and Yamazaki stepped out of the beach hut. Yamazakilooked marginally less like a commando (or ninja) now, in Saitō’s black trunksand t-shirt. Saitō looked… Well, he looked different. He hadruffled his neat hair into a tousled mop—always carry good hair gel was one ofhis many unspoken mottos—and produced a pair of mirrored sunglasses from theblack messenger bag that he had apparently been carrying with him all along.There was a bright silver chain with a sword hanging from it around his necknow, flashing in the sun and somehow drawing the eye to his sharp collar-bonesand lean, but perfectly muscled chest. And he was wearing bright indigo,crotch-hugging “racing trunks”. This was so totally unexpected thatthe stolid Yamazaki blinked twice before acknowledging that if aman wanted to wear two bathing suits at once, in anticipation of (a) needing anunexpected disguise at the beach, or (b) some unanticipated event, then Saitōhad planned well. Very few people would be staring at his face in that outfit.

As Yamazaki and Saitō strolled casually down toward the water,Hijikata’s face froze into an incredulous expression. Then his eyes flickedover to the speedboat that was swooping in on them in a torrent of noise andspray, heading for the small dock about fifty meters away.

“What the fuck are you wearing, Saitō?!”

Saitō raised a delicate eyebrow under his newly-ruffled bangs and placeda hand on Yamazaki’s arm. In a soft voice that in no way reflected the frost inhis blue eyes, he murmured:

“I have been studying our new colleague Itō-san, Commander. Ibelieve that his name and overall effect will be as effectivea disguise as any, don’t you?”

Hijikata stared at him and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“How in all the gods’ names am I supposed to keep a straight face?Just how much have you been drinking, Saitō?”

“Itō,” his subordinate told him implacably. “I haven’tgotten through my first fifth yet.”

“Fuck. Fine. Well, here they come and I’ll bet you diamonds todonuts that the lead guy is daddy’s darling.”

“No bet,” replied Okita, who had been standing besideHijikata, cell-phone camera at the ready. He was clearly struggling not tolaugh, his thin, rather pale face looking more alive than it had in months.Only the possiblity of incoming enemies kept him from immediately starting on aphoto-record of “Ito’s” day at the beach. Instead, he was saving thebattery in order to take nice, innocuous photos showing a nice, innocuousmeeting between the unit officers and their host’s son.

The boat had pulled in and been moored with amazing efficiency, andthree men were walking toward them, two of them wearing the kind of smile thatmakes you want to count your fingers after you shake hands. The massivered-haired man at the back wasn’t smiling at all; if anything, he lookedresigned. The front man definitely fit the image conjured up by Hijikata’swords: he had feathery, artistically ruffled blond hair (Saitō probably knewthe hair gel), porcelain perfect features, expensively tailored clothes, andthe kind of walk that is almost unique to those who have been entitled sincebirth. Everything about him shouted Crown Prince.

“Hello there,” called Prince-sama. “Understand Fathergave you the run of the place for the day. Mind if we join you for a bit?”

Hijikata bared his teeth in something that was vaguely related to asmile.

“You must be Kazama Junior,” he drawled, radiating insincerepleasure. “Let me introduce you to the guys—I’m sure we’ll all get alonglike a city on fire.”

[END] [for now]

Notes:

* It’s a skill. Don’t ask how he does it.

Please review or comment or whatever if you get the chance! Also, I knowthis isn’t a vignette; more like a vine with half-fermented grapes…

~ImpracticalOni ;)

Note: Good grief I left this in my drafts! Oh well. Better late than never.

Tag team:

@shell-senji @fury-ous @queen-mizera @kazama-hime @hakusaitosan @tealdeertamer @very-x-vice @sabinasanfanfic @walk-tall-my-fr1ends @hakuokifirst @annahakuouki @eliz1369 @canadiangaap @vav-airis @moon-faced-pear-shaped @lady-yomi @thesweateristoobig @doodlethewhiteraven

As always let me know if you want to be added/taken off the list. Or if you’re just looking for certain characters or story types.

#hakuouki #hakuoki #fanfiction #saitou hajime #okita souji #hijikata toshizo #toudou heisuke #harada sanosuke #nagakura shinpachi #yukimura chizuru #modern au #beach au #humour #or something #impracticaldemon

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deniscollins · 4 years

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Scrabble Tournaments Move Toward Banning Racial and Ethnic Slurs

Scrabble Tournaments have a word list of 192,111 words found in the dictionary. If you sat on the North American Scrabble Players Association board, how would you vote on a player’s request that 226 racial slurs and other offensive terms be banned from tournament use even though they may be in the dictionary: (1) continue to use the terms, (2) ban the terms? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

Josephine Flowers became a ranked, competitive Scrabble player more than a dozen years ago, and to commemorate the moment, she inscribed her custom-built game board with one of her favorite sayings: “Never underestimate the power of words.”

The phrase serves as a constant reminder to her that, even when people say that the words formed on a Scrabble board are supposedly divorced of meaning, they can still inflict pain.

That is why Flowers, who is Black, and several other members of the North American Scrabble Players Association, have called on the organization to ban the use of an anti-Black racial slur, and as many as 225 other offensive terms, from its lexicon.

“You could be sitting there for a 45-minute game just looking at that word,” said Flowers, a mental health worker from West Memphis, Ark. “And if you don’t know the person who played it, then you wonder, was it put down as a slight, or was it the first word that came to their mind?”

The issue may never come up again.

Hasbro, which owns the rights to Scrabble in North America, said Tuesday night the players association had “agreed to remove all slurs from their word list for Scrabble tournament play, which is managed solely by NASPA and available only to members.”

John Chew, the chief executive of the association, seemed to agree. He had asked the organization’s 12-person advisory board to vote on the matter in the coming days, but the statement from Hasbro was presented as a fait accompli, which could rankle those who oppose expurgating any words from the lexicon.

“It is the right thing to do,” Chew said Tuesday night.

Julie Duffy, a spokeswoman for Hasbro, also said the company will amend Scrabble’s official rules “to make clear that slurs are not permissible in any form of the game.”

The game that Hasbro sells in retail stores has not included slurs in its dictionary since 1994. But the players association, one of the most prominent governing bodies in competitive Scrabble, had still allowed them. The agreement could also affect what words may be played in online versions of the game.

Technically, Hasbro has no control over the 192,111 playable words on the word list used by the players’ association, but it does license the organization to use the name Scrabble, and it is not eager to see slurs associated with its brand. It said it was committed to “providing an experience that is inclusive and enjoyable for all.”

If a word is taken out of the association’s lexicon, it cannot be played in tournaments sanctioned by the organization.

Many software companies license the group’s lexicon and provide it to online versions of the game, meaning those words would become ineligible in those versions of the game, too.

Scrabble tournaments had previously allowed slurs on the basis that, however egregious, they are part of the English language. The guiding principle for players has been that points — not messaging or tact — win games.

But now, as people in the United States and many parts of the world campaign against systemic racism after George Floyd’s killing in Minneapolis police custody, a wide range of previously untouchable monuments, team names and, now, the rules of a board game, are under scrutiny.

Chew, the son of a Japanese mother and a father of English ancestry, formally petitioned the organization’s advisory board last month to remove some or all of the 226 words labeled offensive by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, especially the racial slur that the dictionary says is “almost certainly” the most offensive in the English language.

“When people are dying in the streets over racial tensions and this word still has so much power,” Chew said in a telephone interview from his home in Toronto last week, “you have to tell yourself this is just a game we are playing and we have to do what we can to make things right, just in our little corner of the world.”

The debate over the use of slurs in Scrabble is not a new one. In the 1990s, the Anti-Defamation League called on Hasbro to disallow the use of slurs after a complaint about an anti-Semitic term, and Hasbro was happy to oblige.

It was the competitive players who objected. In a compromise, slurs and profanities were taken out of the official Scrabble Dictionary, but clubs and tournaments could follow a separate lexicon, produced by the players’ association, that allows for the slurs.

“It is very difficult for a lot of people to understand why those words are still acceptable in Scrabble,” said Stefan Fatsis, the author of a book on competitive scrabble, “Word Freak.”

But, he added, “it is also hard for them to understand why ‘qi’ and ‘aa’ are words. For Scrabble players, they are just instruments with which to score points.”

During the 1990s furor, Steven Alexander, who is white and Jewish, was one of many players who wrote letters opposing any expurgation. He still opposes most exclusions, but he has amended his position after recent events.

“The one word that has actually been used to rally mobs into terrorism is the N-word,” he said. “It’s a word of conspiracy, a tool of oppression. If Black people demand something, a white person like me shouldn’t necessarily put their views first.”

Chew’s initial proposal came after an association member wrote a letter on the organization’s Facebook page calling for the body to take action. Chew agreed and made the proposal, then opened the topic for debate, which he says was fairly evenly split.

“I couldn’t have found a bigger wedge issue if I tried,” he said.

For those who objected to removing the words, Chew said, the three main arguments were: A word’s meaning is irrelevant in Scrabble; it’s a slippery slope, and — one he repeated with a tone of incredulity — if some people are not offended by the presence of those words, why should anyone else be?

“I can go through about 50 responses in a day before I need to get out the brain bleach,” Chew said.

He also noted that some members have told him that, since he is not Black, this is not his fight. And there are Black players who oppose removing the offensive words.

“If I’m going to lose the game playing a different word, then I’m going to use that word,” said Noel Livermore, a Black competitive player from Florida who opposes removing any words. “I need to score points and on that board, they don’t have any meaning.”

Livermore, who began playing with friends as a teenager in his hometown, Kingston, Jamaica, has played in tournaments around the world and calls Scrabble “a numbers game disguised as a word game.” When opponents have played a slur on the board against him, he does not even flinch, he said.

But he recalled once using an obscenity when playing against a woman.

“I apologized,” he said. “But I need the points. I’m not going to lose the game.”

John McWhorter, a professor of linguistics at Columbia University who is Black, said he feels Black players like Livermore should be the ones to decide the matter. If not, he said, then the proposal is merely an exercise in a few white men “testifying to their goodness as anti-racists.”

Professor McWhorter proposed using asterisk tiles in place of the offensive words so that no one has to stare at a slur during a game.

“But one thing that worries me about this is, we are fetishizing slurs” he said, “What is the next thing we can’t use, and how do you decide what’s a slur?”

The post that set off the debate was written by Jim Hughes, a top player from Austin, Texas. He said the organization needed to show support for social and racial justice following the protests over Floyd’s killing. His Scrabble club in Austin has proposed a scholarship program to help underprivileged children gain access to Scrabble clubs and tournaments, and make it more inclusive by eliminating words that can cause harm.

Hughes acknowledged playing slurs in the past to collect points.

“But just because something has been acceptable for so long doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” Hughes said.

Some of the most commonly used slurs in Scrabble are actually three-letter words, popular not for the sting they inflict, but for their ability to slip into small crevices on the board and rack up big scores. Flowers said she has played one such small word regularly without understanding the meaning. She also used an anti-Semitic word in a national tournament years ago, and said she regrets it.

That is why she advocates banning any word that a group considers offensive to them.

“I’m surprised it’s even a question,” she said. “Where are the hearts and the thoughts of the people who want to keep these words? Why are they so attached to offensive words when there are so many other words to play and enjoy.”

#Racism #Scrabble

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