#The town i grew up in had a really big polish population in it and the daycare director who saw me every day for the first 9 years

[imalsorettish]

It was either today or yesterday, actually it was yesterday thinking about it cuz my boss was there, yesterday at work i had two polish people on my tour. At one point theyre up at the front with me, the woman speaks english but her husband does not. A girl next to them in line asked if they were polish and spoke a teeny bit of polish to them. Her grandmother was from poland. She said she only knew like a few sentences in polish, and they were like ah! yeah! cool :) and i said Omg thats neat! My lineage is polish lithuanian! Small world! And the polish lady goes, oh do you know what polish town youre from? And i said No, my family emigrated to lithuania after poland and I know more about their lives in lithuania than I do about their lives in poland. And she goes mmmmm yeahhhhhh a lot of people say they have polish ancestors but when it really comes down to it they dont actually know what town and theyre not actually polish. BITCH... MY LAST NAME IS A DERIVATIVE OF WOJTEK. EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU. IT WAS 150 YEARS AGO! I DONT REMEMBER MY GREAT GREAT GREAT GREAT GREAT GREAT GRAND BUBBES TOWN OF BIRTH DAWG. I DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT TOWN MY CURRENT LIVING GRANDMOTHERS WERE BORN IN. whaddaya want from me. I just said, yeah well. i could tell you the town were from in lithuania. my last name is still lithuanian. like fr man. Cmon. Im white as shit and my family is from chicopee yes we are fucking polish lithuanian. Like there isnt an overlap of population there? I was literally just making polite conversation and youre like HMMMM POSER. Bitch! im fucking polish! How the fuck would u know?

#As if a ton of people didnt move to america and lose their connection to their heritage. As if that never happens with other places #AND FOR THE RECORD #CONSIDERING I DIDNT EVEN REALIZE I WAS POLISH AND LITHUANIAN UNTIL LIKE FIVE YEARS AGO #WE DO A LOT OF STUFF THAT ISNT THE TYPICAL WHITE FAMILY FROM AMERICA DEAL #AND THERE WERE MANY MOMENTS WHERE I WAS CONFUSED WHEN MY FRIENDS DIDNT KNOW WHAT FOOD I WAS TALKING ABOUT #I JUST THOUGHT WE WERE POOR. #AND COULD ONLY EAT NASTY CABBAGE #No hate to cabbage lovers out there. i just dont like it boiled. #The town i grew up in had a really big polish population in it and the daycare director who saw me every day for the first 9 years #of my life before we moved was i think second gen polish and she made it a point to make it part of #school and just something we knew about. #i never questioned it! i thought everyone had aunts you called aunts and aunts you called cioci. #My ancestors were samogitian and im having none of this shit

[jaybug-jabbers]

Review: Pokemon Gold and Silver 97: Reforged

The Review

What a fantastic game. I went looking for a hack that fully realized the sort of pokemon game we glimpsed in the Spaceworld ‘97 demo, and I was not disappointed. 

This alternative version of Gold and Silver takes that Spaceworld demo and builds on it with loving care and attention to detail. All the beta pokemon sprites were freshly made from scratch or edited to update them for the final, polished Gameboy Color look. The pokemon movesets and stats were crafted so that they were balanced and didn’t contain placeholders, and the pokemon were populated throughout the world in a logical fashion. Dex entries were written and the pokes were integrated smoothly into the world. There are even different sprites and different encounter rates for Gold and Silver-- although you can ‘catch them all’ in either version, an excellent choice.

Meanwhile, the world map was colored, tweaked and polished, allowing us to explore that beta world that was stunningly different from the final Gold and Silver. It’s a place that in many ways seems even more vibrant and varied than final Gold and Silver, and is truly exciting to explore.

Along with this fully realized map, this hack’s creators also gave us a fresh new plot for Gold and Silver. This one was inspired by the differences glimpsed in the demo, including Oak’s increased involvement in the story, Silver’s different personality and role, and the inclusion of an Imposter Oak. The plot stays true to the style of pokemon games and doesn’t seem out of place. 

All of the exciting little beta details were included too-- including the original Type alignments, the original Gym Leader designs, beta pokemon moves, new hold items, access to the Skateboard, being able to name your Mom, and even the minigame on the game start screen. The attention to detail and the polish on this hack is truly impressive.

Essentially, I feel like this hack can be considered the definitive edition of the beta Gold/Silver that we never knew. It gives us a chance to experience this alternative world, and breathes life into these wonderful pokemon that never were. Giving us a chance to know and love these beta creations is truly a gift for pokemon fans.

Perhaps the only downside is the sadness that this is not the official version of Gold and Silver. I experienced Pokemon a little bit differently then my peers. As a child, I adored Red and Blue, but once I’d finished with those games, I moved on from pokemon. I have no nostalgic memories of Gold and Silver to hold onto. I only returned to pokemon years later as a teenager. At that point I played several generations, one after another, at the same time, as a sort of “pokemon binge.” While most would call it blasphemy, I was never too terribly fond of Gold and Silver. I think it was largely because I didn’t happen to like a lot of the pokemon designs in those games. In many ways, this ROM hack presents a Gold and Silver that I adore and can love even more than the originals. 

That’s not to say the official Gold/Silver games are all terrible, of course. There are still definitely some beta pokemon that I feel were axed or altered for good reason. Not all of them are better then the final cuts. And there are other elements that are an improvement, too; for example, I actually really like Silver’s storyline in the official games and the fact we dealt with a character who actually stole pokemon and treated them poorly. 

That said, there is an awful lot to love in this ROM hack, and I’m grateful that we have it. Pangshi, Bellrun, Warwolf, Madame, Volbear and others may not be officially recognized by the Pokemon franchise . . . but they will always be very real in my heart.

The Team

Cinnamon (Flame Wheel/Crunch/Scary Face/Earthquake - Charcoal)

Selecting the starter was difficult, because both Honooguma’s line and Kurusu’s line appealed to me. Ultimately I think I went with my old Fire bias. Cinnamon was everything you’d expect a Fire starter to be-- powerful, intimidating, and very reliable. My only real complaint would be that I happened to strongly dislike the sprite the team had created for Dynabear. This isn’t really anyone’s fault, because the team did an excellent job with spriting-- for example, their sprite for the mid-evolution, Volbear, was incredibly good and I adored it to bits. I think it was just a matter of personal taste; I just didn’t like the final evolution’s face. (I’ve actually replaced the sprite in this picture with the original sprite, because I don’t want it to dampen my love for this species) Other than that, seriously, they did this evolution family justice. It was a joy to have on my team.

Doomsday (Curse/Confuse Ray/Body Slam/Shadow Ball - Power Wings)

The second member of my team was found in Brass Tower, to my great excitement: Kurstraw. This was possibly my favorite evolution line to come out of the beta discoveries. This pokemon’s stats were not exactly breaking any records; he went down pretty easily if I wasn’t careful. However, that never really mattered. Doomsday still did his job anyway-- pulling his weight just fine, relying on Confuse Ray and Curse a fair bit to take care of foes. He often was an excellent team player, messing with especially troubling pokemon before passing them over to an ally to finish off. His Normal Immunity also was a strong advantage at times, which I made sure to make use of. Basically, he was a fantastic companion, who helped me all the way through to the Elites and Champion fights.

Rumtum (Slash/Thunder Wave/Thunderbolt/Crunch - Leftovers)

Along with a Rinrin, this round good boy was added to the team next. I was slightly wary of Kotora because it seemed to be one of the most popular beta pokemon among fans. But, the pokemon does seem to be worthy of praise, as it turns out. It is an excellent, cute, cheery little creature and seems to do Pikachu’s job just as nicely as Pikachu, both in fighting and in charisma. Where Pikachu is focused more on speed, though, Kotora and its evolution focus a little more on bulk. The tanky tiger was able to take hits long enough to outlast the competition, even when working with relatively low basepower moves. When he *finally* learned Thunderbolt, though, man, look out -- he was quite a force to reckon with.

It’s funny, actually. When I first saw this tubby tiger, I assumed it was a fire type. Electric was somewhat surprising, but I quickly grew to like it as that typing. Most electric type pokemon are rodent-focused, as Pikachu clones, or Magnemite’s kin. Having a big, bulky tiger is unexpected for the archtype of electric pokemon, but it’s a very refreshing change.

Poprocks (Fire Blast/Surf/Body Slam/Flame Wheel - Mystic Water)

Next on the team was this awesome fellow. Well . . . sort of. Technically, next on the team was TRICKY the Bomsheal, which I traded a Rinrin for with an NPC. Later on, I felt like being able to name the pokemon myself, so I bred Tricky with Cinnamon and trained Poprocks up from scratch. This seal was the cause of some angst for me. I loved Manboo’s evolutionary line a lot, but I also loved the fire seal. They both vyed for the position of the water type on my team. For a while, I used Manboo (and Anchorage) . . . intent on keeping it. But I missed the seal so much, eventually I went back for it to retrieve it from the PC. Yes, it only added to my team’s Rock/Ground weakness, but I didn’t care. I loved this guy too much.

I’m not sure what it is. The freaking amazing typing of Fire/Water? That was definitely a big part of it. But there’s also just something so appealing in its design, simple as it may be. He’s just a cool seal with a fireball. And boy . . . I sure learned how INTENSE its stats were. This seal was RIPPING through the competition. Using it was basically pushing the win button. Honestly it might need to be nerfed a little, it was nuts. But yeah, Bomsheal is a badass and doesn’t need any evolutions to be cool. Best surfer ever!

Darkwing (Slash/Fly/Swords Dance/Faint Attack - Stick)

Right around when I was handed the TM for Fly, I ran into an area that had two types of birds available, depending on the time of day: Hoothoot at night, Farfetch’d at day. As cool as beta Noctowl looks, I eventually decided I needed to have a Madame. I just had to. Like many others, I always, always felt Farfetch’d deserved an evolution and was kind of screwed over. Learning it used to have one was a revelation.

Madame on this team was kind of funny, though. Next to all of these exotic beta pokemon, Madame seemed so . . . normal. She had moves and performed pretty much the way you’d expect a Normal/Flying type to act. It was much like using a Pidgeotto or Fearow. She couldn’t take many hits but usually could take out one pokemon. Her typing had her as an ideal Generalist pokemon-- something that could be used in various situations, not to any amazing effect but usually to a passable one.

That may sound a little underwhelming to you, but honestly, it’s what you’d expect of this cool-looking swan; it’s a Normal/Flying type. It fills that archtype as a familiar, dependable generalist. And I am someone who can really appreciate a generalist pokemon. I think the pokemon world’s richer for having Madame in it, even if only in our dreams.

Alpha (Strength/Blizzard/Screech/Ice Punch - Nevermeltice)

The final member of our illustrious team. You have to wait until fairly late into the game, when you reach the snowy towns, to get a hold of one of these fellows.But the wait is well worth it. What a beautiful pokemon design these two are-- mysterious little creatures hiding inside their wolf pelts, a perfect mix of cute and creepy. Wolfman/Warwolf actually struggled for quite some time on my team, unfortunately, just because of its movepool. I was left with the very weak Icy Wind for a long time. To compensate, I taught Strength, which worked somewhat, but I could still tell Warwolf wasn’t reaching its full potential. I taught it Blizzard, but the poor pokemon had a rough time ever landing its hits. What I SHOULD have done from the start is buy and teach it Ice Punch for a reliable STAB move with decent base power. I FINALLY decided to do that around the time I reached the Elite 4. I kind of had to-- its learnset wasn’t providing it with reliable, decent Ice moves, for some reason. Once Warwolf was properly equipped, he did great work. Admittedly, a pure Ice type pokemon isn’t the best, defensively. They have four weaknesses to some very common move types-- Rock, Fighting, Fire. (Steel moves weren’t really implemented in this game). That said, when used wisely, a pure Ice type can still be a valuable team member.

There was one hitch, though. Warwolf was mainly a physical fighter. This makes sense if you look at him. Of course he’d be a physical fighter. Thing is, in gen 2, Ice moves were all special. So I suppose technically Warwolf still isn’t hitting at his full potential-- not until the special/physical split in gen 4 so he can take true advantage of physical-type Ice moves. Still, despite that fact, he did a great job anyway. He landed the final blow that defeated Lance and won the game, after all.

I think my only real regret is how relatively little time I spent with him when compared to the others. This is, of course, just the nature of the game; you find some pokemon later on when you’re nearing the end of the game. If there’s any sort of post-game, perhaps I can spend more time with him.

And the Ones Who Didn’t Make the Cut . . .(This Time)

There were so many beta pokemon that it was impossible to have them all on the team, of course. I was especially sad about leaving my Bellrun, Tibbs, behind. I adore Rinrin and Bellrun’s line, as yet another set of pokemon that should have been included in the final cut of the official games. Alas, ultimately I removed Tibbs from my team, though. The reason was simple enough. With the beta Type alignments, Dark type was heavily disadvantaged. It was weak to Normal-type and Dark-type moves (as well as Bug), which was extremely significant. Pokemon’s movepools were positively saturated with Normal and Dark type moves, and it was impossible to avoid. With her already weak stats, and her lack of any decent basepower moves for so long, there was just too much stacked against her. It’s my hope that Rinrin/Bellrun get a bit of a buff in future updates, because they really seem to struggle. 

In any case, there were also plenty of others not on my team: Aquarius, Noctowl, Belmitt, Jumpluff, Turban, Plux, Grotess, Girafarig, Leafeon . . . and so many more. Honestly, that’s fantastic. It gives such replayability to the game. I have no doubt I will return to do more runs and get the chance to try out other pokes.

And, who knows? Maybe in the future they’ll even update this hack to include even more beta pokemon that were uncovered last year. If they don’t, I’m sure someone else will.  

(This hack is largely the work of lvl_3, who created ‘Pokemon Super Gold 97.’ Then, the hack was further changed and refined by a team into ‘Pokemon Gold and Silver 97: Reforged.’ Both can be found at the PokeCommunity as patches.)

#pokemon reviews #pokemon ROM hacks #pokemon fan games #mycontent #beta pokemon #spoilers

[sam-i-am-27]

Dive Right In

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Word Count: 2182

Summary: Virgil never suspected that anything was different about him, his town or his family. However, just like in most stories, that all changes when he meets someone who proves him wrong.

“You were almost late again,” Logan said, waiting outside of their biology lecture hall as Virgil came jogging up the hallway, accidentally knocking into some of the other students waiting to go into their class. He ignored their annoyed grumbles and tried to keep his attention on his own problems rather than what they thought of him.  

“I know, I know,” Virgil said, adjusting his messenger bag. “My dad didn’t come home last night so I was just, you know, waiting… on the water… with water, don’t worry.”

Logan pursed his lips and nodded. “You know he’ll come back, Virgil. He’s almost a day late anytime he has to go out, so I don’t know why you worry so much.”

“He’s my dad, Lo,” Virgil replied, sitting down at their seats near the back of the hall. “I worry about him for the same reason that I worry about you: you guys are the only family I have.”

Logan visibly didn’t react but Virgil knew he was feeling something behind those stone-cold eyes. “Well in that case, if he’s not back by tonight, call me and I’ll come over with some leftovers. My mother made meatloaf last night so I’m sure she won’t mind me bringing some for you.”

“Thanks L-”

“Did I just hear that your house will be empty tonight?” Virgil turned around to see his classmate, Remy, leaning over and listening in on their supposedly private conversation. As usual, he was holding one of his seemingly unlimited supply of Starbucks drinks and his sunglasses that hid his somehow-golden eyes were beginning to slide down his nose again.

“No, you didn’t, Remy,” Logan said irritably, pushing his own glasses up his nose as if to set an example. “You simply heard what you wanted to hear as you eavesdropped yet again.”

“It’s not eavesdropping if there’s no teacher or other friends to listen to,” Remy said, taking the hint and hiding his eyes behind the lenses. “So your house is going to be empty? No parents, no supervision but Mr. IQ over here?” Remy cocked an eyebrow at Virgil. “Want me to bring some weed? Some booze? Girls or boys? Whichever and whoever you prefer?”

“There is not going to be a party at my house, Remy,” he said firmly. “There is going to be supervision; my dad is going to be coming back in a few hours so if you even think of bringing even a drop of booze near my house, he’ll make sure you and anyone you bring stay away for the rest of your time in this town.”

Remy smirked. “Whatever man. You’re missing out on a seaside party, especially one where I’m the one running the show.” He turned his attention to the front of the class as the teacher walked in and started writing instructions on the board. Virgil glanced down at his phone, hoping that his promise to Remy didn’t become a bluff by the end of the day.

But there was no sign from him by the end of the first period. Nor the end of the second. Virgil could hardly concentrate on what his teachers were saying. He just barely picked up on due dates, homework. Hell, even the notes he involuntarily took throughout the lesson didn’t make sense to him when he read them over during his free-time.

“He’s fine, Virgil. As I keep saying today and every day he’s late from an expedition, he found something that made him stay out longer than anticipated,” Logan commented as Virgil checked his phone for the tenth time in five minutes.

During third period, psychology, Virgil figured that if they were learning anything about emotions or how the human mind became distracted easily, it would have been the biggest irony in history. Alas, they were learning about decision making and Virgil’s closest thing to a friend in that class, Emile Piccani, was deep in thought about what their teacher was scribbling across the board.

“Virgil, this is amazing!” he said as he drew an arrow between a new definition to a doodle of what looked like the scene from ‘I Am My Mom’ where Steven had to turn himself over to save his friends. “I could use this in everyday life, not just in therapy! Aren’t you glad you took this class?!”

“Sure, Emile,” he murmured, lazily copying down whatever the teacher had written. Emile kept muttering things like ‘I love this class’ and ‘Ooh, I gotta compare this to those new episodes later’, but Virgil was more distracted by the sudden light coming from his phone. He snatched it up and stared intently at the screen, his heart pounding.

Sorry I’m home later than I said I would be. I got a little turned around. Home right now and currently making pork chops.

His heart leapt and he let out a sigh of relief, setting down his phone and slumping back in his seat. Not only was his father home safe and sound, he was making Virgil’s favorite dinner as an apology. Maybe he could forgive him this time… just as he did all the times before.

“Was he out late again?” Emile whispered, glancing over Virgil’s phone. Virgil tensed up at the sudden closeness but despite Emile being the top student in this psychology class, he didn’t see the physical sign of discomfort and kept close to Virgil’s face.

“Yes, Emile, and while I thank you for your concern, two things: one, personal space, please.“ Emile scooted back until Virgil gave a satisfactory nod. “And two, please don’t read my text messages over my shoulder.”

“Sorry, I’ll keep that in mind,” Emile replied, giving a soft smile. “Any idea as to how he got turned around? I mean, he has more than a few degrees in marine biology and over a decade of sailing. He went just over two dozen miles off the coast; even an ameteur could naviagte back from there.”

“None, but I guess I’ll find out when I get home,” Virgil said, shutting off his phone and finally able to turn every bit of his energy towards learning again. The rest of the day seemed to pass in a slow blur. It wasn’t fast but it definitely felt as if the world wanted to keep him in that hell-hole for as long as possible. Even lunch - with the constant movement and talk as he tried to make his way to his normal patch of grass with Logan (and occasionally Remy or Emile for reasons both beyond his control and explanation) - seemed to take days to live through.

Finally, the bell rang and he sped towards his car.

“If you need me, just call me, okay?” Logan called as they crossed paths. Virgil gave him a thumbs up, clambered into his car and drove off.

Roman and Patton slowed down as they reached one of the many entrance to their kingdom; nothing inconspicuous, a hole in the coral just big enough to only allow creatures their size in. The surrounding coral reef hid this entrance well enough so one could only find it if they really looked. Patton slowed down and raised his arms for Roman.

“You first,” he said to which Roman chuckled and bowed.

“Thank you very much, sir Patton.” Roman swam into the hole and Patton soon followed once only the tip of his red fin was visible. With a flick of his tail, he swept in after Roman, leaving the beautiful coral reef behind in exchange for darkness.

“I always hate this part,” Patton muttered, his voice echoing around them. He took a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of water passing through his gills rather than the crushing darkness around him.

“Patton, if anything attacks, I’ll protect you, don’t worry,” Roman called back. “Has anything bad ever happened while anyone has been traveling through here?”

“No…” Patton whined, keeping his eyes focused on what he thought was towards the kingdom. They swam in silence for a few more seconds before passing through what felt like a wall of ice cold squid ink. Patton shivered and pushed forward, finally passing through the darkness and emerging on the outskirts of the kingdom, lit by a mix of natural sunlight a large glowing orbs that bobbed in place no matter how many fish were silly enough to try and go through them.

Here, there wasn’t much to see; a few small stone houses and a couple schools of fish flitting back and forth between them. But as the two mers grew closer to the center of the kingdom, the houses became bigger, closer together, and more elaborate, the material used to build them going from stone to coral to polished shell. The mer population began to grow visible, tails of all shapes, sizes and colors; a rainbow of frills and fins.

Patton waved to a group of his friends currently buying some snacks from a vendor. When they waved him over, he smiled sadly and pointed to Roman, mouthing ‘King business’. They shrugged and turned back to their order.

“Why don’t you join them?” Roman asked, bumping against his shoulder lightly. “You always make a point of saying that I need to make friends.”

“I know, but we need to get back to Thomas to make sure that there’s nothing that there’s no reports or assignments,” Patton said, keeping his smile, no matter how sad it may have looked. Roman sighed and kept swimming towards the very center of the kingdom.

Nearest to the center, the houses suddenly stopped, giving way for a castle large enough for at least half the mer population in this cavern alone. Sometimes Patton didn’t understand why Thomas needed so much room for himself, his staff, and his lead advisors; there were only like one hundred of them compared to the thousands out there.

Either way, the castle was a sight to see. Ebony walls inlaid with only the best and most beautiful stones and shells. Spiraling pillars made of polished pearl guarded by mers wearing and wielding steel weapons. The entire thing seemed to let out a silver glow that made Patton feel warm and fuzzy inside. He had lived in this glow his entire life and basking in it always meant he was home.

“Roman,” the guard at the front gates said as they drifted towards him. “Shouldn’t you be in a cave somewhere? Far away from here maybe?”

“Hello to you too, father,” Roman muttered. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a full moon, tonight, Roman,” Roman’s father said, his grey tail flicking slightly. “Now, I’m no expert, but the full moon is when Sirens are supposed to be singing their shallow hearts out, luring in every living thing that hears their false promise of happiness? Or are you the only exception?”

Roman’s lip twitched upwards and his fist tightened into a fist. Patton hit his own tail fin against Roman’s and grabbed his wrist firmly, rubbing it lightly until Roman’s fist unclenched. Even than, Patton kept his grip relatively tight.

“Yes, father, I am supposed to be out of the kingdom before the moon rises tonight. I simply need to see if there are any reports from the King and after that, I will be out of what little hair you have left and you get yet another night without me. What’s that make? Over six hundred, I’m sure,” Roman replied tightly.

Roman’s father sneered and drifted to the side. “Just go to his royal highness and leave before you pose a threat to anyone else.”

Without another word, Roman swam past his father and into the castle, pulling Patton with him.

“The nerve of that man,” Patton muttered under his breath, letting go of Roman and swimming to catch up with Roman’s powerful tail strokes. “Roman, I suggest we stop for a second so you can calm down. You don’t want to go up to Thomas like this. It’s both disrespectful and something that will get him worried about you.”

Roman didn’t answer but did slow down and begin to take deep breaths. The gills on the side of his neck were flaring with anger and the attempt to breath normally. Patton didn’t say a word, just rubbed Roman’s wrist slowly.

“I hate him,” Roman finally muttered. “Sirens haven’t taken lives intentionally in hundreds of years…”

“I know, I know. But on the human land, racial differences were supposed to have been abolished hundreds of years ago and yet other things I’ve found say otherwise. Some things can’t or won’t change,” Patton said softly. “We can try our best but there will always be opposers to what we say.”

“How come that’s what calms me down every single time you say it?” Roman asked, a trace of his normal smile popping up again.

“I just have that kind of voice,” Patton replied, still smiling. “You good to see the King without sounding disdainful and like all the hate towards your father is actually towards him?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Roman said, coughing slightly and blinking furiously. “Let’s go.”

Holy shit. The amount of reception that came out of that first part was fucking mind-boggling. I was in the living room with my parents and I just checked and bam... a ton of love from so many people. I started crying right then and there. 

Thank you so much. Seriously, thank you. 

Taglist is still wide open!

Taglist: @octopushugs @ryuity @fandergecko @rileyfirstname @spectacled-renegade @ijustreallylovesanderssides @fireflies-and-pattons-eyes @fireflies-and-pattons-eyes

@redqueen29, I’m not sure why but your URL isn’t working in tags, so I hope you find this.

Have an absolutely incredible day! 

#Mermaids #Thomas Sanders #Sanders Sides #Virgil Sanders #Deceit Sanders #Remy Sanders #Emile Picani #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #AU #Fan Fiction #Writing

[lotus0kid]

OUaT: Tell Me About It

((Happy RCIJ!  This is for @of-princes-and-savages, for the prompt “Sub!Gold has strict rules”.  So, NSFW, and there are references to past partner abuse.  Enjoy!))

Staring into the darkness behind a well-fitted mask covering his eyes, Gold stifles something he would never admit is a giggle as the edge of a fingernail drifts from his bare stomach up his sternum and along his throat.  The trail is retraced by a warm hand, and this he lets himself arch into, sighing out his mounting arousal.  His fingers flex against the headboard, but his palms stay pressed exactly where they were placed.  No silk ties or leather straps or fur-lined cuffs required, just his own will to let Belle do as she will.

Her hand travels further to cup his jaw.  What could be next, he wonders.  A kiss? A slap?  A just tight enough grip on his windpipe?  Each has its charms.  He must wait and see what she chooses.

 A soft sigh floats down from above.  “I wish everyone could see you like this.”

 The darkness behind the mask is instantly populated with staring eyes.  Gold’s body turns to ice as their judgment burns into him.  Pathetic.  Disgusting. Perverted.  Unfit father.

 He tries to breathe while panic sends blood roaring in his ears.  It won’t be like that.  Belle wouldn’t dare.  The contract is clear, he made sure of it.  Even if it’s not in fact a legal document, she knows he won’t hesitate if she breaks her word.

 But, why would she say that?  It doesn’t make sense.  Exposing him would mean exposing herself, and she couldn’t possibly want that.  Then she wouldn’t be the town’s noble beauty sacrificing her virtue to a beast for the sake of a well-funded public library. She’d be dragged down right along with him.  Just another sick freak.  Probably lose her job.  She won’t risk it.  No, she won’t.  He can relax.

 “E.L. James.”

 Gold sits up and pulls off the mask to fix a puzzled frown on Belle, who is already reaching for the demure blouse thrown on the end of his bed.  “What?”

 “You heard me,” she replies while gathering the rest of her clothes and dressing in short, small movements, “So you know you don’t get to ask questions.”

 She’s right of course. The paragraph on safe words is particularly exact.  He just never thought it would be invoked by her.  It shouldn’t have to be.  He’s supposed to be good for her.  Nothing he does should make everything come to a screeching halt.  He contemplates getting on his knees and begging to know how he failed, but that would only make his transgression worse.  She doesn’t have to tell him a damn thing, just as he wouldn’t have to tell her.  So he’s left in silence with his stomach in a curdled knot, watching her scurry to the door, toss him the tiniest glimmer of a fake smile, and vanish from his house.

 ---

 Belle’s never seen anything like it.  One second, Aaron was pliant and warm, humming with anticipation under her tender touch.  The next, he was gone, and Mr. Gold was back, stretched out blindfolded and nearly naked on the bed but somehow just as cold and calculating and imperious as he is behind the counter of his pawnshop.  And Belle in turn felt like one of the desperate souls who came to him, small and alone, uncertain and weak.  Stripped of all dominance like a gossamer veil torn from her face.  So she bolted.  She wondered what gave her the nerve to engage in this arrangement with Mr. Gold. Now she knows, she never really had the nerve at all.

 It was just a strange fluke that probably never should’ve happened anyway.  She still remembers, likely won’t ever forget, that day in the library.  The place was shamefully understocked, but as the only employee Belle was never done re-shelving.  On that day near closing time she wasn’t halfway through when the ancient book cart’s wheel had stuck.  With a growl she’d sat down on her knees to curse and yank at the thing, meanwhile being vaguely aware of an approaching visitor.

 “Could you-?  Hey, just- take those three books on the end and put them away.  They’re right down that row.”  She flicked her head in the direction she’d been going.  The visitor let out a soft grunt, and did as told.  Belle felt a small rush at that, but put it down as relief to have just a bit of her work done by someone else.

 The visitor came back again and again while she worked to unbend the warped bit of metal blocking the wheel.  He stayed on the opposite side of the cart from her, revealing only his fingertips as he reached for more books.  When the last book on the top row was gone and the wheel squeaked a full rotation, Belle stood up and came face to face with the great and terrible Mr. Gold.

 But then, no, she didn’t. He was another man entirely, beneath the Armani armor.  Bright-eyed and alert, and fully focused on Belle in a way that made her pulse thrum hot.

 It didn’t last.  He coughed and his eyes dropped and all that remained of the man she’d glimpsed was a slight darkening of his cheeks. Before she could apologize for ordering him about like an unpaid intern, he muttered, “I just came to say... Regina thought you should know...”

 Some wild whim spurred Belle to straighten her spine, lift her chin, catch Gold’s flickering gaze and command, “Tell me.”

 “Town council meetings,” popped from his mouth, “Ah, every person employed by the local government is required to attend.  Bi-monthly.”

 “Is that twice a month or every other month?”

 “Every other.  First Friday, five o’clock, town hall.”

 “Right.”

 “Yes.”

 “I’ll be there.”

 “Good.  That is, I mean, um-”

 “I’ll finish shelving. Thank you, Mr. Gold.  For the information and for, well...  It’s hard to find good help, eh?”

 One last soft grunt, and he spun on his heel and left.  And Belle calmed her fluttering heart with an armful of books that had places to be. But the encounter never strayed far from her thoughts.  It was just so incredibly unexpected to find someone here, in itty bitty Storybrooke, that she... could get on with.  And to have that person be Mr. Gold...  The townsfolk spoke of him like a curse.  Obviously no one thought the world of their landlord, but Belle was quietly of the opinion that being the big fish in a little pond had given Gold a reputation to match, whether he’d earned it or not.  In any case, the big fish he was, and Belle couldn’t imagine their moment meant anything to him but time wasted doing her chores.

 But then he came back, and asked her to dinner, at his home.  She would’ve agreed out of pure curiosity alone, just for a chance to see inside the infamous pink Victorian.  As the date of the dinner approached, she wondered if she’d find candlelight, soft music, good wine.  What she got was a very long contract.  This was a strong indication that what she and Gold might have wouldn’t be much like chaining up her college roommate Ruby and playing with vibrators and paddles had been.

 She’s invited to read the contract as many times as she wants, but not a word is negotiable.  A warning bell chimed in her mind then, but it faded as her gaze rose from the paper and focused on Gold.  There was no polished dealmaker before her then.  Just a man staring into a cup of tea clasped between his palms, waiting for her to shove his needs away and run.  Her hand crept across the table until she caught hold of his fingers.

 “Tell me your first name,” she murmured.

 He swallowed and his eyes, soft and bright once again, rose to meet hers.  “Aaron.”

 “I’m delighted to meet you, Aaron.  I’m Belle.”

 The most delicate smile graced his face.  “Delighted.”

 They didn’t race to the bedroom that night.  Or the next. In fact Belle had time to wonder if Aaron changed his mind before she received her first signal:

 What would you like for dinner?  

 A bland text, not impossible to explain in an innocent way.  Belle could reply with anything, was in fact encouraged to be extravagant.  All she wanted was hamburgers and iced tea on a Saturday night.  If Aaron was scandalized, he didn’t show it when she arrived at the Victorian.  She was promptly guided to the dining room table and placed at the head of it like a visiting queen.  However, as he turned away she said, “I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

 She watched him mentally scan the contract and come to the conclusion that he hadn’t specified where she would eat.  And so she followed him to a stool at the kitchen island.  From there she had a perfect view as Aaron cooked, and she reckoned he enjoyed her instructions on seasoning the Kobe beef and her compliments on the brioche buns.  She directed him to sit beside her as they ate their meal.  They fell into conversation Belle internally marveled at even as it flowed like water.  Aaron grew further from Mr. Gold in her mind with each passing minute.

 When their plates were empty, he inquired in a soft, low voice, “Will you go upstairs?”

 Belle bit her lip as heat surged between her legs.  “Clean up,” she said, “I’ll be waiting.”  She swiveled on the stool and darted away before seeing his reaction.

 She might’ve thought that first night would be all talk- comparing their yes/no/maybe lists, establishing safe words, a discussion of toys perhaps.  But it seemed Aaron barely walked through the door before Belle had him splayed out in bed, begging for release.  She took her time, busy memorizing the beauty at her command.  She’d heard people say he had a face like a lizard, that he was too short, too scrawny, going grey, and who’d want to deal with that limp?  Fools, all of them, and as much as Belle enjoyed having Aaron to herself, she wanted the sneering gossips to know how wrong they were.

 That’s all she meant by her idle remark.  But it nonetheless touched the deep well of shame that lurks behind every word of their lengthy contract.  Belle realizes this a few days later, and uselessly wishes she could stuff the words back into her mouth, though she wonders why he cares so much when he doesn’t seem to mind the tarnish on the rest of his reputation.  No matter, the damage is done, and she can only wait and see if Mr. Gold will ever let her see Aaron again.

 ---

 Typing “W” and “h” on his phone brings up the word “What.”  The rest of the sentence comes readily in the suggestions below.  What would you like for dinner?  He could send it.  She might respond.  One last time.  He can cook for her, and she can tell him in detail how he destroyed their arrangement. Or maybe she’ll just pop by for the second part, as he deserves.  However, it’s been over a week and so far he’s done nothing but exercise his innate talent for cowardice.

 In any case, the whole sordid mess must be set aside in favor of much more important concerns. The time has come for his son’s tri-annual visit, and so Gold’s world currently revolves around the needs and wants of a ten-year-old boy.

 After eating the biggest sundae the ice cream shop can make, spending a weekend in Gold’s cabin in the woods, and running around the local playground far faster than his father can keep up, Bae suggests an activity Gold almost wants to say no to.  “It’s at the library.  We get to read a story, and then act it out.  And there are costumes, and we get snacks at the end.  Can we go?  Please?  I want to be a wizard!”

 Gold twists his mouth into a smile.  “Not a brave knight?”

 “Nah, he just swings a sword around.  That’s boring.  I want to do magic!  So can we go?”

 It’s a perfectly wholesome afternoon of fun for all ages.  It’s not Bae’s fault his father is entangled in the worst kind of indecency with the head librarian.  So they go. And Bae is adorable in his starry robe and pointy hat while Gold documents every moment on his phone, all the better to keep himself from gazing dolefully after Belle.

 However, snack time arrives, and Bae is too busy socializing with his new friends between bites of graham cracker and sips of juice to continue distracting his father.  Of course none of the other parents present would dare strike up a conversation with Gold, for fear they’ll wind up with raised rents for their trouble.  Belle might have, but beyond giving him and Bae the exact same greeting she gave everyone else, she has since remained in constant motion, her eyes firmly averted from wherever Gold happens to be.  She might as well spit on him.

 Eventually the torturous snack time ends, and Gold shepherds Bae out to the Cadillac.  He’s got the lad buckled and straightens to shut the door only to find Belle standing outside the library, watching him.  Panic thuds through his heart, as if she might start haranguing him for his failure as a sub right there in the street. Instead, she gives him a brittle smile and a tiny wave.  And his panic is replaced by pure bafflement.  He manages a nod though he knows his face is creased in a frown, then bolts to the driver’s side door.

 “Hey, Papa,” Bae asks a moment after they’ve pulled away.

 “Yes, son?”

 “Are you friends with Miss Belle?”

 Gold coughs on his surprise and splutters, “W-why do you think that?”

 “It just seemed like maybe you wanted to talk to her while we were eating.”

 Bloody hell, he was so obvious even a child plied with snacks and new buddies noticed.  He’s pathetic.  Through a surge of despair, he mutters, “Yes, well, I doubt she wants to talk to me.”

 “Why not?”

 Gold bites his tongue, but eventually must reply, “We were friends, yes.  But not anymore.  It’s complicated.”  He rolls his eyes at the cliché, but supposes it’s only become so because of its truth.

 “Are you sure you’re not?”

 He blinks and casts a glance at Bae, who sips on the straw of a stolen juice box while giving Gold his own contemplative stare.

 “You should make sure,” he says, “because one time I thought me and Emma weren’t friends anymore because she thought I stole her turn on the best swing at recess, but she just forgot she said she wanted to beat her record at basketball that day so I stayed on the swing longer.  But then I asked why she was mad and she told me and I told her what she said and then we were friends again.”

 Silence reigns for a long moment within the Cadillac.

 Bae drops his head back against the seat with a sigh, “What if we’d never been friends again, just because I didn’t ask?  That’d be crazy.”

 “Yes,” Gold says slowly, softly, “That would’ve been crazy.  I’m...  I’m proud of you for asking.”

 Bae smiles wide. “Thanks, Papa.”

 They ride on.  And Gold wonders where Bae learned to be such a brave and true friend.  Certainly not from his parents.  But maybe father can learn from son, because if Gold wants anything, he wants Bae to be proud of him.

 ---

 What was Belle thinking, with that idiotic little wave and smile?  The contract was very clear- no unnecessary social interaction.  But there was this dazzling glow about Aaron, when he was with his son.  Belle orbited around them throughout the fairy tale play activity, trying in vain to catch a hint of its warmth.  She trailed them out to their car, and when she managed to catch his eye- well, Mr. Gold looked at her like she was an insect clinging to his suit.

 And then, days later, what might have given her a thrill of joy instead makes her cheeks flare hot as her cold stomach flips- a text reading, Would you like to come over tonight?

 Clearly they need to discuss her infraction and the punishment thereof.  Belle has no idea why Mr. Gold phrased his summons as a question. Clutching her phone between clammy palms, she replies, Is 9pm all right?

 Of course.  Thank you.

 She swallows a groan of frustration.  This man is torturing her, which she might have thought was her job.  Little did she know.

 She goes to their appointment with as much dread as she went with anticipation to their first.  Her heart feels like a stone in her chest as she rings the doorbell.  It opens quickly, revealing Mr. Gold, except he looks an awful lot like Aaron in just a white button-down and slacks.  His smile is much like Aaron’s too.  It’s weird.

 “Good evening.  Come in,” he says softly, moving aside so Belle can enter.

 In the foyer she fidgets with the cuffs of her sleeves.  “So, should we go to your office, then?”

 He blinks a few times like he’s trying and failing to translate her question.  “Oh, uh, well, I hadn’t actually thought about that...  I think maybe the kitchen would be better.”

 Belle can’t imagine why, but she trudges after him when he walks away.  He takes her to her customary stool at the island and sits himself beside her, which seems cruel.  She has such good memories of this particular spot.

 “Right, well,” Mr. Gold mutters, first fingers and thumbs rubbing together in a nervous action Belle recognizes but can’t fathom.  “I suppose I should just start right off with an apology.”

 Belle’s dread is blasted away by confusion.  “What?”

 Mr. Gold doesn’t seem to notice, gaze roving everywhere but in her direction as he continues, “I’m not fond of apologizing when I don’t know what I did wrong, but whatever I did, I’m surely sorry for it and I hope to make it up somehow.  I’ll be better.  I will.  I’d just- I’d just like one more chance, if that’s possible.”

 “What are you talking about?”

 Her confusion finally infects him.  “What are you-?  I’m talking about the other night, when you left.  You used your safe word.  I thought it was- over.”

 Startled shame clutches her insides.  She knows her exit that night was graceless, but she didn’t realize how much damage it did to Mr.- to Aaron.  “It’s over if you want it to be,” she mumbles.

 “I don’t.”

 A glimmer of hope brings Belle’s eyes to his face.  “You don’t?”

 “No.”

“But I broke the contract.”

 “When?”

 “At the library.  I waved at you after the activity.  I know that’s not allowed.  But you were just so sweet with your son, and I didn’t even know you had a son, and I just wasn’t thinking and I’m sorry, I won’t do it again-”

 Belle’s gaze has fallen to her lap where she plucks at her skirt.  Her words stutter to a stop as Aaron reaches out and covers her hands with both of his.  She forces herself to look up and promptly falls into the darkness of his eyes. “Belle, why did you use your safe word?”

 Nothing but truth can survive here.  “Because you... left.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I know I said that dumb thing about people seeing you,” the eyes flicker and she hurries to say, “I didn’t mean that, of course I would never-”

 “I know.”

 “Okay, you know, good. But when I said it, the way you reacted...  It was like having a door slammed in my face.  A door that I... I realize now was only ever just cracked open.  You’ve got this contract, right?  And I respect it, but...  I want more.  I don’t mean to throw an ultimatum at you.  I never want to push you.  But I... I just want to know you.  Can’t I at least have that?”

 Belle’s babbling, she hardly understands what she’s saying herself and is certain it’s pure gibberish to Aaron, but for some reason he doesn’t move away.  In fact his eyes look damp and his next breath shudders around a hard swallow.  Belle’s hand leaves his to cup his cheek, smooth over his hair.  “It’s- it’s not easy for me to...”

 “Okay,” she whispers, “That’s okay.  Just, let me...”

 She reaches for his cane and presses it into his right hand, taking the other in hers to guide him away from the kitchen and to the master bedroom.  Then, it could almost be one of their normal nights, except Belle has less to do without his full suit to remove, and Aaron isn’t usually shaking and wide-eyed and pale.

 “It’ll be okay,” she assures him, voice still as soft as a breeze, “Lie down.  Stretch out.  Hands on the headboard.”

 This familiar action seems to calm him a little and he soon takes his position, letting out a long slow breath Belle watches with a bitten lip.  She can’t help running a hand along his flank, leaving it to rest just above his hip.

 “Beautiful, as you always are,” she murmurs, and watches tension thrum through him, a frown glancing over his face.  He doesn’t believe her.  Sorrow squeezes her heart.  “Why can’t I tell you that?” she inquires.  It’s one of the more baffling stipulations of the contract.

 “I...  It’s not...” His mouth draws into a tight line and his eyes fall shut.

 “Do you want your mask?”

 He nods in short sharp jerks.  Belle fetches it from a drawer in the nightstand and slips it over his eyes, taking the golden opportunity to again run her hands over his hair.

 “That’s better, isn’t it?”

 “We’ll see,” he grits out.

 Belle sits back and runs both hands firmly up from his stomach to his shoulders.  “You are beautiful,  Aaron,” she reiterates, “What’s made you think you aren’t?”

 After several slow, even breaths, the tight line of his mouth softens.  “I didn’t do this sort of thing.  Not until I met my wife.  She... showed me.  And it was exciting.  I enjoyed it. Most of the time.”

 A chill darts through Belle’s stomach.  She leans close to run her hand along the side of his face and murmur, “Aaron, you should enjoy it all of the time.”

 He swallows and his breath shudders again.  Belle lays a line of kisses below his collarbones, the last and longest dropped over his pounding heart.

 “She liked to push me,” he whispers harshly, “She wanted to be more... extreme.  More public.  I didn’t. And when I denied her, she left, and found someone who wouldn’t.  I received divorce papers.  I tried to fight, I hoped she could be reasoned with, for our son’s sake. Instead, I was punished.  She submitted this testimony that... that I...”

 The tight line returns, and Belle keeps her hands moving over his body, trying to ease pain away with pleasure.  “Tell me about it.”

 “I’ll just...  I’ll put it this way- I’m lucky my visits with Bae aren’t supervised by Child Protection Services.”  He takes another deep and ragged breath, and more words spill out, “She made what we did together obscene.  Said she didn’t want it but I insisted, I had to be her slave, and she was just trying to make me happy, even though it made her sick, because what kind of man wants that, hm?  How could a man like that raise a son?  I’m unfit, I’m perverse, I’m wrong, I’m- I’m...”

 “Shh...”  He’s nearly hyperventilating, nearly writhing on the bed even as his hands stay exactly where Belle put them.  She drapes herself on him, head pillowed on his chest until it stops heaving.  “You’re so brave,” she says, and her head jolts with the force of his derisive snort, “You are.  You went through all that, and still chose to try again, with me? That’s brave, Aaron.”

 “I shouldn’t have. It’s dangerous.  If Milah or her lawyers found out, who knows what they’d do?”

 “Whatever they tried to do I tell them to shove it up their arse,” Belle growls, “You don’t deserve to live in fear.  And neither do I.  We’re not hurting anyone.”

 “But what if they took him? What if they wouldn’t let me see Bae?”

 “Then I’d submit my own testimony all about how Bae loves you, how you’re a wonderful father and a wonderful person and I love- being with you, whether we’re talking over dinner or- or 69ing and it’s no one’s damn business but ours!”

 A smile breaks onto Aaron’s face and his chest shudders with deep chuckles.  Belle chuckles with him, and again takes the chance to press kisses into his skin.

 “Put your hands in my hair,” she breathes, and immediately feels strong fingers bury themselves in her curls, cradling her head and massaging her scalp.  “Mm, yes, like that...”  She tilts back into his touch, arching and rising so her forearms are braced on his chest.  “What do you want, Aaron?  Tell me.”

 “I want... what you want.”

 “No, no.  What I want tonight is for you to tell me what you want.  So go on.  It’s a little late to be shy.”  She rocks her hips just slightly against his and repeats her order, “Tell me.”

 He bucks up with a gasp that becomes a growl.  His next words come with stolid force, “I want you to sit on my face.”

 “Ooh,” Belle coos in delight, “Did I give you an idea earlier?  Do you want me to turn around and return the favor?”

 “N-no.  Not now.”

 Belle dutifully files the thought away, then rolls off to get out of her clothes.  She sets her knees on either side of Aaron’s head and just the sight of that makes her throb.  Maybe after all this talk of emotions and trauma the rest of the night would be better spent cuddling, but Belle feels like three decades have passed since they were like this and if his fingers twisting in the sheets is any indication, Aaron agrees.  She takes those tortured, lovely hands of his and sets them on her hips.  Then she runs her own over his hair, frowning slightly at the mask string getting in the way.

 “Can this come off?” she asks, grazing her fingertips over it.  Now knowing what she does and suspecting more about his ex- firstly, the monster better prepare to meet Belle’s fists if they ever cross paths, and secondly, she must double her consent checks.  Aaron will know without a doubt that nothing will happen between them here that he doesn’t want.

 Therefore she stays perfectly still until he nods, and carefully slides the mask off and puts it away. Regaining her position, she instantly smiles to see Aaron blinking up at her, black-eyed with anticipation.  She anchors her fingers in his hair and draws his head up as her knees spread to bring her folds to his mouth.  She whimpers at the first touch and is soon enough moaning and shivering through firm licks and the odd nibble.

 A few tugs on his hair bring his nose to rub at her clit when he tilts his head just right.  He makes good use of that fact while pressing his tongue as deep as it will go within her channel.  Belle tosses her head back as waves of pleasure begin to crest, at some point hearing herself gasp out, “Wait, wait, hold on.”

 “Uh, what?” Aaron asks, and the vibration of his voice almost sends her over the edge.

 “Touch yourself.  I want you to come when I do.”

 He groans and Belle truly must lean away if she wants to last a few more minutes.  When she feels the rhythm of his tugs she allows herself to return, and promptly lets out a choked cry as Aaron renews his attentions with interest.

 Far too soon Belle’s climax come barreling down and she has to shout around the first tremors, “Now, Aaron, now!”

 She’s a little too early, but she’s not that upset about it because her mind clears just fast enough to see Aaron’s head cast back, his face slack and gorgeous as pleasure overtakes him.  That’s an image she’d like to keep forever.  As he settles panting on the mattress, she eases off to reach for tissues to clean up the white splatter painting his stomach.

 “I- I can...” he mutters weakly.

 “I know, but I want to,” Belle counters with a smile as she tosses the tissues and then tucks his spent cock into his pants.  Then she settles herself beside him, one arm braced so she can gaze down at his slightly dazed face.  The contract states that she leave after climax- Belle detects another bad lesson from the ex.  She smooths Aaron’s mussed hair, and then leans in for a lingering kiss, and a swipe of her tongue over the juices she left on his chin.  “You did so well,” she breathes against his lips.

 “I, ah, right.  Good.”

 She moves away, giving him space.  “Shall I go?”

 His hand shoots out to grab the wrist of her braced arm.  He looks at it like it belongs to someone else.  “If you... I mean, if you’d like to, then...”

 “I’d like to stay,” she replies with a grin, and curls into his side, head on his shoulder.  They have a lot of renegotiating to do in the morning, but for now he laces their fingers loosely, and the pair drift off to sleep together.

#rumbelle christmas in july #of-princes-and-savages #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #fanfiction #once upon a time

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Eight

I have been reading the reviews and I very much appreciate them, a heartfelt thank you to those of you who have taken the time to write to me. Every comment I get spurs me to get the next chapter out as soon as I can.

…..

Arnold was so jumpy even his Grandmother noticed.

“Slow down there, hombre,” she told him solemnly. “Coyotes are still in the den....”

He choked a little on the bacon he'd been stuffing into his mouth and chewed more slowly, washing it down with a gulp of coffee.

“Sorry, Grandma,” he gasped. “I'm in kind of a hurry...”

“You're always in a hurry these days,” his grandfather remarked, but there was an amused twinkle in his eye. “Not running around after some dame, are ya?”

Yes. Sort of.

“No, nothing like that,” he demurred, but as if on cue the doorbell rang.

Phoebe.

That twinkle of amusement only grew when Phoebe walked into the kitchen, tapped her foot impatiently and asked if Arnold was ready to go. He ushered her out of there and up the stairs, Phil's laughter following his steps.

“Is she here?” Phoebe asked when they were in his room, eyes darting around trying to pick up a faint sense of her best friend's spirit.

“She's in the shower,” he said, shoving a printed topography map into his shoulder-bag. “You look....good.”

If he'd phrased it any other way he was worried she'd take it as a come-on, but as it was she scowled anyway. She did look good; her clothes were clean, a simple print sweater in a light shade of blue and jeans that actually fit her properly. Her hair was braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. Even her glasses looked polished. The difference a day made was remarkable.

“I didn't know ghosts take showers,” she said.

“Neither did I,” he shrugged. “And she uses up all the hot water.”

Phoebe smiled then, genuinely.

“Yeah, sounds about right. She did that all the time at my place, too.”

Arnold felt a little less on edge now. With Phoebe around maybe Helga wouldn't vanish before they got to the woods. Maybe she'd feel more grounded with her best friend there. Still, he had a small, cold ache at the pit of his stomach. Drowning it in bacon and coffee hadn't worked.

The door clattered open and Helga walked in.

“Pheebs!” she cried, delighted. She threw her arms around her in excitement.

“Is she here? I felt something....” Phoebe asked Arnold, looking wildly around the room.

“Yeah, she's...right in front of you.”

Both of their faces crumpled in disappointment. It only lasted a moment on Helga though, as she went to Arnold's desk, scribbled a hurried note across some printer paper and handed it to Phoebe. Phoebe took it gingerly (to her it must have looked like it was floating) and read it.

Then they both simultaneously burst into fits of the kind of high-pitched laughter only girls were capable of.

“Oh God,” Phoebe gasped, (though she was looking completely in the wrong direction. “You're terrible. You're still terrible!”

“It didn't get any less true since I died,” Helga deadpanned, and Arnold relayed this to Phoebe to more shrieks of laughter.

“Right, maybe we should get going?” Arnold cut in. As nice as it was to see them connecting with each other again, he felt a little twinge of annoyance. He'd gotten used to Helga being his, in a way. His secret, his housebound spirit, a person only he could speak to. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.

Phoebe was still smiling as they made their way downstairs, outside, to where the bikes were waiting. She wasn't just smiling; she was glowing.

…..

One Monday morning, when they were eleven and almost eleven respectively, Gerald came into class and slumped across from Arnold with a heavy groan.

“Good weekend?” Arnold quipped.

“I don't get girls, man,” Gerald moaned, voice muffled by his face flat on the desk.

He'd been bragging the week before about going on a 'date-date' with Phoebe, not just a 'friend-sorta-date.' They were supposed to go to the movies and then one of those fancy coffee places all the college kids hung out at. He'd gotten a new shirt.

“What happened?” Arnold asked.

“Date was going great until we got to the coffee place,” Gerald began, sitting up and fussing with his hair. “Then she was texting Helga a whole bunch. Not when we were talking or anything, but like, if I got up to use the bathroom or get another coffee she'd have her phone out and she'd be texting...”

“What's wrong with that?” Arnold shrugged.

Gerald shot him a look that was probably supposed to be withering, but just looked sulky.

“Arnold, come on,” he said. “When you're on a date, the gal is supposed to be focused on you, not her girl-friends. Anyway, she starts telling me some dumb story about what Helga and her did one time, and it was kinda killing the vibe, so I told her I wasn't into it and she freaked.”

That...didn't really make any sense.

“What did you say to her? Exact words,” Arnold asked.

“Man, I don't know,” Gerald groaned. “Something like I didn't want to hear about Helga. Helga drags her down...”

“Woah, you actually said that to her?” Arnold said, frowning.

“I think, yeah,” Gerald shrugged. “It's the truth. She'd be way more popular without Helga hanging off of her...”

Arnold couldn't believe Gerald was dumb enough to think that was true. Maybe Phoebe would have more friends, but she'd never be 'popular.' And if anything, Arnold had a sneaking suspicion that if anyone was hanging off of someone, it was Phoebe hanging off of Helga.

“So....she freaked.”

“Yep,” Gerald huffed, tapping his fingers on his desk. “Told me to take it back. I did, but she just paid for her coffee and left. Didn't even let me walk her home.”

…..

The stick was the clue that kept turning in Arnold's mind as he cycled. With Helga perched in the basket, he had a clear view of the top of her head and the starburst wound almost hidden by her hair.

A tree branch. A big one. Lots of them were down in the storm.

But the stick had been mentioned before she went to the woods.

A cane? Someone's walking stick? One of those hill-walking sticks?

No CCTV footage was found of Helga after the convenience store, so if she went straight to the woods after, and Phoebe was sure she had, it would have to be a hill-walking stick. Nobody who needed a stick to walk could have made it very far into those woods.

She was going to talk to Officer Plaskett about a stick. A baseball bat?

No, she was proud of her bat. She wouldn't have called it a stick.

Some teams practice hockey on those fields. A hockey stick?

Unlikely. Hillwood was an ice hockey town.

A broomstick. Or some random piece of wood her dad had lying around.

He recalled the black eye she had when she was ten. She said it was a baseball injury, but everyone thought (knew) she was lying. A fist could have inflicted that, but so could a hard crack from a big piece of wood. Or maybe the black eye had been caused by a fist but the person beating her had moved up to using weapons on her. Maybe that was why she wanted to talk to Officer Plaskett. Maybe she had been able to shrug off a beating with fists but the stick had made her really, truly scared.

She was a tough girl, but even the toughest of girls had a breaking point.

Lots of maybes in that story, though.

Officer Plaskett was out of town, and wouldn't be back until the next day. So they figured they'd tackle the woods first, try to find Helga's cave.

They entered the woods where the river met the bridge, and Phoebe scrawled through the messages on her old phone for details.

“It was near the river,” she said, as Arnold hid the bikes in the underbrush. “She said there was a clean stream and waterfall nearby, so it must be a tributary.”

“There's a bunch of little run-offs up here,” Arnold said, pointing to a spot in the east on the topography map. “That's our best bet, but it's a long walk.”

“Helga made it in less than forty minutes,” Phoebe said. “But I don't think we'll be as fast, so will we time it to an hour?”

“An hour it is.”

They followed the river's flow, trudging gently uphill. Arnold was edgy again; Helga had gone quiet, and she was gazing through the trees thoughtfully. Birdsong echoed in the leaves and the river made its music, but apart from the natural sounds of nature it was eerily still and quiet.

“They used dogs to search for her out here,” Phoebe said. “Why didn't they find anything?”

“It took five days to get the search dogs from the next state over,” Arnold told her. “So the scent would have been faded anyway. Plus someone who knows what they're doing could have sabotaged the trail.”

“How do you know that?” Phoebe asked him, frowning.

“It was on some of the blog posts I read.”

It had been on quite a number of them, and for some bloggers it seemed to point to Bob being the culprit, as he was friends with a number of hunt enthusiasts who would know a lot about scent-disguise. For other bloggers it pointed to stranger abduction, by someone who knew the woods well. One or two thought she might have died of natural causes, gotten lost in the furthest ends of the wood and fallen off a cliff, gotten swallowed by a sinkhole or even eaten by a bear. The fact that the known bear population had their territory over the state lines didn't put a dent in that theory; some bears were known to wander if they were hungry enough.

Arnold had read a lot of theories.

…..

Every grade had a Phoebe, sometimes more than one. A girl who seemed too smart for the rest of her peers, was shy and a bit awkward and spent a lot of time with her head in a book. Not all of them was lucky enough to have a Helga, because the Phoebe in other grades was a prime target for bullies.

A little smudge-faced girl named Christie in the third grade was making her way through Dickens. She'd picked up Great Expectations for a book report and loved it so much she decided to read as much of Dickens' work as she could, and since she wasn't burdened with friends she spent her lunch-break doing that instead of socializing. It didn't take long for some of her classmates to take that personally.

The bullying was harsh, even by grade school imaginations. They scrawled all over her locker, her books and folders, on her desk, ugly slurs about her face, her body, her parents. They flushed her belongings in the toilet and ripped the tires on her bike. They flipped her skirt in front of groups of boys and, when she started wearing trousers, tried to pop her buttons. They weren't happy until they'd reduced her to a sobbing wreck.

Even the fifth graders started hearing about it, and it made them feel awkward and uncomfortable.

It just so happened that one of the days that the Christie-torture was reaching a peak, as the head of the pack was ripping the pages out of Christie's third new copy of Nicholas Nickelby and waiting gleefully for the tears to start, that Helga waded into the pack and nonchalantly put her hand in the head's face and pushed him backwards.

“What's this happy horseshit?”

She was newly eleven, a good head taller than any of them, had a fierce reputation and she'd used a swear word; the pack suddenly became aware of how small they were, and what they had been doing.

“Nothing, I....we were just....” one of them stammered.

“Just what?” Helga drawled lazily, fixing them all with a contemptuous, half-lidded gaze. “Just making a fucking mess in the hall and getting in my way?”

The second swear word just made her, to them, cooler than ever and they wilted.

“Sorry,” the pack leader mumbled.

They had been a lynch mob, egged on by each other to tear another human being apart, but the spell had been broken, and in its wake was a confused, shameful fog. They didn't feel bad for Christie, and they wouldn't. But they had earned the scorn of someone they automatically looked up to, and for children there was no feeling that was worse.

Meanwhile, Phoebe had silently ushered Christie into the bathroom, wiped her face and told her that if she was given any more trouble that she could come to them for help.

…..

“It's down there, I'm sure of it,” Phoebe said, looking from the incline to her phone and back again.

“Are you sure?” Arnold asked, peering down the side of the rock-face.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Phoebe answered. “She said she sometimes cut her knees getting down.”

“Does this look familiar?” Arnold asked Helga.

Helga was pacing along the ledge of the incline, looking over and frowning. She was restless; was that a good sign?

“There's....it's like a pull,” she told him.

“What did she say?” Phoebe asked.

Arnold was getting a little tired of repeating everything Helga said to Phoebe, but he did anyway.

“Then that's definitely it. It ticks all the boxes.”

They made their way down carefully; the incline wasn't really that steep, but it was bare rock and it jutted out at odd angles. It was almost hidden, tucked away a half-mile from the river under an enormous tree. The cave entrance was hidden behind the tree's overgrown branches. Arnold pushed them away to let Helga and Phoebe enter.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” he heard Phoebe ask from the pitch-dark of the cave.

“No, I'll use my phone.”

He switched the tiny light on his phone on, and the cave was lit up just enough to see what was inside.

A sleeping bag and pillow.

A pink book-bag.

A rucksack.

A camping stove.

A set of little girl's pajamas.

Comic books and an empty bag of chips.

A lump formed in Arnold's throat, and he tried hard to swallow it. Behind him, he could hear Phoebe's muffled sobbing. All laid out like this, the few little things Helga had left behind, it was unbearably sad.

A little glimmer of silver by the pillow caught his attention. He knelt down to inspect the object.

Ah. The stick.

It was a small USB memory stick.

#hey arnold #hey arnold fanfiction #tw:crime

[skriaki]

A Hat In Time REVIEW - "Unbelievably charming"

PLEASE NOTE: This game has very little story to spoil but I will be talking about the entire adventure, so consider yourself warned

RELEASED: 2017

FORMATS: PC, Mac, PS4, Xbone, Switch (review based on PC and Switch)

I debated long and hard how best to open this review, and in the end I decided that nothing introduces A Hat In Time better than its astonishing soundtrack. Though I’d been aware of the game since before it released, I never actively sought it out until I happened to watch the launch trailer. Not only is the kaleidoscope of levels and characters eye-catching, what stood out as truly special was Pascal Michael Stiefel’s music. The trailer features the game’s main theme, which is striking, energetic and playful, easily one of my favourite videogame themes of this generation, and a perfect encapsulation of everything A Hat In Time is about.

At the risk of spoiling the end of this review, I usually find that the hardest games to critique are the ones I love most. A review of a bad game almost writes itself, because all I have to do is point out the wonky mechanics, or boring story, or the fact that one or more of the developers are bigoted pieces of shit (ION FURY), or whatever. But when I try to sum up my opinion on an excellent game, it’s hard for me to maintain some level of objectivity. So I guess we should all go into this on the understanding that I freaking adore A Hat In Time.

As mentioned, what strikes you first is the sheer, weaponised cuteness that A Hat In Time wields like a sharpened umbrella. I think Nitro Rad put it best when he said the game was just unbelievably charming. How many soundtracks outside of Star Trek prominently feature theremins? Other than a tiny smidgen of slowdown in the larger areas (even on my reasonably beastly PC), ON SCREEN NOTE: THE SWITCH VERSION IS LOCKED TO 30FPS BUT I LOVE THE PORTABILITY it’s an explosion of visual and audio polish that would be impressive from a bigger studio, let alone a developer which originally relied on volunteers. From the moment Hat Kid wakes up in her time-travelling spaceship only to soon find herself stranded on a weird planet populated by surreal characters, the expectations have been set sky-high.

But this tiny quibble didn’t distract me for long, because the opening Mafia Town chapter gives you a bright and colourful seaside town to get lost in, with highlights including a sequence where you pretend to be a ghost and chase a terrified henchman, and an operatic 2D showdown against the mafia boss. I actually think Mafia Town might be the game’s weakest chapter overall, but that’s like being the worst port of Metal Gear Solid 3: still pretty fucking good. Afterwards comes Dead Bird Studio, where you have to help two rival directors film stunts to earn a prestigious award, with particular praise going to the hilarious murder mystery on a train. It’s very neat that the winning director is decided by how many collectables you gather in their respective levels. Then comes the game’s darkest sequence in Subcon Forest, which starts with Hat Kid literally selling her soul to a melodramatic demon who’s probably the standout performance in an entertaining voice cast. One of his levels is a startlingly spooky manor which honestly might be too scary for younger players. Although no game will ever be as scary as that one bit in Banjo-Kazooie (shark clip). Next, however, you get a relaxing change of pace with Alpine Skyline, which subverts the established level structure with a more open-ended village hub which made me think of the original Jak and Daxter. At this point you’ll have most of the hats, which makes it easier to scoop up enough time pieces to unlock the final chapter, which is a single level consisting of some fiendish platforming and a suitably spectacular boss. While the narrative’s sudden attempt to tie unrelated characters together during this last sequence feels a bit forced, I eventually warmed to it as a "look at all the friends we've made along the way" affair. Plus the chapter itself is undeniably climactic, and I couldn’t help get a little emotional when that phenomenal trailer music which I refuse to shut up about kicked in during the credits.

The Gears For Breakfast team have cited 6th-generation 3D platformers like Mario Sunshine and Psychonauts as their main inspiration, which is when 3D games arguably hit their stride, and their game flaunts those influences with pride without being afraid to forge its own identity. Hat Kid is not only adorably cheeky, with an expressive face that reminds me of Wind Waker, she can also jump, dive and walk on tightropes so that the platforming feels precise and forgiving, and she quickly picks up an arsenal of hats which grant various powers. This is one of those collectathons where I suggest speeding through most levels before coming back later with all the abilities unlocked, because some macguffins can seem tantalisingly just out of reach, but won’t actually be accessible without certain hats. All the powers are great, though, and see frequent use, from straightforward ones like the hat that makes you run faster to the one that lets you jump on ghost-blocks. They complement Hat Kid’s default moveset really well and getting a new hat always feels like a big moment. There are also badges, which grant similarly useful upgrades, but you can only equip a few at a time. This is one minor gripe I have: swapping between hats makes sense, because using them all at once would break the game, but some of the badges (such as one that lets you climb walls after a dive) just feel like basic features which make the game worse if you don’t equip them. Limiting how many badges I can use at once just adds a bit of unnecessary faffing about in the pause screen. Pro tip: buy the “no bonk” badge from the creepy merchant straight away and never look back.

From start to finish, I genuinely struggled to find meaningful problems with A Hat In Time. I could have forgiven a lot of problems for the fun and inventive situations the game threw at me, but I never had to. Instead I have to say I found myself wondering when a game had last struck me as being filled with so many little surprises and unnecessary extra touches, including an entire co-op mode that’s apparently a bit buggy but awesome nonetheless. Hat Kid mainly communicates through one-word sentences but stands out in a sea of platformer protagonists because of the obvious love that went into her animation and soundwork, and the game as a whole has an amazingly strong aesthetic. I was genuinely upset to find that the Hat Kid plush toys are currently out of stock. There’s not much of an overarching plot but each chapter tells its own story and feels distinct, and there isn’t any filler content even though you only need 25 out of 40 time pieces to reach the ending. This is definitely more forgiving than Yooka-Laylee, which has yet to let me fight the final boss. A Hat In Time has at least a few challenging sequences for completionists to endure, including a badge that makes you die in one hit if you hate yourself that much, but crucially that stuff is optional if you just want to have an adorable adventure without too much swearing.

I’ve tried very hard in this review not to come across as overly gushing, because no game is perfect and I definitely have a soft spot for ambitious indie projects. As someone who only really heard about the game once it was out, though, A Hat In Time snuck up on me with how impressive it is as a crowdfunded game. Despite the many obstacles described in interviews, Gears For Breakfast delivered a platformer which I honestly hope Nintendo takes a few notes from, given that Mario has had a bit of a monopoly on 3D platformers ever since the genre went out of vogue. Super Mario Odyssey represents the peak of what a big-budget 3D platformer can do, but A Hat In Time is undeniably impressive as a smaller project and I honestly prefer it in a lot of ways, not least of all because it packs so much charm into a small package and introduces the world to an lovable new platformer mascot. Even if Yooka-Laylee disappointed a lot of people, it’s still really cool to see games like A Hat In Time and Snake Pass giving Nintendo some competition again. After years of 8 and 16-bit indie games, there now seems to be a growing nostalgia for games from the early days of 3D, and as someone who grew up around that time, the prospect of new games that revive and improve ideas from that era is obviously thrilling.

Hyperbole aside, probably the greatest compliment I can give A Hat In Time is that it lives up to the standard of quality set by that theme music: beautiful, original and unrelentingly exciting.

[godzylla]

I grew up in an extremely rural northern Ohio. As a small child I did not have much experience meeting people who were unlike me in appearance and background.

In other words, white and some variant of "Christian."

There was A black family with kids at my elementary school. There was ONE Hispanic family with a kid in my class. Through my earliest years, cultural diversity meant someone who was Catholic, or even a "holy roller."

People look at me funny when I say that I get my morality from comic books, but I mean it. Certainly not church, which disliked fun songs like "My Ding-a-Ling" by Chuck Berry, TV shows like All In the Family, Maude, and Soap, and was opposed to the Equal Rights Amendment. Superman PSAs, aligning with "the American way," promoted caring for neighbors with different backgrounds, religions, and skin tones. While representation was poor (or stereotypical) in the early '70s stories, there was still more diversity in comics than in my life.

In school there was no doubt about the core basis of the Civil War, and slavery was an evil concept. I remember doodling an idea for "Civil War super-heroes" with the conceit of a white and a black hero working together to upend the tyranny of slavery... good friends with secret identities where they pretended to be master and servant. (Forgive me, I was 13-ish).

I think I was in 4th grade when I told a "Pollack" joke to a friend who turned out to be of Polish decent. He didn't mind (at least he said he like those jokes), but that was the first time I realized that a "Pollack" was a real person and not really a synonym for a generic stupid person. I was embarrassed and I don't think I ever told another "Pollack" joke. I learned and adapted. I became subconsciously aware of the divisions between people as I met more minorities.

I began to learn about life in big cities - such as the lessons were - from Spider-Man and Luke Cage. On TV Dragnet rang false with all of their hippie conspiracies, but in comics I met people, not props. (Sometimes.)

My brother had full-sized American and Confederate flags tacked onto his ceiling. The Confederate flag design was kind of cool I guess, but the flag always made me feel uncomfortable because of its ties to slavery and secession.

I went to a church camp for a week one summer, and as I recall (memory being the mercurial thing it is), black kids stayed apart from white kids. Or we stayed apart from them. I wonder now if it was intentionally segregated.

When I was in high school, we moved to the South and on top of my discomfort of being away from my "home," I was amazed as I encountered attitudes I'd never encountered before. There were some people who acted like the Civil War was still going on (and I was definitely considered a "Yankee"), and there were some who acted like the Confederacy had actually won the war with the way some of the leaders and the soldiers were revered.

Rebel flags were everywhere, letting all and sundry know that the traitorous government of the Confederacy and the slavery it represented was honored.

In spite of friends I made and a large extended family there, I never quite got comfortable living there. I had an uncle once refer to a poor section of town mostly populated by black folk as "N-----town." I never spoke to him again that I recall. Perhaps a greeting or answered question, but I was horrified and so disappointed. He's long since dead now.

It was sometime in high school that I'd first heard of the concept of reparations for slavery. My naivete reared its head again, I'm afraid. With the Civil War having ended ~115 years before, I had the opinion that reparations made no sense when it was unlikely that anyone who had been a slave or owned a slave was still alive.

I remember when some Indian (Asian) doctors and their families moved into the area that some people reacted to them with distrust (and worse).

To put all this into context, we only lived about 20 miles from the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan.

I'm not saying I had better morals than people around me, I'm saying that as I encountered people and attitudes, observed situations, I learned. I adjusted my own naive outlooks.

I remember when I was around 21 or 22, I said something along the lines of not caring if someone we knew was gay as long as he didn't try to hook up with me. I kind of meant it as a joke, but as time went on I realized how awful it was, and examined my attitudes toward gay people.

I've also opined that I don't think I'd even visit another country if I didn't learn at least a little of the language, and while I never meant that to mean "don't come here if you can't speak English" I know that I was speaking from privilege and those thoughts could be inferred that way.

My enthusiasm for learning and for trying to understand science led me to also adjust my perspective on abortion, which was prolonged and probably the most difficult analysis as I struggled through the last vestiges of the religious indoctrination I'd grown up with. As I took the time to learn and understand the process of fetal development, the "personhood" fell away. Over time I also learned and have come to somewhat understand the unnecessary and unfair burdens this places on women, as I also come to understand just how anyone who is not white has been and is treated in this country.

And so we come to our current situation in the US. We have militant police forces and court systems that are intrinsically, institutionally geared toward harassment of persons of color and overly supportive of those who are not.

In my minor encounters with officers of the law, I've never had to fear them. My outlook in the past was to make sure they were at their ease, to see I was no threat - which is, indeed, a good thing. But it only works because I'm a very pale fish indeed. I'm ashamed to say that it was not really too long before the series of events that led to the necessity of Black Lives Matter that I came to sluggishly understand that my few experiences do not match the experiences of others.

So I talk to people. I learn how different locations around the country are. I learn about the different experiences of various minorities and women. If you've ever said or even just thought "I'm so tired of hearing about racism," well, the victims of bigotry don't have the option of tuning it out. Imagine how tired some people are of experiencing racism, or sexism, of having family and friends murdered, or shut out.

The best example I can think of to explain to someone who doesn't understand how society favors cis hetero white men even passively is this: Being white is like playing a video game at the easiest setting, while women and LGBTQ+ and people with darker skins all have to play at various levels of more difficulty. We still have to play the game, even if we aren't good at it, but everyone around us has to be that much better just to match us.

Life is a process. Learning is a process. I would like to leave my part of the world a little better when I leave it, both day to day and at the end of my life.

Sometimes I get unapologetically angry over the injustices we're facing in society and the absolute fascism growing around us. More than sometimes, I'm usually angry about it. I'm not currently a minority except as an atheist, which doesn't affect me much right now; as a white male, you may think I have no part in this. But what happens to our neighbors affects us as well. Not because once they've come for the others they'll come for us (which is the way it goes, of course), but because America's diversity, humanity's diversity, is our strength. Diversity is variety, and variety is the spice of life. Life is better when we celebrate our differences, not when we hate each other because of them. I will defer to others who are targeted by this system, and by the current regime, to tell their stories. We have to listen, because they live it. Then we need to ask how we can help.

This became something quite different from what I'd intended when I began writing. I wandered and it became something stream of consciousness. This wasn't easy to write and it won't be easy to post, but it's something I wanted, needed to say.

[213hiphopworldnews]

Looking For ‘Idaho Hip-Hop’ At Treefort Festival Yielded A Few Surprises

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It’s been a central tenet of hip-hop’s philosophy since the culture and music first spread from the beaten-down blocks of ’70s Bronx, New York to take over the rest of the nation (and the globe): “It ain’t where you’re from; it’s where you’re at.” Rappers and their fans have long touted their regional loyalties, even from the very beginning. How could they not, with that trademark Big Apple territorialism baked in from the start?

Whether they were from the Bronx or Brooklyn, Harlem or Queens, rising artists proudly repped their borough. As hip-hop grew, rappers found pockets of the nation where people loudly proclaimed the cities and streets of their origins and declared lifelong fealty; New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Miami, Oakland, Houston, and Atlanta became the hotbeds of hip-hop activity, which each launching its own, discrete take on the genre, identifiable by regional movements like G-Funk, Hyphy, Screw, Bass, Crunk, Snap, and Trap.

One place you wouldn’t think to find hip-hop, though, is the city of Boise, Idaho. Until I was invited to attend the city’s Treefort Festival for this assignment, I didn’t even know what time zone it was in until I researched the area. While the Pacific Northwest does have its own rich history of hip-hop artists, from Portland, Oregon’s Amine to Seattle, Washington’s Macklemore, a hip-hop hotspot it is not — at least, that’s what I thought.

And so, my visit to this college town, with its semi-arid continental climate and greater national reputation for potatoes than famous musicians, came with a pretty clearly defined mission. I was going to find out if there really is hip-hop in Idaho, and if so, why it hasn’t quite garnered the same level of attention as its PNW neighbors — or even produced a single rap star of note since the genre’s officially recorded inception in 1979.

On my arrival, it was pretty clear that there was at least one, super-obvious reason why there might not be a huge rap presence in the city, despite the music’s popularity and the proximity of a pretty prominent state university with a student population that could at least provide an audience. Rap has long been associated with crime and hardscrabble living at the bottom of society’s proverbial totem pole. Boise, with an annual average of around 600 violent crimes total, is a pretty, almost alarmingly clean town overlooked by picturesque mountains to the north and a downtown you can traverse in pretty much ten minutes. “The hood” it is not.

Even so, a rough upbringing was never so much a requirement as a suggestion in hip-hop, as proven by pioneers like De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Kanye West, and Drake. The demographics of rap performers and fans have begun to reflect that even though Boise is very white, so now is much of hip-hop’s sizeable audience — and stars. So the question remained: Where is all the Idaho hip-hop?

Fortunately, the organizers of Treefort Festival had the same question and set up a discussion panel to ask just that of some local rap talent — who make up a surprisingly vibrant underground scene. The collected rappers — Madisun Proof, Zero, and Eleven — and producer John Weighn answered questions from the local college radio station’s hip-hop show hosts ranging from observations on the state of Boise’s rap scene to what exactly sets Idaho rap apart from other regions’ takes on the increasingly diverse stylings of the genre.

What I was able to glean from the discussion was equal parts illuminating and disappointing. As John Weighn — who goes mostly by Weighn Beats these days — pointed out, “Boise rap” is just like rap anywhere else: There are a multitude of different artists creating and promoting a range of different sounds and styles. It was interesting to find out that there were rappers here that embraced the new wave of melodic, wavy hip-hop as much as the more traditional, lyrically-focused fare inspired by Rawkus Records and Rhymesayers, like Proof, Zero, and Eleven.

However, there wasn’t really an answer for why Idaho hip-hop isn’t taken seriously outside the region. There was an air of disappointment that hip-hop by itself seemed like an afterthought within it. Eleven noted that when he moved to Boise from San Diego a decade ago, there was a strong local presence in the press that supported the local scene. However, with local press dying out in recent years (thanks, Facebook!), there haven’t been any outlets to even highlight the local acts for the local fans. Clearly, a closer investigation was warranted, which for a traditionalist like me meant going to the showcases themselves to actually get a glimpse of Boise’s underground scene.

Treefort, despite some of my earlier misgivings, certainly served up plenty hip-hop-oriented showcases throughout the week — enough that I found myself having to choose between local acts who shared set times at various venues scattered throughout downtown. There was Zero at Fatty’s, who performed a rhythmic set from a stage blazing with multicolored panels. Sstrawberry delivered an energetic, futuristic set on a makeshift stage in an underground arcade full of retro gems like Joust and the original Mario Bros.

There was also a Radio Boise stage in the main festival area, just outside the main stage, where local rap showcase attracted a tiny crowd of curious onlookers. The MCs who took the stage there seemed almost anachronistic, even though they sprinkled in recognizable beats from stars like 2 Chainz, and their presentation very starkly reminded me of the kind of sample-driven, lyrically-obsessed underground rap that dominated the independent scene in the early 2000s. They contrasted sharply with the packed-house showcase from progressive acts like Jpegmafia and Vince Staples, whose presence proved that Treefort’s organizers understood what kind of hip-hop crowds in Boise might actually be looking for.

The Saturday night showcase at The Linen Building, though, was the most instructive and intriguing, because it placed members of the local scene in direct contrast with out-of-town performers. I was utterly blown away by performances from Canadian Haviah Mighty and Georgian City Commissioner Linqua Franqa, who attracted two of the biggest crowds of the week. Haviah Mighty especially struck a chord, rocking the full room with cool professionalism and electric energy despite proclaiming this was her first show in the States.

Meanwhile, the two local acts who rocked alongside them, tuct. and Ric Wilson, were both fascinating as opposing approaches to the live band style of hip-hop. While Ric Wilson glowed with the sort of familial warmth that made you want to get to know him as a person, grinning and joking his way through a set for an audience that clearly adored him, tuct. performed a fine medley of soul and jazz-influenced songs for a room that had just emptied out after Haviah Mighty’s euphoric set. There were even murmurs of confusion from non-locals, since tuct. wasn’t the rapper’s name but the name of the band’s drummer, who was the face from Treefort’s listing for the set.

The moment highlighted some of the rookie mistakes Idaho’s hip-hop scene seemed to make collectively. Aside from Sstrawberry, who makes incredibly modern music, Boise’s rappers seem to exist in a time warp. There’s a scene and it’s strong, but it seemed mostly composed of entertainers who performed mainly for each other. Personally, I really wanted to see someone from the scene “make it,” and it seemed Ssrawberry and Ric Wilson had the best chance. But oddly, it felt like they would need to trade aspects of their styles to one another; while I loved Ric’s soulful vibe, it came across very “adult urban contemporary,” which really limits the appeal in a city like Boise and doesn’t connect with younger audiences.

Sstrawberry made the sort of vibey, new wave, sing-rap that often connects with younger audiences, but seemed a little like he didn’t want to connect with anyone. If anything, he was a little too casual with his presentation — especially compared to the ferocious energy of out-of-towners like Linqua Franca, or even Mega Ran, the video game-loving traditionalist who filled out the exact same venue and was far more interested in engaging the audience than just performing and catching a vibe.

View this post on Instagram

“way too much stress onna nigga”

A post shared by god stewart (@ssrawberry) on Nov 20, 2018 at 11:56pm PST

Treefort could actually help these artists more as well. While I understand the risks involved in crafting a specifical rap or hip-hop-focused showcase and/or confining these artists to one or two venues in town, giving locals a chance to play for the interested out-of-towners’ crowds could provide exposure and create new fans. One of the hardest sights was watching local duo Dedicated Servers take to Spacebar’s makeshift stage immediately after Mega Ran’s set — after all Ran’s fans had departed, leaving them scarcely a few dozen, halfhearted listeners.

Promoting shows back in the day, I learned that you can book a local favorite ahead of the out-of-town headliner without hurting anyone’s feelings. No one likes performing for an empty room, and the bigger artists’ fans won’t mind waiting an extra thirty minutes to catch their fave, even showing early to get a better view or even, yes, a glimpse at the openers. A few hip-hop-centric showcases to keep folks from having to cross downtown would give hip-hop fans somewhere central to congregate during the festival — even if the walk is only ten minutes.

In the end, I did find hip-hop in Boise and I really liked a lot of it. If there was any advice I could give to those artists about how to grow beyond their city, I’d say that I hope they took notes of the polish of the visiting artists and remember that if those artists could build a fanbase in Boise, a Boise artist could maybe build a fan base in Oakland or Athens or Brampton or Philly. Every artist has a niche and rather than pushing an idea of “Idaho hip-hop,” each individual act could find a way to be successful in their own lane, so long as they remember that no matter where they are, to rep where they come from and prove that Idaho definitely has hip-hop — and plenty of it.

Uproxx was hosted for this trip by Treefort Festival. You can learn more about our press trip policy here.

source https://uproxx.com/hiphop/treefort-festival-2019-idaho-hip-hop/

#hiphop #hip hop legend #hip hop history #hip hop #music #trending #hip hop news #ballin #hip hop scen

[masala-and-thunderstorms]

multiples of 9!

Ummm I’ll assume you mean the long one since the truth or dare only has three multiples of nine? Though wow that ends up a lot of questions (I say with love and gratitude! Probably!)

Let’s see if I still remember how to do one of these…

9 - What is one thing you would like to accomplish before your next birthday?

To either have a full draft of Stealing the Sun that’s polished enough to send to sensitivity readers or to have a full draft of Zoha’s book at all (the former being a book I’ve been working on for a long time but need to start from scratch because I changed up a bunch of things; the latter being a fairly new idea where I haven’t even named most of the characters.)

18 - Do you have any tattoos?

Nope.

27 - Do you have any “rules” about food?

I don’t cook or order pig meat (I’ve been in many situations where it’s been more or less necessary to consume pig meat and I made peace with that a long time ago, but I’m not going to actively cause myself to be eating pork when I have the option not to, if that makes sense.) Outside of that I try not to have food rules.

36 - Has someone ever spread a nasty rumor about you?

Ish? I’ve had people tell other people unpleasant things about me that I don’t think of as true, but I’ve never been the subject of a nasty rumor of the high-school-movie variety.

45 - Is your life anything like it was two years ago?

Two years ago I had just gotten back to the US and many things were incredibly different, but (to quote Modest Mouse) I’ve still got my words and I’ve got my friends.

54 - Things you like and dislike about yourself:

There are a whoooooooooooooole lot of the latter and not a ton of the former? A couple things I both like and dislike about myself is that I’m stubborn and I care really intensely about people.

63 - A quote you try to live by:

I’m sure I could go hunting and find quotes that portray the way I try to live, but there aren’t any specific quotes I try to live by.

72 - What’s your favorite band/singer?

Favorite band: Delta Rae followed very closely by Death Cab for Cutie, unless a cappella groups count as bands in which case Penn MasalaFavorite singer: this question is an impossible question and I refuse

81 - Dogs or cats?

Both are wonderful but I prefer cats.

90 - Favorite place to shop at?

Pike’s Place Market is my favorite place where one shops but it isn’t actually a place I shop with any frequency… the answer to this might honestly be Costco.

99 - Say 6 facts about your home town:

There are three different towns that could fit this description but I’m going to go ahead and pick the one I know the most facts about.

1) The rightful owners of the land, the Duwamish tribe, are still being denied federal recognition (they were very briefly granted it at the tail-end of the Clinton administration and then Bush took it away)2) For a long time we were just the town where white people in Seattle had their summer homes (which is hilarious now because we’re a ten minute drive from Seattle, but this was before cars were a thing.) There’s still great disagreement over whether we’re our own city or just part of Seattle.3) We’re the biggest majority-minority city in the state and 42% of people speak a language besides English at home4) Something like 20% of the white population of the town is of Irish descent, which is reflective of the region in general; for some reason there wasn’t the bias against Irish people that there was in the Northeast (possibly we were too busy being biased against Asians5) The city name is French even though almost every other town in the area has an indigenous name. We were named for how pretty the mountains are.6) People have started calling us the City of Glass, which cracks me up (people were already calling Seattle the Emerald City; it made listening to Wicked for the first time a hilarious experience.)

108 - Who is someone you never tire of?

I don’t know that there’s anyone I never tire of because sometimes I am tired of everyone at the same time, but @velociraptorwithaquillpen comes most immediately to mind.

117 - Story of your first kiss?

We watched Pirates of the Caribbean and ate Thai food and then she kissed me. It was less a single kiss more a series of shortish kisses interposed with us trying to figure out how to navigate the issue of noses + me jerking away when she tried to incorporate tongue, but it was still pretty great.

126 - Based on past relationships or crushes, describe your perfect boyfriend/girlfriend:

I don’t believe in perfection, but I have a hard time coming up with an imaginary person who’s better for me than the one I’m currently with.

135 - Say 1 fact about the person your like:

He’d probably be as pedantic about that typo as I am.

144 - Have you ever liked someone who your friends hated?

My friends hate most of the people I’ve liked.

153 - What’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you?

As noted in a previous post, I’m terrible with superlatives like this because I’m much more effected by small sweetnesses than big dramatic ones.

162 - Can you commit to one person?

I’ve never even been able to have crushes on two people concurrently.

171 - Do you forgive betrayal?

As far as I can tell I forgive just about everything, but that doesn’t mean my fondness for someone’s going to carry on.

180 - Share a relationship story:

My stepsister and her husband like being goopy and affectionate in front of my nephew because he rolls his eyes and goes UGH dramatically.

189 - A book you want to read/have recently read:

I recently read a memoir called Get Me Out of Here. I don’t know that I recommend it, but I did stay up past 5 AM reading it, so clearly it was engaging.

207 - Would you rather be stranded on a desert island with someone you love for ten years or someone you hate for a month? Explain why.

The former; on one hand that sounds like a horrible mess of anxiety and frustration, on the other it’s so incredibly difficult for me to hate people that I’d have to be trapped with a rapist or a white supremacist. And at least my loved ones are introverts who will understand wanting to spend large chunks of time ignoring each other.

216 - Is the cup half full or half empty for you right now?

The cup is pretty full life-wise, though I have a great deal of dread involving the state of the country.

225 - If you were the president, what would you do?

Basically the exact opposite of everything the current president is doing.

234 - Something that you’re proud of:

Honestly I’m pretty impressed with myself for answering this many questions.

252 - Do you hate anyone?

No one I know in person.

261 - How you hope your future will be like?

In a general sense, I hope my future will be interesting and varied and full of opportunities to learn new things and make a positive impact. More specifically, I hope to continue doing environmental work for the rest of my life and to actually be useful. I hope to write many books and publish a few and make readers cry and laugh and feel seen. I hope to be a good mom and good friend. I hope to travel a lot and live in a few more places but ultimately raise kids in the city I grew up in, or at least somewhere with the things I love about that city (and then continue to live in more places once said kids are out of the house.)

#answering asks #I don't expect anyone to read all of this #it is a BEAST #but it kept me entertained so #thanks anon!

[junker-town]

The stories of the 5 smallest countries to make the World Cup before Iceland

Iceland is by far the country with the smallest population to ever make the World Cup, but who held the record before them?

With their 2-0 win over Kosovo on Tuesday, Iceland became the smallest country to qualify for the men’s World Cup. By quite some distance, too — with a population of just 334,000, they’re roughly a quarter of the size of the country whose record they broke, Trinidad & Tobago.

Here, we look back at the other tiny countries that have qualified for the World Cup, and how they got on. But first, a word for ...

Paraguay, 1930

... who had, at the time of the first World Cup, a population of around 850,000. However, they’re not strictly eligible for comparison, as they didn’t have to qualify. Instead, FIFA just asked everybody if they fancied it. Since it was being held in Uruguay, most of South America said yes.

Small they may have been, but Paraguay went into the competition with a bit of a reputation. They’d finished second in the 1929 South American Championship, the precursor of the Copa América, and beaten a full-strength Uruguay in the process. However, when it came to the World Cup they ran into the surprise package of the tournament, the USA (pop. 123m), and lost their opening game 3-0.

Partial revenge for the little guy came in the next game against Belgium (pop. 8m). Tricky winger Luis Vargas Peña scored the only goal of the game, as both teams departed the competition. Incidentally the eventual winners, Uruguay, had a population of about 1.75m at the time. Which isn’t bad going.

Slovenia, 2002 (pop. 1.99m)

The fifth smallest nation to qualify for a World Cup did so just ten years after gaining independence from Yugoslavia. And they did so in fairly impressive fashion, progressing undefeated through a group containing not only the nation they’d just left, but also Switzerland (7.25m) and Russia (145.3m). Five wins and five draws put them through to a playoff against Romania, and a 3-2 aggregate win sent them to Japan-South Korea.

The early noughties was something of a golden age for Slovenian football, thanks in large part to the double act of manager Srečko Katanec and attacking midfielder Zlatko Zahovič. At Euro 2000 they’d finished bottom of their group, but they’d punched above their weight, most notably in a 3-3 draw against Yugoslavia. Sadly, in 2002 they could only repeat the position, not the performances.

The opening game against Spain (41.8m) ended with a 3-1 loss, and while there’s no shame in losing to Iker Casillas, Carles Puyol, Fernando Hierro and the rest, tempers frayed. Zahovič had been taken off after 63 minutes, and it’s fair to say he didn’t take it well:

“I can buy all of you, I can buy the whole association, I can buy Smarna Gora [Katanec's home town]. I can't stay in a team like this where you [Katanec] will substitute me in a game like this in the World Cup.”

He was sent home early, and Katanec announced that he would resign following the end of the tournament. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t take long: Slovenia lost 1-0 to South Africa (45.9m), 3-1 to Paraguay (5.5m), and left without a point to their names.

Kuwait, 1982 (pop. 1.5m)

There are several paths to footballing immortality. The most obvious is victory, ideally in some style and preferably against the odds. But the odds are the odds for a reason, and for a country as small as Kuwait, actually winning the World Cup isn’t always an option. So they chose another, perhaps more noble path: a permanent place in those 50 World Cup Funniest Moments, Ever!!! programs that crop up every four years.

Having qualified in convincing style, Kuwait were drawn into a tricky group with France (55.9m) and England (approx. 46m), They needed to make the most of their opening game against Czechoslovakia (approx. 10.3m), but could only manage a draw after going behind to a dubious penalty. Perhaps dubious officiating was on their minds when they went into the next game against France.

Not that officiating was to blame for the result, as such. France’s brilliant midfield (Platini, Giresse, Six) dominated the game, and the Europeans were 3-0 up after just 48 minutes. Then they scored a fourth ... or did they? The Kuwait defence, rooted to the spot, claimed to have heard a whistle.

The ensuing argument grew so heated that Prince Fahad, then-president of the Kuwaiti FA, descended from the stands to pull his side from the game. Eventually, and much to the confusion of the French, the goal was ruled out and the game restarted with a drop ball. It made no difference in the end: France got their fourth, Kuwait couldn’t manage a comeback, and went on to lose 1-0 to England.

For his part in the mess, Fahad was fined about £8,000. The referee, one Miroslav Stupar, never officiated at the World Cup again. Kuwait haven’t yet returned to the World Cup, and are presently suspended from FIFA for governmental interference, which probably counts as irony. Still, the talking heads of British list television will always have the footage, and that’s what really matters.

Northern Ireland, 1958 (pop. 1.4m)

Now, here’s some top-class plucky-little-team-up-against-the-big-lads behaviour. Northern Ireland weren’t really supposed to qualify for the 1958 World Cup, since they were in a group with double-world champions Italy (49.1m) and only one team would go through. But qualify they did, thanks to a draw in Portugal (8.7m) and the complete collapse of the Italians’ away form.

Then, having been drawn into a group with World Cup holders West Germany (54.2m), Argentina (19.9m), and a pretty decent Czechoslovakia (approx. 9m), they weren’t supposed to make much of an impact. But they won their opener against the Czechs, had chances against Argentina before eventually losing, and then nearly beat the Germans, eventually settling for a 2-2. They finished level with Czechoslovakia on points, and that meant a playoff. Goal difference hadn’t been invented yet.

An extra game was exactly what Northern Ireland didn’t need. Injuries were piling up, most notably first-choice goalkeeper Harry Gregg. Naturally his replacement, Norman Uprichard, broke a bone in his hand early in the game. The knocks kept coming — substitutes hadn’t been invented either — and by the time extra time rolled around, Ireland were effectively down to eight men. But in the 97th minute, Peter McParland poked home a Danny Blanchflower cross, and they somehow held on.

Yes, they got thrashed by France (44.6m) in the quarters, but come on. Gregg was back in goal, despite needing a walking stick to get around the team hotel. How many miracles do you want?

Trinidad & Tobago, 2006 (pop. 1.3m)

It’s a shame we have to end like this, but there’s no getting away from it. Perhaps Iceland’s qualification, as well as being a nice story in its own right, will help the footballing community finally achieve some closure. Because previously, the smallest country to attend the World Cup ended up victim of one of its greatest injustices.

Germany, 2006. Trinidad & Tobago, overseen by veteran Polish coach Leo Beenhakker, anchored by Dwight Yorke, and stocked with journeymen from the English lower leagues, have qualified for their nation’s first World Cup. Having come through a playoff against Bahrain (even smaller, at 960k), they take on a Sweden (9m) side featuring Henrik Larsson, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, and Freddie Ljungberg ... and hold out for a draw.

Then, the big one. England (50.4m). John Terry and Rio Ferdinand; Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard; David Beckham. And once again, the Soca Warriors prove obdurate opponents. The minutes tick by — 60, 70, 80 — and still the game is stuck at 0-0. Then, with 83 minutes gone, Beckham slings in a booming cross from the right, and the ignominious villain of the piece, Peter Crouch, takes hold of his marker’s dreadlocks and levers himself into the air to nod home the opening goal.

Were this fiction, one might almost find the symbolism overwhelming, even trite. The six foot seven Crouch, reduced to playground hairpulling. Resource-rich, population heavy England, indulging in such desperate chicanery. The defender in question, Brent Sancho, later described Crouch as “the most hated Englishman in the history of Trinidad and Tobago,” though naturally the imperialist mouthpiece that is the BBC claimed he was joking.

Anyway, Gerrard added a second late on, and then Trinidad & Tobago went on to lose to Paraguay (5.9m). Would they have won had Crouch, and England, not broken their hearts and soiled the competition? We’ll never know.

Iceland, 2018 (pop. 334,000)

There will be clapping.

Dear world! See you in Russia 2018 #WorldCup #Iceland #Huh ! http://pic.twitter.com/qD45YoYSii

— RÚV Íþróttir (@ruvithrottir) October 9, 2017

[dcnativegal]

One degree of separation

September 2017

I’m learning just how small a ‘town’ is Lake County, home to 7500 souls. A store owner is related to the father of a child of one of my clients. My clients are one degree of separation from each other, two at the most. Sometimes my colleague and I schedule our clients so that they’ll have joyful, mini-reunions, in the hallway, like our foster care kids who are now in separate homes. Other times we stagger appointment times with at least an hour in between so that two sworn enemies are not in the building at the same time. Sworn enemies because they got involved with the same knucklehead who didn’t use a condom.

I, personally, am grateful that the deputy’s office is the next door in the hallway.

A recent Relapse & Recovery support group had 3 women in it, all related to one another by marriage.  All by the way, recovering very nicely. New worlds ahead of them.

If I want the backstory to someone in North County, either my therapist colleague and/or her husband the deputy will tell me stories that would curl your hair. This knucklehead had an affair with the mother of that other kid, who’s now in therapy for cutting, or for pot smoking. Or that kid is another ‘throw away kid’ as my colleague puts it; sleeping on the couch, sometimes at grandma’s, dreaming of a single wide or 5th wheel of their own.

Let me not mislead; I see a skewed sample of the population in Christmas Valley where I work. I have met and had breakfast with 3 different amazingly wise and accomplished women. I hope we’ll become real friends. Therapists are kinda like white blood cells. We rush to the site of the wounded part of the body politic, and all we see is the wound, slowly healing. Our clientele constitutes the wounds of the county, and some of them are healing quite beautifully, thank you very much.

I have woven a parachute out of everything broken, my scars are my shield.    William Stafford

I took a walk with my friend Toni the other evening. I asked her who lived in one of my favorite houses, the one that was a church and still has a bell tower. She told me all about the now-deceased owner, who was a kind and thoughtful woman, born in Poland and brought to the USA by her mother during the war. (You know I mean WW2, right? Isn’t that funny? At least to baby boomers, there are two wars: the one that impacted our parents, and the one that impacted us, the Vietnam war.)  Anyway, this Polish girl grew up to be generous to children who were new to the USA, and those kids included the foreign students here in Paisley from other countries, learning English and living in the dorm for a school year.

Toni knows everyone in Paisley, and their backstory.

By association with Valerie, I am known somewhat here in Paisley, and known by association as a therapist with the mental health clinic that operates in Lakeview and in Christmas Valley. I see former clients in the Safeway, or the Chevron in North Lake, which serves as gas station, fast food joint, and grocery store in one. Otherwise, I am a stranger driving a blue Honda Fit with a rainbow sticker on the back windshield. I have grown patient with the slow pace of this ‘getting to know’ business because there’s no way to rush it. I know at least two or three people whenever I walk into the Homestead (the diner) or the Pioneer (the pub) in town. I know several of the teachers at the Paisley school, the town librarian and postmaster. I live in the house with the crocheted American flag outside, which I made because Valerie suggested that such a thing would be a hit with the cowboys. It has purples and oranges in it, but those subversive elements are less visible from the road than I’d hoped. I know those colors are there, and I celebrate the rebrowning of America that is happening nearly everywhere else but in Lake County. Eventually, here, too.

Valerie and I were in line to get barbeque at the 31st Annual Mosquito Festival a few Saturdays back. Valerie started talking to the folks right in front of us who are part of one of the big families here whose ancestors hail from Ireland. They have several beautiful daughters who are growing up and out of town. Valerie chatted a while and then she turned to me and said, And this is Jane. So I said, Hi, I’m Jane, Valerie’s partner. Valerie told me later that she knew that they knew who I was, but I didn’t know that, and I wanted to be clear, and out. Of the closet. In any case, we chatted some more, and it came out that I am a native Washingtonian, the DC kind, not the Seattle/Spokane kind. And the woman said, oh we’ve been there and thought it was great… (wait for it…) Of course, we also knew to stay down near the mall, because otherwise we could get shot!! Right!?!

Sigh.

This perception that DC is Beirut circa 1985 has surprised me my entire life, whenever I am outside the DC area. I once got my hair cut in Minneapolis, it was 1980, and when I told the haircutter I was from DC, she said, in the suburbs? And I said, no, in the city, and she said, I didn’t think any white people lived there.

Sigh. This white person used to.

I told the Irish lass that, actually no, it’s very safe there, but I know DC has that reputation.

This nice woman in the barbeque line had the same attitude that an Australian woman expressed when my kids’ dad and I were taking a train across Europe in 1991. She said something to the effect of, oh you’re American?? How do you keep from getting killed? Doesn’t everyone have guns there?

Well, no, but it does seem like that.  (Especially in Lake County.)

You know what? It’s okay. One year into my transplantation to Paisley, it’s okay that Eastern Oregonians think that DC is horribly dangerous. I thought the same of Eastern Oregonians. (T shirt I saw just yesterday: God, Country, Guns. With a mock bullet hole in the O of Country.) I thought I’d get shot here because I have a rainbow sticker on my car, or because someone with a rifle figured out where we, those aged lesbians, live. I was half expecting a brick through the window when I first moved in. And relieved when we decided to move our bed to the loft so that we were out of range from the road.

We fear what we do not know.

The fact that I’ve grown calm about the woeful ignorance of the blessings of, and community strength found in, urban life, and DC life in particular, does not mean I am not going to Represent. I will gently correct the misconceptions, one by one. Meanwhile, I know there is woeful ignorance about how fabulous gay people are, and how much straight people need us around. Like I said, I will gently correct the misconceptions, one by one.

I have a former client, who graduated from the 90 days-sober-program, triumphant. Figured out I was gay, not that I hide it, except from one or two very fundamentalist, “Christ told me to do this, or that” kind of folk. I told the former client that I was a little worried that someone who really hated gay folks would find out about me and picket the Court Annex where I work. And this client said, you call me, and I’ll have a bunch of folks out here backing you up. That felt good.

Valerie, the other day, told me something that made me feel so much better about being out here. About having some sort of purpose, and place, and positive impact, especially to my clients as a ‘behavioral therapist’. I wish I had written it down. She said, to paraphrase: these people have no idea what wonderful worlds you will open them up to.

She said another thing, too. Her daughter knows everyone in town, and had lunch with one of the ‘city mothers’, who is over 80 and suffers no fools. I don’t know how I came up, but she said something to the effect that, “I know Valerie is concerned that Jane feel welcome, but everything I hear about Jane is that she’s really nice.”

Valerie actually doesn’t worry about it. She tells me, fret not. I’m glad I seem really nice. I think I am really nice, genuinely nice, but I am biased.

I will slowly memorize who’s who in Lake County, what their names are, and how they are related to several other people I know or know of. I will slowly memorize the backstory. Or stories. I’ll take the stories with a grain of salt, and form my own opinion.  I’ll continue to meet potential friends at the diner or the pub for coffee or breakfast or lunch or dinner and slowly find out who are progressives, who knits, and with whom is it okay to cuss. Until everyone in the county is one degree of separation away from me.

“Perhaps the secret of living well is not in having all the answers but in pursuing unanswerable questions in good company.”                                     Rachel Naomi Remen

[starfiremoonbeam-blog]

Today would be a good day to be a butterfly

I Learned that the way life, people and situations are portrayed are all a select state of mind, if you glorify dirt long enough, even dirt can become diamonds in the eye of the beholder....

Dedicated to  my Rock-the other half of my soul-because of you I believed I could fly-because of you my wings have healed-because of you I became a butterfly. My best friend..

1. Mom

I guess I should start with where I came of so to speak. Mother, we'll call her windy, that's not her name, why she chose to "change" her name I'll probably never know the truth, she went by this name before I came along, her real name, I'm not sure if she knows what it is . Windy was orphaned in the late 60's, born a country bumpkin in South Carolina, her parents, from what I can gather were fucked from the word go, I dont know alot about them, one fact I'm sure of is grandpa killed grandma, and then grandpa killed himself in prison. Mom was 12, her older brother was 15, "Uncle Roger". I think the main problem was grandpa liked drinking and women, grandma did not. The story goes, grandma fed up not knowing how to drive, she walked away, walked away from exactly what I don't know, maybe it was grandpa, maybe it was the kids, maybe life is what she wanted to walk away from.. Grandpa I'm sure like everything else in life he made the desion for grandma, he went after her, grandpa ran her over with the front and rear tires. Grandma died, grandpa went to prison. Windy and Roger moved to China with relatives. I suppose that's when mom started to become the destroyed mess I grew to love.

2.Dad The old man came from a very different background than Windy. Busha and Goji-Busha was Polish, Ga was German. They lived and bought their way out of Nazi Germany concentration camps along with my 2 aunts. Goji died when I was a few months old, he was ate up with cancer. Busha, she was my best friend, my salvation, my safe place, my teacher. She was soft and kind, she had the softest skin and most clear blue eyes I'd ever seen, she had a deep polish accent I loved, and she loved me. I was her favorite of all her grandchildren and she never tried to hide it. Busha always made me feel like number 1. My Busha showed me how to live, how to be a lady, how to cook and clean. Busha taught me to read palms, she told me I was going to change the lives of many people, that I was special, I have a half moon in my palm and a half moon of freckles on my cheek, she said together they make a full moon, and 1 out of 10million people have those markings, Busha always told me I was meant for something grand in this world. My mother taught me that I have to survive... Busha didn't talk about her past to much. I suppose I wouldn't either. Busha told me two stories about their life in Germany. Her youngest daughter born in Germany, she wasn't supposed to be, Busha said it was against the law, if your birth wasn't preapproved you were murdered, taking your first and last breath in unison. Busha and Goji using their wealth of sheep to their advantage bought their daughters life and eventually their freedom. My Busha went creek side and delivered her youngest daughter on her own. She left the newborn by the river to muffle the cries, for 2 days and nights busha couldn't go back to even check on her baby girl, the consequence of getting caught was death of the entire family, Goji worked a deal with the Nazis and bought his daughters life with 30 sheep. The other story of their freedom, they gave up everything that took generations to build, the farm, livestock, the house. The entire family was moved to a camp where all four of them were tattooed, she showed me once, it was a long number tattooed in black, it looked like it was done with a safety pin, big bold numbers, jagged, the ink spread out it was  deep, all the way up the side of her calf. Busha said they had armbands marking there heritage, you don't forget your armband, she said those men would beat you close to death ,man, woman, child ..they didn't care.. she was always vague mentioning the past, I don't know how long they endured Nazi Germany-camps, but it eventually led to a boat bound for America, a refugee camp off the east coast eventually led them to Chicago IL.. Busha and Goji worked for the railroad until retirement. I guess your wondering where my dad came into the picture, it was  June 1956, Busha was 52 years old when she gave birth to my father. Busha was at work and as labor started she called a cab and went to the hospital, only after she found out it was a boy did she call Goji, himself being 56 wasn't excited about another child, until he was told he had a boy! Goji had his boy. I guess that's any fathers dream is to have a son to carry on your name. The story goes Ga left work to come meet his son, and in the 50's you didn't leave work unless you were dead. Busha and Ga were strict but loving parents, private catholic school, dad received many honors throughout school, and graduated top of his class, Busha had his diploma on her wall until she died. Joe went directly to the railroad after school, he had a great start in life.

3. Joe&Windy-1975 When this tornado and hurricane collided...like most natural disasters, the effects were devastating. Mom was homeless living on a rooftop in Chicago, feeding her well developed addictions. Dad was working on the railroad and a few addictions of his own. Joe and windy met thru a mutual drug dealer and Joe moved onto the rooftop with Windy. In reminiscent highs they'd mention suitcases of drugs, gallon bags of various potions and powders they begged for "borrowed" and stole. In the first year of Joe meeting Windy, Busha and Goji retired, told Joe he was on his own and moved to small town Illinois, Wenona, population 1,000. I would guess that Joe and Windy "borrowed" from the wrong dude, shortly after Busha and Goji moved Joe and Windy followed. Joe and Windy were married under a huge weeping willow tree in Bushas back yard august 27th, 1977 is how they tell it. I think that may be a lie, or my birthdate is a lie, maybe the journey of this book will reveal some of my questions. Goji nor busha cared for mom, they seen she wasn't right, 2 people she couldn't manipulate thru her smile, Goji offered dad 300.oo dollars to not marry mom, defiance, love, who knows, they were married. They jumped into the honeymoon van, with Pam and Loney (best friends, maid of honor and best man, eventually god parents)...The rest is history..or a blur..a forty year blur...

4. Almost here. July 4th, 1978. The only pregnancy picture of mother taken was 5 days before I was born, bottle of beer in one hand, joint in her mouth and a Marlboro red next to her middle finger. Smiling from ear to ear, her eyes were smiling...That's what TWO HITS OF ORANGE SUNSHINE LSD WILL DO TO YOU, in Wenona there's a coal dump, it looks like a little mountain covered in trees, it was always a cool spot for various deviant acts. Joe and Windy along with their group climbed the cole dump to watch the fireworks, being 5 days before delivery she was to big and to fucked up to make the 500ft climb down the hill, they found a cardboard box and slid her down the hill. I was born 5 days later. She always told that story as a fond memory, I used to be fond of sharing that memory too.... Looking back I see it, text book DCFS no no's, looking back a human being with a conscious couldn't of trained me like they did. More than half my life I was proud of the drugs, the acid taken before I was born, I could roll a joint, tap a keg, seal a baggie all by the time I was 5. Wearing my prettiest dress, pool chalk on my eyelids, rolling joints and popping bottle caps, winning my dad beers, I didn't know what I was doing but I was always told to smile pretty, and bat those big eyes, mom taught me before I could talk a pretty smile can get me whatever I want, and dad gave me practice at the bar, I remember mom fixing my hair and help me get dressed up, shortly after dad would say "come on kid, lets go play the jukebox." It really became a normal, so normal I could roll a joint one-handed. My normals were not "normal".

5.Charity Ann Mietelski. July9th,1978. I was born in a catholic hospital, to a witch an addicted witch. Windy was 18, Joe was 20,they weren't ready to be parent's, I don't know if they ever were actually ready... but I was here, I was a regret, they were busy and I was in the way. There wasn't a baby book, no pictures either. My first smile, My first word, first step, I don't know, I doubt mom or dad remembered. We weren't the " Tell me the story of when you brought me home mommy", kind of mother-daughter. Besides the prized LSD story she told, there was one more "memory" she liked to tell, I'm not sure if "saving me" was a justification in her mind for all the shitty things that she allowed, with mother I'm not sure of a lot.. The story goes, when I was first born, they lived in Wenona, in a tiny rundown shack, this place was a relic from the age of when Wenona was a coal mining town. 4 room, little shiplap shack, backed up to a horse farm. Windy said an entire loaf of bread disappeared, she swore dad was drunk, and ate it, (that was probably close to the only food there was.) That night, mom said she heard me screaming, she came to check on me and in my playpen was a rat, a rat the size of a loaf of bread, it had eaten the nipple off of my bottle, mom said she grabbed me and went and got dad to get the rat, it wasn't there by the time dad came back with the gun. My playpen was built into a wooden cage with a lid basically, they surrounded the play pen with plywood, I was safe I guess.. Dad had a story he told me once about being born. The 70's in a catholic hospital, fathers weren't welcome in the birthing room so as my dad watched thru the little wired "prison" window, the moment I came out he thought he had a son, he hooted and hollered then they cut the cord, dad about passed out. Joe thought he just had a son who was going to set world records at birth, and the nurse CUT IT OFF, Jesus..I would bet money dad was still tripping when I was born. I bet I was tripping too .. These are my baby stories.

I'm in a lot of pain right now, I've been hesitating on writing because of it, staring at the paper. I'm forcing myself right now, I force myself a lot...distraction good or bad can help sometimes. There's not a lot of "good" or happy moments thru my book, except Chris, he's my shining light, its an amazing gift to be loved and love equally...I would go thru this whole life again to share just a little part with him. The lies and truth over the first 5 years I guess we'll never know. Joe and Windy went on a "honeymoon" to Mexico. This is where the story goes a little foggy, wedding date August 27,1977. My birthdate July 9,1978, again in reminiscent  highs I was told I spent a month with some friends of there's when I was first born, most of what they said I took in, but couldn't comprehend until I was older...so I'm not sure if the wedding date is a lie or my birthday is a lie, we lived in literally a shack. They didn't have Mexico honeymoon money, or wedding money, until mom got an inheritance from her relatives of some sort passing away. there's really no telling what they actually did at that time. We never had a connection mom nor dad, I felt like a burden I guess always really. April- She is one of my 3 younger sisters. There's a year and 7 months in-between April and I . I don't remember her being born, I can't place when she showed up she was just always there. I remember her sometime during our life in Varna. April was a mean lil bitch even at 2, we weren't the holding hands singing songs kind of sisters she wasn't my best friend, I'm not sure if she was even my friend. I was gullible and a show off , and April knew it, she'd bet me stupid shit all the time like getting my foot into a cinder block and then shed push it off the porch or putting a hanger hook in my mouth and she yanked it , it went thru my check like a fish hook. we didn't go to doctors until many years later when they were forced to give us health care. Dad cut that wire hanger out of my mouth with wire cutters piece by piece. April was naturally bigger than me and she knew it, liked it and pushed her bad self around as soon as she knew what it was. She always said she wanted to be the oldest. I'm pretty sure she tried killing me 3 times. I remember even as a young child being confused by her actions of aggression and hate I just wanted to play and Love... I don't remember a lot of stories with April in Varna... except this one, this was the day I knew I had to always protect my sister. April and I were walking around the pond with our German Shepard dog, wonder. I'm not sure what led up to April falling from the bank into the pond, I may have pushed her I have really no idea. April was still very little she had a diaper on. when she fell all I heard was a scream and the cattails on the bank swallowed her up, before I could finish my first scream of helplessness Wonder boy jumped in to that pond and found her!! He pulled her all the way back up the bank she didn't have not one scratch on her. Mom was in the trailer about 2 football fields away from us, she didn't hear me until the problem was over, April would've drowned if it weren't for that dog. That day gave me a new outlook on my sister, I loved her and no matter what I would always do my best to protect her. The story goes wonder was caught stealing baby pigs and a farmer shot him.

6.Lakewildwood, Varna IL. 1981 -?? The story goes when mom turned 18 she got some kind of an inheritance and they bought a big piece of land with a little trailer and an outhouse. It was a beautiful piece of property, there was a mile long gravel lane, right before the land opened up There was a forgotten cemetery, it was dilapidated and severely overgrown with briars it was eventually discovered and repaired. As soon as you passed the cemetery the land opened up, to the left were cow pastures as far as the eye could see, to the right was a huge pond it was very deep and a football field long, you could see a foot down into the water it was so clear. A couple hundred feet above the pond sat a little trailer on top of a hill. There was no running water, no bathroom, no electricity, it had a wood burning stove on one end and 2 bedrooms on the other, there wasn't a refrigerator nor a stove, there was an awesome front porch that wrapped three quarters around the trailer and the best shade tree turned into a tree-house ever, past the shade tree and the barn red outhouse, was a huge hill ( huge for Illinois)  walking down this hill was like walking into another world, huge lush trees that reached for the clouds, thick briars and brush mixed with wildflowers and tall grass, at the bottom of the hill was a creek that wound deep into the trees it was a wide creek with crystal clear water, the creek was shallow and clean magical and scary all in the same thought. The life in Varna was rugged, now that I think back I never knew we were dirt poor, in our world you washed your clothes in the creek, took showers when it rained, peed in the grass and cooked over a campfire. I had no Idea electricity was an option in life, a bathroom inside was never a thought, stabbing frogs with my dad and plucking feathers off a wild turkey was just what you did. I was a very happy little girl, I loved pretty dresses and ribbons in my hair, I was also the mud pie queen, and a champion tree climber in my own eyes. One piece of society we did have was toga parties, about 5 cars full 2 vans and a few motorcycles would show up a few times in the summer, everyone would have sheets on and flowers in their hair there would always be a keg, I was the "bartender" and I was drunk, mom and dad never seen a problem with drugs or alcohol, for kids...there used to be a polaroid of mom holding a fishbowl full of beer, helping me get a drink, my parents had a gift of making wrong or bad things regardless of what it was acceptable, even cool, I used to carry a lot of this bad parenting around with  boastful pride. In my child's mind we lived there for along time, we moved a lot a few years down the road. Mom and dad acquired a wine still somewhere, I remember smashing apples in there with my sister, I remember being trashed a lot, child inebriation was supported in my life they called me practice whatever they messed up with me they knew not to do with the other ones... I know there's a lot of incomplete memories in this book and aspartic thoughts...welcome to my life. We had a neighbor down the road, we called him Mr. Charlie, he was a walk thru the cow pasture, he was a very old man, he had peacocks and swans all over his yard, swans are mean birds...not the point, It was winter time I guess it was Christmas I'm not really sure if it was Christmas day or a week before I don't know. It was snowing, it had been snowing it was a few feet deep and it was cold, when winter came there that was it, no one came there no one left, that old man came walking up that driveway, he had a evergreen tree over one arm and a big black garbage bag over the other shoulder. I had never had a Christmas before I didn't know who or what Santa Claus was, I remember being confused as to why he was carrying a tree, but I was excited with joy I loved Mr. Charlie, he was a sweet man and I hadn't seen another person in months, he brought that tree in and put a big shiny star on top, we didn't have electricity, he brought a bunch of shiny candle holders he attached to the tree and lit it, his big black bag was full of food already cooked and tree decorations presents of all shapes and sizes wrapped in paper that was so beautiful I thought that was the present. I had never see Christmas decorations before and he pulled out this old plastic decoration it was red and had points on 2 ends  it had a hollowed out middle with shinier plastic thru the middle, it was so precious to me, I had no idea beautiful things like that existed, I wanted to exists in beauty like that, I still had no idea what was going on but it was a great evening, before that day and shortly after that I remember a lot of powdered milk and Popeye cereal that was a long winter the snow got to deep to walk thru, the outhouse moved into the kitchen in the form of a bucket. That winter mom had a miscarriage she sat in a hall closet, I think where the furnace should of been. I stepped in the blood that had leaked thru the bottom of the door as I was going into my bedroom, I freaked out and started screaming for mom, dad came and hurried me off reassuring me everything was okay. They said it was a little boy, I never seen him, I seen blood on the blanket he was wrapped in. Dad went to the tree line on the far end of the trailer and thru the 3 foot of snow and the Illinois frozen ground dad dug, I seen him fix his broken down shovel more than once, he was out there for hours trying to break the frozen ground, with his dead son cradled in the snow next to him. Dad buried that boy, mom said he was born to soon, she never mentioned him again, dad never mentioned him. winters last a long time in Illinois. Dads famous saying, no matter how bad it seems we can always rest assured the sun will rise again...a new day a new start Springtime always made it worth the wait, dandelions and baby kittens, mud pies for everyone, catching lightning bugs and chasing rainbows, the sun on my face I always loved how the sun made my blonde hair seem as if it sparkled, life opened up again. The passing of seasons also brings the passing in age and I was becoming a little momma I had four cats and about 30 kittens I loved them all so much the poor things as soon as they got big enough to tear the living hell out of me they would, I couldn't get within 5 foot of a cat over 4 weeks , I loved too much I guess. Springtime meant toga time, it didn't matter I was only 5 I had my toga and lipstick, I was the bartender and joint roller I was encouraged to drink and smoke a passed out kid is a good kid I guess. As I write my story memories come that I have forgotten, I'm terrified of what I might remember..

There used to be a picture of 10 squad cars lining the driveway. Mom's version of what happened is that sometime that season there was an escaped prisoner, after talking and researching I think it may have been dad, there were cops and dogs all over that land with 20 plus drunks lined up in the grass. The cops didn't find who they were looking for in mom's version of the story but half the party was taken away for warrants. That was the first time I had ever seen a cop car, I think the first time I seen flashing lights ever in life, I thought it was great a freaking parade had just pulled into the driveway. The next day I was the parade as far as I was concerned, my long lost uncle roger had come to visit,  first and only time I had ever met him and his sports car, I don't remember him really but that bright red sports car with all the lights, bells and whistles, my mind was blown. When that car started talking, Yes talking my 5 year old self not ever having the opportunity of technology of any kind, that beautiful car that told you your door was ajar and to buckle your seatbelt (whatever a seatbelt was) I was convinced Uncle Roger had to be a King somewhere. The rest of the summer was normal mud pies, singing made up songs, watching my blonde hair in the sun as I swung on my tire swing. Dad killed a deer that summer. I remember seeing it hanging I didn't know who bambi was. I had never seen a movie...So to me it was a project, it was food, it was interesting. I was curious and all about helping. When mom cut open that deer and all the blood and intestines everything came oozing pouring out I was terrified, my animals only had cotton in them, after the initial shock my weird little self was right in there, I wanted to feel the blood, taste it, feel what the organs felt like. I helped mom all day, I was covered in blood...mom. She tried I guess in ways with no clue to what she was doing. The meat rotted, the only salvageable piece of that deer was the hide, we scraped on that thing all summer it was never preserved in anyway or cleaned, it was disgusting and she drug it around for years. As they always do the seasons changed. Powdered milk, snow and the bucket all came back around and dad disappeared. He was gone for a long time, I didn't know he was gone until he came back.... Child's mind. I was never told where he was, still to this day I don't know where he was. winter passed, we were well into summer it was uneventful as far as my child's mind can remember. Then things changed, I woke up one morning and mom wasn't there, Busha was, Busha never came into our house, my whole life busha actually came into the house 2 times. I loved her soo dearly, I was soo happy she was there it never crossed my mind of where mom was...until it got too long, days and days had passed..still no mom. I don't remember being distressed about mom being gone, she was my distress, Busha was my safe place, my whole life busha was always my safe place. I don't remember the transition but one day mom was back and busha was gone. Mom had another child this is my second little sister Jess, she was born July 22, 1982. I don't remember her coming home, I'm not sure if she came home when mom did. Jess was a preemie she was 10 weeks early. I don't remember mom being pregnant with her, I don't know how she came about delivery in the hospital, small town rumors jess was an addicted baby and not my dads. I still had no Idea where he was. Not long after mom returned I remember seeing dad walking up to the trailer, mom met him at the door, they hugged and kissed, I remember watching them, I remember being happy for them, I remember them, I don't remember caring if they where there or not....

Chapter 2. Liberty Missouri. The first time I remember going to busha's house in Wenona I was 5, I know now we were on our way to Missouri saying goodbye to busha.. I had to pee after 2 laps around the house I was frantic I couldn't pee in bushas yard. I tore thru the house "mom, mom, help I have to pee where's the outhouse!" standing there dancing, its in the hallway was her response, I asked in the house?! I was confused bushas house was perfect how could she have a outhouse in here? She opened the door, and ohh my god I had never seen a bathroom like that there was no wood it was all shiny white, it smelled good and it was clean like I had never seen. I peed 20 times that day, flushing amazed me. I lived terrified of that disgusting black hole I had to sit above my whole life to go to the bathroom. I don't remember going there I don't remember actually getting there. I remember the house tho I couldn't believe we got to stay there it was light blue house with tall ceilings and huge windows, I felt as if we had a castle. We had neighbors right outside of the front door. There was an old woman who lived next door who would chase us off the sidewalk with her broom.. until mom caught her doing it, mom came off the roof party they were having and broke that woman's broom in half, then she threatened to woop her old ass with it..momma back in the day was full of fire. I'm not sure why, but for the one and only time in my life mom went to work and dad stayed home with us. Windy was an ass wiper im pretty sure, I remember the white uniform she looked like nurse Ratchet from "One flew Over The Cuckoos Nest" she was not a nurse, she didn't have an eighth grade education. If I know Windy , which I do, she wasn't there for the 3.25 an hour, it was the thousand pill count bottles of drugs she went to work for. Joe..as a babysitter well he was no Mr. Rogers, Joe had the fatherly equivalence of Homer Simpson, he wasn't violent, he wasn't mean he just wasn't..anything too us..He was drunk. At this point in life I don't remember anything fucked up happening too me. I've grown up and no I'm not a MD of anything but I'm pretty sure a 5 year old girl who indicates and instigates anything sexual with a 7 year old boy, that baby girl was soiled before she got to that boy. Windy caught me in the entryway of our garage in a cardboard box, I had my pants off, she spanked me. I don't think a 5 year old can have any developed sexuality that wasn't taught, the little boy was poor and damaged too. I ran away at 5 I ran to his house, dad came and retrieved me, I never seen that little boy again. Life was very different compared to the seclusion of Varna IL, mom and dad dug up this group of good ole'boys they called themselves Easy Co. These people became a big influence over the years . We also had a wealthy aunt who lived in Missouri, she was my dads oldest sister If I had to guess she was a influence on our move to Missouri. She tried to help mom be a better mom in societies eyes, mom of course took any and all advice with offense, my mothers pride and fear of embarrassments ruled her life. She has a lot of shame she wanted to ignore and hide. She became a pro at ignoring, if she couldn't keep it hid, she'd "throw" it away. Okay, so The Easy Company. Redbeard, Lance, Theresa and Rat. Redneck, beer guzzling, motorcycle riding, speed freaks. They were always at the house helping dad "babysit", always messed up putting whole fish in the garbage disposal off the wall kind of weird things. We were drastically ignored, this is the time in life I became a little momma. Jess was a baby and she seemed to always be wet and stinky and I didn't like touching her because of it so when life forced me to step up I figured out how to change her diaper and feed her, I don't remember a lot of Jess. I would smoke cigarette butts, put them under her crib and I blamed it on her.. I did once... I got spanked and I got better at hiding. I convinced Jess the garbage truck was the welfare man coming to take her away, I got a 30 minute break once a week. Jess was scared of her own shadow, poor thing hid from the garbage truck and pissed her pants until she was 10, for years I didn't even notice she was still hiding. She hid until I told her the truth, I never realized until it was too late all of my sisters needed my help and protection, I guess I was overwhelmed and jess was my burden.... I carry guilt now that I cleared the fog, I guess it's guilt I don't deserve...Mom and dad were pro's at ignoring overwhelming situations, I guess I am too, my entire family we all are. Our first real Christmas was at our aunts house, she had an 80 foot Christmas tree, her house was like a good housekeeping magazine-cookies-homemade candy everywhere, garland and lights on anything that would stand still. The bathroom was decorated! There was a shower curtain and a toilet seat cover with a big white haired man on them, I found this very odd, I still at this time in life had no idea who Santa was or what he was about. That year I received every single Orphan Annie Item on the market. I had never seen that movie, it wasn't until a few years later I figured out who that red curly haired girl was. Aunt S. tried for many years in many different ways to help my sisters and I out of the life we had and give us a life that Joe and Windy could never provide.. They never allowed their "love" to supersede their pride. after so long and so bad..Aunt S gave up on me... I was the only one who didn't give up on me after so much and so bad,  hell I gave up to once or twice. Mom quit or got fired from her job, we started "visiting" a lot, Joe and Windy drug us everywhere. "The Easy Company" became our family, we were always in one of two places "The Caves" it was a bar built into a cave, well actually more like a cave with a door put in front of the hole, it had a couple flood lights, a pool table and a jukebox. I loved that place, I would play the jukebox, drink PBR and explore the caves a little, ( I didn't go further than the light of the bar). I'm pretty sure we did all this "visiting" to make money..to put it nicely mom was a whore, she started using her sexuality to her advantage at the age of 12, it was easy for her it seemed like her go to. Our second place to "visit" was this little apartment always loud always filled with leather clad people and smoke, there were never any other kids around, we were ignored to the point people without kids would feel sorry for us. Lance noticed April and I looking at a playboy, he gave us a phonebook told us to read that we got extremely bored with that very fast ..when lance cruised back by and we had another dirty magazine he took us to his room and let us prank call people and gave us rags, he was trying hard to be a biker and had a tore down Harley in his bedroom. My sisters and I cleaned on that bike for hell God only knows, weeks, months..maybe it was only days but watching the grease and surface rust disappear I don't know it was rewarding and calming in a way, I watched that pile of dirty rusty steel and chrome turn into a big ape hanging Harley chopped motorcycle.. every time we came over it took more shape than the time before, in my family you never seen anything "come together" in anyway, they had a lot of dreams but no ambition. So seeing those confusing pieces of twisted rust become a mean beast of a bike made me realize...addicts could function I loved motorcycles, I loved leather, I loved the breeze on my face and I was already always high. I was hooked before I realized what hooked was.   I have 2 more memories from Missouri, Halloween, mom took us trick or treating, we got home and the power was off that was common so we walked in without hindrance and around the corner here comes a ghost it was dad, he chased us all around the house J had a freaking mental breakdown..poor thing.. she pissed her pants and froze on the floor the fun was over and lights came on. I thought it was great fun dad never interacted with us or played with us hell he didn't talk to us unless he had to tell us something at this point in life. Joe wasn't mean or violent, he never called us names or hit us, he just wasn't ..Joe was fucked up.. Was it a game? Regretful payback, maybe a commodity? The next day we went to a really fancy house a dark house, shiny dark wood covered the ceilings walls and floors, shiny dark double doors all over the house. I don't know where J was, mom took April and I to a room a huge room. I think know it it was a library floor to ceiling book shelves on 2 walls filled. enormous windows with dark heavy drapery it was a quiet room with fur rugs all over the floor. There was a huge desk with every drawer locked across the room was a chess set on its own assigned table and two huge leather chairs . Okay so here goes, mom told us to be good and play chess, I was sitting there looking at the pieces, looking around the room everything had become blurry, trying to focus holding different chess pieces closer and further away, I asked April if she was blurry she told me no and she was looking at a book of somesort. I was confused as to why they were blurry, I convinced myself it wasn't blurry that it had to be some kind of art that was made blurry on purpose. Sometime over the course of me trying to get my eyes and head back in order using all my illogical logic to not panic a man came in the room, I had seen him before at various parties and places  the parents drug us too, he looked like every other man around the crowd and I had never felt caution or fear at this stage of life. I trusted Joe and Windy if this man was in here they knew it about it. The man walked over picked me up and sat me on his lap , I was so happy he was going to show me how to play this blurry game I couldn't believe it attention wasn't something I was accustom too, as soon as he sat me on his lap I felt it, I didn't know at this time what I was feeling of course, I kept squirming he told me to sit still that I was hurting him, he positioned me to where I was facing the chess table and gave me the queen  and told me they had to kiss a hundred times before the game could start, chess is a game of war and they had to show love to one another before they could fight incase one of them died. I heard his pants unzip and through my dress he sat me on top of him, I didn't know what was happening, he held me at the waist and jostled me on his lap. I was so fucked up on whatever whoever gave me, I remember getting tired and laying back on his lap I couldn't really see or hear. I came too with a king in one hand and the queen in the other laying back on this man...my inner thighs and dress was wet he told me I peed my pants so I was to little to learned to play chess, he got up and left. I was a girly girl the idea of peeing my pants didn't make sense to me I hadn't peed myself since I was 2 and I loved the 2 dresses I had. I was checking myself frantically and my panties weren't wet, how did I pee myself if my panties aren't wet, I thought maybe April peed on me, I didn't want to ask her incase she didn't do it then it was my fault so I didn't ask I rubbed my hands on the wetness to smell it didn't feel or smell like pee, I was nervous and embarrassed and I wasn't sure what was happening I sopped up the mess with a corner of my dress and wadded up the corner. Mom soon after came into the room she asked if that man had touched me? I told her no, I told her he sat me on his lap and showed me how to play chess, I told her I had an accident I guess I peed my pants but I didn't get my undies wet. Mother pulled my dress up and felt my panties, and kind of patted me down she felt the wet sticky spot on my dress, she looked into my eyes in a way I'd never seen. she didn't say a word, she went and got me a freezing cold paper towel, I tried to clean up my legs the best I could I was all fucked up. Mom carried me to the car...in the blink of an eye we were back in Illinois.

#my book #abuse #child abuse #healing #love #hate