#and the context of bedtime story alongside story about him?? what we know that story is now?? HHHH | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maybe-its-micheal · 3 years

Text

Like an Orange Spark...

/rp /dsmp

Ghostbur watched as Dream, Tommy, and Techno talked. He was sure he had just known what they were discussing, but now the context seemed to slip through his fingers... he was used to the feeling, though, and shrugged it off. He tried for a few minutes to pay attention, but kept forgetting what everyone was talking about, amd decided to do something else. He turned his back to them, and let his eyes wonder across the snowy landscape.

It was really was a lovely day, the leaves of the spruce trees swayed slightly in the chill breeze, leaving shadows dancing on the ground. A few small bushes peaked up over the snow, dotted with red berries, and the sun sat in the center of the cloudless sky. Ghostbur heard a slight rustle from a near by bush, and spotted a hint of blue from behind it.

"Listen, Techno, you owe me. Im calling in that fav-"

"Friend!" Ghostbur yelled, interrupting whatever it was Dream was on about.

Techno's expression, a mix between anger and concern, shifted to pity as he looked over at the ghost. It was odd seeing the man who he'd once fought alongside like this... he was a capable leader, and a dangerous enemy. But that was in another life...

Tommy was tense, and flinched as Dream snapped his head around to glare at Ghostbur. He grumbled something under his breath before turning back to Technoblade. "Look. I dont want to make this a big thing-" Techno put a hand up to interrupt as he gave Dream a serious look. He turned to Ghostbur, handing him a lead.

"Hey, Ghostbur. Me and Tommy need to talk to Dream, but I saw a patch of blue flowers on the other side of the village. How about you take Friend and see if you can find them?" He asked.

"Ok!" He responded excitedly. Blue was his favorite, he was always looking for more. "You guys have fun!"

He tied the lead to Friend and ran his grey fingers through the soft wool. He turned to go, hearing a few hushed sentences as he walked off.

"He shouldn't have to watch something like this," Technoblade whispered.

Dream scoffed. "Not like he'd remember anyway. But now that he's gone, I want Tommy to..."

And the voices trailed off. Wilbur decided to fill the quiet by talking to friend- that always cheered him up! "Today I've been spending lots of time with Technoblade!" he told the sheep. "We brewed a whole bunch of invisibility potions together, it was lovely. You know, I think they may be his favorite kind of potion, he kept going on about how much he wanted to share them with Tommy." He gave a slight chuckle, then stopped walking. He turned around to look back at the group. "Technoblade seems to really like Tommy. I cant imagine why..." he said with a jokey smile, eyes fixed on Tommy. He was a bit hunched over, still looking at the ground. Every so often he looked up, nervously glancing to Dream with big, glossy eyes, and then looking back down. Ghostbur frowned. "Maybe that was a bit mean to say. I was only joking," he clarified to Friend. "Tommy isn't all bad."

Ghostbur turned back around and kept walking. On his way to the village he got to thinking about Tommy... he could be really annoying, there's no denying that, but he also had a lot of good qualities. He remembered when they were first making L'manburg together; those were good times. Tommy had been very brave, then, and determined too. No matter how grim a situation looked he never seemed to be afraid of Dream, he just kept going. Maybe he was just a naive child, but in the end... the details were fuzzy, but Ghostbur was sure that in the end it was Tommy who did something to secure the future of their nation.

In the quiet he couldn't help but overhear some of the conversation taking place back over the hill. Their voices were getting louder, maybe they were all excited about something. A smile dawned on Ghostbur's face- maybe they'd sent him away because they're planning a surprise party! He stopped walking again, and did his best to listen.

"I am not handing him over to-" Techno's voice yelled.

"... control over... give it to me! Him. Give him to me!" Dream responded.

"You've done enough dam..."

"... never should have trusted..."

"I dont want to kill you."

It was hard to keep track of who was saying what, but it didn't sound much like party planning. Ghostbur went back to walking- he could see the wooden roofs of buildings in the distance, which meant he was getting close to the village.

In all the yelling he wondered why he couldn't hear Tommy's voice. Maybe he just hadn't listened hard enough- that was probably it. Being quiet is quite unlike Tommy, Wilbur thought.

"Come on, Techno... favor... my..."

"I dont want... can't betray him agai..."

"...Im sorry."

"Theseus."

Theseus... he wasn't sure why, but that name lit something up in the back of his mind. It was only there for a moment, like a flickering spark. A memory. Phil had told him and Techno about Theseus when they were kids... it was a bedtime story, he thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes, trying to focus on it, and see if he could get the spark to come back. Friend looked at him with a tilted head and bah'ed, as if to ask why they stopped walking.

"... can make a deal..."

"Hand him over... want..."

"I'll never fall for..."

"He's just a kid, Dream. He..."

Wilbur could see the spark in his mind- a little glowing dot of orange bouncing around in an infinite void of grey and blue darkness. Then, all at once, the spark lit up, erupting into a flame that filled his entire mind. Ghostbur jumped backwards with surprise, falling into the snow.

His mind took him back to another time; another life, when he was another person. The war was still going on, the first one with Tommy, Tubbo and Fundy. Eret had already betrayed them.

In his mind, he saw Wilbur- himself- no, Wilbur- standing on the banks of a lake back in Dream SMP territory. An oak path stretched over the water like a bridge, and Dream stood to one side, Tommy on the other. They both held a bow and a few arrows.

Fundy and Tubbo were there with him, and so were George and Sapnap. Everyone was deadly silent, except for Wilbur. He was counting, loud and clear, his voice echoing over the scene.

"...in it for me..."

"...give you... ever want..."

"Fine, its a deal."

"...I'm sorry, Tommy..."

"... Theseus... cliff... the person he took refuge f..."

"...faster."

"... seen it coming."

The talk was drowning out the memory... the firelight was flickering, and peices of the scene were covered with grey darkness and splotches of blue again. Ghostbur was desperate to hold on, he held his head in his hands and pushed his eyes shut tight. "No no no no no," he muttered to himself, hoping for it to stay just a few moments longer. Through the fading light he heard his past self reach the number 10 amd stop counting... Tommy and Dream turned around to face eachother.

"Please, Techno, I dont want to go," Ghostbur heard from back in reality. Tommy's voice was breaking through his memory... it was all falling apart.

"Come on, Tommy. Take off the armor, don't make me do this the hard way," Dream replied.

"I dont want to, Techno. Hes going to kill me, please!"

"I'm not going to kill you if you cooperate. Hurry up," Dream barked.

The memory was almost gone. There was no more Fundy, or Sapnap, or oak path. It was only water as a heap of bubbles disturbed the surface. When they cleared Ghostbur could see Tommy struggling in the water. He was about to reach the air again, but then-

An arrow plunged itself through Tommy's heart, killing him instantly, and it all came flooding back.

He was snapped back to present day, and running back to the three. Friend was left behind in the snow. Dream shot Tommy. That was the memory, how Tommy lost his second life. Dream shot him. "You BASTARD!' He shouted at the top of his lungs as he sprinted back the way he came. "You fucking BASTARD!"

Then the darkness started to come back... Ghostbur balled his hand into a fist. Dream let out a yell... and it all went grey.

Next thing he knew, he was seated with Technoblade in the house. He looked around. "Oooh! You're brewing! Are you making invisibility? Thats your favorite potion," he told the pig. Techno looked up.

"No, its... harming." He replied. "I thought- you know since you're undead it would work kind of like skeletons and zombies."

"Aww, it's for me? Thanks! But why would I need to heal?" He paused, feeling a bit cold. There was a draft- maybe a window was opened upstairs.

"Because-" Techno stopped and looked at the ghost. "Do you not remember?"

Ghostbur paused. "Hmmm... well I know Dream came to visit. And then... something about an arrow? No, that wasn't it... I guess I dont really remember. What happened?"

Technoblade sighed, and set the potion down. "Nothing big. Im just glad youre ok."

Ghostbur laughed, "well yeah! It's not like I could die again!" That draft was getting big- he looked down.

"Oh." He said. There was a massive hole in his yellow sweater, but the grey akin underneath was left unharmed. "How did..?"

"Dont worry about it. Phil is already working on making you a new one, too, by the way. It'll be blue."

Ghostbur gasped. "Oh my god!" He exclaimed with a smile, "thats my favorite color!"

Technoblade chuckled. "I know, Ghostbur. I know."

"I should tell Tommy," the ghost decided. "Where is he?"

Techno's face fell. "He... had to leave."

Ghostbur shrugged. "I don't remember that, when?"

"Just a few minutes ago... he went with Dream."

Ghostbur smiled pleasantly. "Thats nice, they really are such good friends."

"Yeah..." Technoblade replied. "Friends."

#wilbur soot #technoblade #tommy innit #tommyinnit #dream #dreamwastaken #dream was taken #mcyt #mcyt fanfic #mcyt fanfiction #dsmp #dream smp fanfic #dream smp #dsmp fanfic #dsmp techno

109 notes · View notes

buckyswinterbaby · 3 years

Text

Always By My Side — Prologue

Synopsis: Young Bucky and Ziarah learn about the story of the fates and soulmates. Whether the tales are true or not is left to be seen.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Black!OFC Ziarah Heartwell

Warnings (will change with each chapter): none that come to mind for this chapter besides a referencing to God.

Word Count: 1,189

Acknowledgement: I’ve created this AU alongside my best friend Taylor in roleplays, along with many of the plots and scenes that will be featured. I’m posting this with his expressed permission as we both continue to work on the story in our chat. Credit for its creation goes to both of us.

Please like, comment, and reblog (I love that shit). Click here to fill out the form to be added to my tag list!

Note: This is is kind of a teaser/prologue to the series I’ll be posting the first chapter to soon called Always By My Side. It’s an AU my best friend Taylor and I have been building off of an imaginary friend prompt. I’m hoping this snippet will give you a bit of insight into the purpose of the soulmate bond in their world so you have some context going in. Hope you enjoy.

Addition: I said I’d tag you when I posted my WOC OFC story so here’s the first part, @bucky-the-thigh-slayer!

[Brooklyn - Late 1920’s]

Faded hues of yellows and oranges could still be seen through the thin panes of glass of the Barnes residence. The table had just been cleared from supper, the delicious aroma of Winnifred’s cooking still clung to the air.

Bucky and his sibling gathered on the floor in front of their mother, all freshly bathed and dressed for bed. The anticipation was clear in the younger ones’ faces as they prepared for their nightly story, though Bucky decided Rebecca’s shown the brightest. The woman couldn’t help but laugh as she settled into the wooden rocking chair that had soothed all of her children throughout the years.

“What story would you like to hear tonight, dears?” Winnifred’s smooth voice interrupted the youngest pair’s fit of giggles.

Charles, the second oldest after Bucky, was the first to answer. “Tell us the one about the coal miners again!” It was always his answer as he loved the voices his mother would use during her retellings.

Rebecca seemed less than sold on the idea as her freckled nose scrunched in distaste. “That one is silly! I want to hear about soulmates. Will you tell us that one, ma?” The glint in her eyes only seemed to grow as her mother hummed in agreement.

The rhythmic creaking of wood on wood could be heard as she began to rock, summoning the tales of lovers separated by miles being brought together with a bond that only true love could create, or so they said. Her blue eyes fell to Bucky’s, which mirrored her own, as she began to speak.

“They say the bond of soulmates is rare, God’s way of bringing together two people destined to meet and fall in love. The first stories were from long ago, before planes, cars, or even trains existed. When the corners of the earth were undiscovered and untouched by man. A time when mere miles could act as a barrier to keep others from ever meeting. The two individuals would see visions of one another, guiding them closer together over time. A mirrored reflection of their fated love.”

The children listened to her words with great interest as she continued her story, even Bucky’s attention seemed to turn her way. He had heard the stories a million times when he was younger. He’d lean in the doorway as she rocked a babe in her arms, telling them the tale that he had deemed himself too old to care about. Yet, as he found himself at the age where the pretty young dames around were of great interest, he also found himself considering the possibility. That there was someone out there in the world who was destined to love him in the truest way.

Bucky was sure it was a fairytale at its core, meant to spark a light of hope and possibility in the young eyes of youth. Even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more akin to fate at play.

[Brooklyn - 2004]

Ziarah leaned over the top railing of the bunk bed she shared with her older brother. The boy on the lower bed rolled her eyes at the continued antics of their nightly routine as this was the third time his sister had been brought to bed that night alone. The four year old grinned goofily as her mother, Hanna, adjusted the silk bonnet on her head.

“Lay back and tuck in, my little bumblebee,” the woman said fondly, climbing the first few rungs of the ladder to pull the blankets up to her daughter’s shoulders. Once she was satisfied, she climbed back down to sit on the stool she kept nearby for bedtime stories. “Which one shall we read tonight?”

Hanna couldn’t help but sigh as Zara popped straight up in her excitement, wiggling out from under her pile of blankets and stuffed animals as she made her way right back down the ladder and onto her mother’s lap. She knew any scoldings she would give would be fruitless so she settled for gathering the girl warmly in her arms.

Zara seemed to consider the question for a moment, emerald green eyes scanning the small bookshelf tucked only a foot or so away. Her gaze settled on a small book on the second shelf. As her mother selected it, Zara’s hands reached out to run over the watercolor themed cover. Shades of blues and pinks blended together to create the scene of a galaxy, two lover constellations drawn into the stars.

“Ahh, yes, the lovers. This was one of my favorites growin’ up as well,” Hanna mused, memories of her own childhood swimming to the surface of her eyes. She shifted her daughter in her arms slightly so she could open the cover more easily, clearing her throat before she began to speak. “Once upon a time there were two fates, old and wise women who spun the tales of all humans. They did not control the stories as much as they were scribes--”

“Momma, what’s a sk-shir-scribe?” Zara looked up at her mother for an answer, her head leaning back against the woman’s shoulder.

“It’s someone who copies things down to keep a record,” she answered, placing a kiss on Zara’s forehead before continuing. “Of life. Occasionally, the threads of time would become twisted and out of line so the women would step in to correct it. That is how the existence of the soulmate bond came to be. Some time ago it was believed to be caused by the distance that separated two people meant to be together, but now they believe it’s changed--”

“To what?” Zara’s eyebrows knitted together in a line as her cheeks puffed out at her impatience.

Hanna couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatics. “I don’t know, love. Though, perhaps if you let me read more than one page without interruption, we’d know by now.” While the color was barely visible, the girl’s cheeks heated up as she bared her baby teeth, one of her less subtle ways of defiance. Even so, Zara nodded for her to continue.

“They believe it’s changed to times when one or both halves won’t survive without the other. The fates trigger the bond to preserve life and sanity, to provide support to both halves when they need it the most. The occurrence is more rare than ever now, as it relies on both sides truly needing it,” She went on to finish the rest of the story as Zara’s eyelids seemed to grow heavy. She was ever so careful as she stood to carry the girl back to her bed, tucking her in for what she prayed would be the final time that night.

Zara let out a large yawn as she pulled her stuffed bunny, Frankie, to her chest. “Momma,” she called out through another yawn, blinking over at her lazily. “Do you think that I have a soulmate?”

She was asleep before Hanna could even answer, but even so she gently brushed her thumb over the girl’s soft cheek. “I hope that you never need to find out if you do or not.”

#marvel #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x ofc #black ofc #Ziarah Heartwell #always by my side #always by my side series #abms series #ABMS #Bucky Barnes x woc #Bucky Barnes x black!ofc #soulmates #soulmate AU #bucky barnes soulmate au

31 notes · View notes

yeoldontknow · 5 years

Text

Joyride & Finesse | Chapter 1: Network-King | M

Author’s Note: part of the EXO Customs collaboration with @ninibears-erigom @baekwell--tart @fairyyeols @kyungseokie @suhoerections @skjdln @kpop---scenarios @kimjongdaely | this story features dark themes, including but not limited to: weapons trafficking, gang activity, use of a child for weapons transporting (this is based on the very real activities that occurred in the late 80s/early 90s in Manhattan and the Bronx), PTSD, and graphic depictions of death. Do not read if these topics make you uncomfortable and take the warnings seriously. Pairing: Yixing x Reader (oc; female; eventual) Summary: A brief history of Yixing’s life - if, that is, you can call it a life. | please see series summary for full context Genre: gang!au; action; suspense; drama; smut; au Rating: NC-17 Warnings: weapons trafficking; use of a child for weapons transport; gang activity; car theft; arson; gun use; graphic depictions of blood; graphic depictions of death; explicit sex; unprotected sex; creampie; mentions of pimping; references to PTSD - please take these warnings seriously and do not read if uncomfortable. Word Count: 6,405

Six days after Yixing’s ninth birthday, a man with calloused hands and blood beneath his fingernails promises him a large sum of money.

Outside his grandfather’s restaurant, the fry cook scrawls an address on an order book, grease stains dotting the paper and smearing the ink. Slung over his left arm, a black backpack, the thick straps adjusted short enough for a child to keep their balance, swings haphazardly, weighted and slow; ominous, but Yixing assumes this is because the pendulum of the clock in his grandmother’s den swings just as slowly, and the swing reminds him he is idle and therefore of not much value.

The man smiles as he hands him the paper, a slow pull of his cheek loaded with promises and secrets, though not altogether comforting. But Yixing feels the thrill of inclusion as he slides the backpack over his shoulders, grinning alongside these men who tower over him, glad that he has been given a sense of purpose. Beneath the neon green of the restaurant sign, the ruddy brown of blood is highlighted in the crevices of the cook’s fingers, and he wonders if by the end of the night he too will be stained.

This, he decides, is the colour of initiation, and he feels a sudden thrill in the anticipation of being painted.

Six blocks down, and the straps begin to rub into his shoulders, irritated as the weigh slides the neck of his shirt down. As he walks, he wonders if it’s books - chef books or recipes from the old land, as his grandmother calls it, secrets that she won’t even tell his mother because she was not from their village. Or, perhaps, he carries wrapped meats, provisions for the restaurant written on the paper, supporting their community the way a family does.

Thirteen blocks down, and the sting from the backpack is matched only by the intensity of his curiosity. He pauses, leaning against a real estate office that has recently gone up for sale, windows shattered and building looted. Stretching his neck, he debates opening the pack and redistributing the weight, but the note in his hand says to deliver sealed and the way the fry cooks’ arms bulged as he wrote the words reminds him of the heavy way his cleaver never misses a slice, and so he decides to let it be.

The marks, he knows, are probably red, and the longer he walks, the darker they will be. Ruddy and red and powerful.

When he reaches the back delivery door of the address, sweat has gathered on his brow, and he wipes it quickly away with the back of his wrist. If he appears weak, it is likely the money he receives will be less than promised - he isn’t exactly sure why he thinks this, only that his grandmother has told him weak men buckle when they’re offered opportunity, and he doesn’t want to be deemed anything less.

Yixing knocks three times on the door before a woman with a severe brow stands in the entryway, eyes glancing through the alley before falling on his face. Mute, she cocks an eyebrow at him as he hands her the order slip, and almost immediately she pulls at the backpack. Her hands do not touch him, expertly sliding it off as though she’s done it before, has had this done to her, and she gestures for him to leave, yelling at him to go home to his mother.

Confused, he turns to leave before she grabs his hand and slips a folded wad of money into his palm, eyes refusing to meet his before she shuts the door.

Feeling small and bewildered and utterly insignificant, though not entirely disappointed, Yixing lingers behind the restaurant for a moment before a light in a basement window turns on. From where he stands, he can see the top of the woman’s head as she moves quickly. He shuffles closer, kneeling amongst the bushes for a better look as her hands tug at the zipper of the bag.

Three black bags, taped closed, are pulled from the pack before it’s thrown to the floor, and Yixing can see the irregular heavy shape the bags take, glad that he was not as weak as he once thought he was. The bags are large, and loaded generously, and he feels proud for carrying such a heavy load so quickly.

She rips open the plastic as another man joins her, taking a bag and doing the same. Yixing blinks, unsure what he’s seeing is true, before he realizes there is no trick of the light and no film crew around him to tell him what he sees is fake.

From the bags, they pull pistols - several pistols - which they line neatly in a row and count, nodding and talking as though negotiating, but Yixing cannot hear them. His eyes fall to the guns, their sleek barrels and the way they gleam in the low light, catching all that is bright and good and absorbing it, without giving anything back. He’s never seen a gun before, only in the movies he watches at night when its past his bedtime, and something about their elegance makes him decide this shade of black is his favourite colour.

Yixing looks to his palm and counts fifty dollars, exactly the amount he was promised.

Delighted, he sneaks away from the window and walks with a happy bounce he does his best to contain. He’ll be able to eat for three weeks with this money, and hopes he will soon be given more.

When Yixing is eleven, he is certain there has never been a girl more beautiful than Baozhai.

She is unafraid to laugh loudly, to beat the boys at sports, to fight for what she believes in, and to smile widely even though her teeth are not entirely straight. Her calligraphy is not the best, neither elegant nor clean, but it is committed and diligent, and he supposes these are her most important traits. From across the room during Sunday Chinese school, he watches and wonders what it would be like to sit next to her.

Would they talk about her father, and the deliveries he makes for him? Would they talk about his calligraphy, and the way he can never seem to get his strokes at the correct angle? Would they talk about the flowers she wears in her hair, a different one for everyday, and how he thinks she is always in bloom? Yixing is eleven, and is already happy to surrender the topic of conversation to keep her happy, assuming this is real love because he simply wants to keep her close.

The first words she ever says to him make his blood run hot, mouth running dry and stopping him from formulating a coherent reply.

‘I went to your family’s restaurant the other night,’ she says, walking home beside him after class because Meixing got a ride home and she lingered a little too long by the bike rack looking for her friends and Yixing smiled, a sign of companionship. ‘It was really good.’

Yixing stares at her, wide eyed as a blush creeps into his cheeks. In the cold winter of the sunlight, he’s sure it’s obvious he is not warm, that it is she who has turned him pink, but he does not care. He can’t care, because she giggles, and he’s glad he is the reason she made any sound at all.

‘Next time I go, you should be there,’ she continues, watching her feet as she walks, tip of her shoes kicking at upturned stones. ‘We can study together.’

Yixing nods, amazed that luck smiles on boys who move guns from place to place for money, and who learned their fractions by helping their fry cook weigh cocaine. When she smiles, Yixing doesn’t have time to feel badly he wasn’t there the first night she went, only excited that he will get to be there the next time and the next time, sitting in his favourite booth towards the back and showing her the way he learned the calligraphy for flower just because of her.

‘I’d like that a lot,’ he manages, sounding small and childish and very unlike the man he feels he is between the hours of 9PM and midnight. ‘Name the day and I’ll be there.’

Baozhai turns the corner after letting her hand rest on his shoulder, her fingers giving a light squeeze full of hope and expectation and affirmation, and Yixing feels it all the way home. The child in the air bites at his cheeks, but still cannot take the warmth from her palm.

And he feels it the rest of the night, as he walks in the foreboding darkness towards her father’s woodworking shop, backpack slung over his shoulders. He feels it as he sits with her father, counting the guns - revolvers, this time - and learns the fastest way to remove serial numbers from the metal. He feels it as the joints in his fingers burn from the effort of scratching and scratching and scratching, the muscles in his face aching just as much from the effort of wearing his smile.

He feels it even as she walks into her father’s shop, eyes falling on Yixing before going wide and skin taking on the ashen pallor of shock.

Glancing from Yixing to her father and back again, she lingers in the doorway, knowledge and understanding narrowing her eyes and her expression into one of disgust. He wants to speak, wants to call her name and say he only does it for the money, only does it because it’s something to do, but she turns from him, back full of steel and posture straight as she leaves the shop and shuts the door.

He doesn’t feel it after that, can hardly even remember the thrill of it.

Baozhi never talks to him again, and he supposes luck, for boys like him is a fleeting, brief experience, one he was never meant to carry.

Yixing is thirteen when he learns how to drive in a stolen car.

His cousin, Longwei, sits beside him in the passenger seat, laughing and laughing until his eyes become crescent moons, as Yixing’s harsh right turns leave donut scars in the empty parking lot. Hands gripping the wheel tightly, letting the vibration of the steering wheel turn his knuckles white, Yixing does not ask where or how or why Longwei has delivered him this Porsche, but he assumes it does not matter. Longwei has no intention of keeping it, anyway.

It took years for Yixing to get his calligraphy right, years for him to master the art of stealing from his mother without her noticing, and weeks, if he’s being generous, to learn how to pickpocket without his fingers moving the air. But in driving, he realizes, he is a natural. Here, he does not need to take his time or take instructions twice. Here, he does not have to be shy, no longer hiding the fact that he flourishes so quickly at something; even though he is not yet tall enough and must sit on a pile of his school books; even though his foot only just touches the pedals; even though he revs the engine and does not bother to quiet the shrill yell of pleasure that reverberates in his chest.

He’s being foolish, but in this moment he realizes he makes his own rules. And here, in the driver’s seat of a car that will soon disappear - gutted clean or shipped away or simply just vanishing - he understands the difference between being granted a purpose and finally making your way <i>home.</i>

‘I knew you would like this,’ Longwei tells him over the roar of the engine, and the joints in Yixing’s fingers become sore, lips curling into a smile he’s certain appears savage. ‘I did this for you.’

Yixing’s smile falls. People don’t do things for him. People, he knows, don’t do things unless it benefits them in some way, unless they get safety or satisfaction or a piece of your spirit to carry with them, and he slows down, cautious - not of the road, but of his cousin. It’s the first time he notices the gleam in Longwei’s eyes, how vindictive a sparkle can truly be when motive is misplaced from kindness.

Longwei is family. Longwei will not hurt him. But already, he feels things being taken from him, feels the brief essence of boyhood slipping away from his grasp before he’s even put the car in park.

One year later, in a parking lot not unlike the one in which he learned how to drive, Yixing watches his cousin die.

It’s the first time he’s seen a gun being pointed at a body, and it alarms him to realize the first thing he notices - beyond the fact that it is being pointed at Longwei; beyond the fact that the stranger in front of them states, calmly and altogether too gently, that he will not leave until he sees blood - is the serial number has been scratched off. Idly, he wonders if he’s touched this gun, if it was his hand that removed the details - the only thing that could trace this moment back to the man whose confidence in the hold of the gun dictates that he has done this before.

‘Do you know what happens to tigers when they take things that don’t belong to them?’ the man says, reaching through the car window and gripping Longwei’s shirt.

He presses the gun against Longwei’s stomach, and Yixing waits, unflinching, expecting his cousin to fight, to flip this scenario around, to do something other than whimper and tremble, but he does not. “I did this for you,” Longwei’s voice echoes from the back of Yixing’s mind. A full year under his cousin’s wing, and Yixing has lost count of all the things they’ve done together - all the things Longwei has shown and given and delivered, without price or consequence.

Five years older than Yixing, and Longwei has gone through a great deal to ensure Yixing could remain at his side - losing friends and permanently in the state of earning trust; keeping one eye on him and one eye on the road in front of him; bringing him home first even if, through the chill of the air and the hairs that stood on end along their arms, they knew they were being followed. He stole cars and money and bags full of things he would never let Yixing see, but in surviving, he did not put forth any effort.

His cousin shakes his head. ‘Please, he’s just a kid -’

It’s the last thing he ever hears Longwei say, and in that moment Yixing is unsure if he’s ever heard his cousin say the word please. He’s still mulling over the sound, the shock and the unusual cadence of it, before the echo of the word is cut off and severed.

‘They get poached.’

He’s familiar with the barrel of a pistol, has touched and cradled and scratched into them, but never has he heard them. Longwei screams, he’s sure of it, but still he does not hear it. Yixing thinks he may never hear anything ever again.

Four gunshots ring out and the noise of it makes his blood run cold, ears taking on a ring that turns his vision fuzzy. Longwei falls limp, eyes glassy and staring straight ahead, empty and unfocused and gone. Yixing waits for him to move, for Longwei to smile and say this was a moment for him to learn - a reminder never to leave your window down, to never let your guard down. But he does not move.

Beside him, the door is ripped open, though Yixing does not remember leaving it unlocked. Hands grab him, pull him out of the passenger seat and drag him into the parking lot. His arms are held behind his back while the man smiles and cocks his head to the side, smiling and smiling, while Yixing breathes through his open mouth, unwilling to smell his cousin’s blood on the air. The symbol of a dragon is stitched into the man’s beanie, and Yixing’s eyes trace the pattern over and over, hoping to erase everything but the caricature and the symbolism from this moment.

‘Put his hands all over it.’

The command hardly moves the craters in his face, scars and red marks turning his skin tight and waxy. At this angle, he almost appears to be burning alive from beneath his flesh, consumed by wrath and rage.

Yixing is thrust forward, his left arm extended against his will and he fights the hold, yelling and battling, suddenly awake and aware. Laugher surrounds him, but the ringing in his ears only warps this sound into a painful resonance, one that makes Yixing scream in the hopes of forcing the world into silence. The gun is placed into his ungloved hand, fingers wrapped around its glossy metal and stained with his prints.

He’s pushed forward again, his right hand dragged over the handle of the passenger door before a hair - several hairs - are ripped from his head and dropped into the seat. They are framing him for this, placing traces of him everywhere, ensuring that - even if it took weeks, or months, or years - he would be found, and found guilty.

They abandon him not long after, leaving him alone with the smell of piss and shit and blood and bullet casings. The sun has just begun to set when Yixing finds the energy to move, away from the car and towards a gas station he spots on the side of the road half a mile away. Face expressionless, he uses the last of the cash in his wallet to buy a container of gasoline and a lighter, turning briskly on his feet without accepting his change.

He knows this looks suspicious.

He does not care.

As he pours the gas over the floor, the seats, his cousin - opening the hood and the trunk and pouring a generous amount there, too - he considers how much the burn of his closeness to this inferno will hurt. He wonders if he will hear it - he hasn’t heard anything in the hours it took him to walk away and back again, gladdened that he’s gone completely numb to existence, and hoping that the sensuousness of existence never returns again.

He’s clear headed this way. Nothing, he thinks, has ever been so linear.

He tosses the lighter into the car and walks just far enough to be out of arm's reach of the heat before turning around and watching, with little awe or emotion, the car sizzle and smoke not unlike a bonfire. Even from this distance, the smell of burning flesh eats at his nose hairs, burning his sinuses with its sourness, but he breathes it in deep.

Unsure how long he remains, eventually he walks away, long before the fire has a chance to reach the full tank of gas, long before any residual explosion gives away the history of this night, and long before he has the opportunity to consider joining his cousin.

“I did this for you,” Longwei had said.

Yixing wonders if it was worth it.

It is raining the day they bury his grandmother.

It is raining and he is sixteen, anxiously standing on the precipice of becoming a man and wholly unprepared to be gifted a crown.

He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, regarding hole in the earth that swallows the remains of her body and the barren waste he considers his memories of her body with a dry mouth and a shallow grimace. Occasionally, he finds himself distracted by the black umbrellas that blot the sea of white clothing, glad for their contrast against the flower arrangements that surround them.

Digging his feet into the squelching grass, hoping to break the silence of the grief that wallows in the overcast clouds, he feels, neither reassuringly nor supportively, the eyes of Kyungsoo as they bore into his spine, an announcement that someone is there for him and not for the woman who taught men to fear. He does not turn around, aware that the distance Kyungsoo keeps is crucial to maintaining the delicate pretense of peace, but he is glad for someone, anyone, he could consider a friend after everyone excluding family - a loose, vague term that made him chew at his tongue - was denied visitation.

But Kyungsoo remains, standing across the street and on an entirely different plot of land, silently threatening a war just by witnessing their pain, an Yixing is glad for the danger of it.

Yixing’s mother weeps when they return home, settling on the couch beside his father as her empty eyes scan the room, aware she is being greeted without greeting anyone in return. Her posture remains rigid and his father’s hand holds hers as if posing for a portrait, conscious of the eyes on their bodies and holding her against him in an awkward show of companionship, mimicking the affection he has witnessed in the threads of humanity he has bothered to notice.

Yixing settles against a hard, wooden chair in the kitchen, eyeing the food that has been brought for them from family, and family, and family, without feeling any appetite, wishing instead he could be somewhere he did not have to feign anguish or loss. The white of his shirt is still dotted with rain when three men approach him, and he studies the yellowed marks they leave in the fabric, choosing to ignore the imposing figures he assumes are loitering to extend, once again, their condolences.

Instead, they sit before him, dragging stools from the bartop counter and placing themselves directly in his vision. They tell him a lot of things - a lot of dark, and terrible, and horrible things he imagines other sixteen year old boys would struggle to stomach. But he’s held guns; and burned a body; and learned not to cry at the sound of a bullet tearing organs; and lost the will to love freely, and he supposes these things are harder for anyone to hear than the fact that their grandmother was the leader of a Triad group from Shanghai, the Tiger of the blackmarket, and her throne belongs to him.

‘You’re going to be in charge of a lot of money, kid,’ one of them says, envy evident behind his speech.

He would later learn this man’s name is Bing Wen, and he is not incorrect. A large sum of money, much larger than he can comprehend, will soon be transferred to his name. And, at the shock and awe of the sheer magnitude of it, he will go to his grandmother’s grave and curse her for keeping his family so poor.

But not yet.

In this moment, Yixing only looks at them, eyeing them suspiciously as he dips his finger into a plate of peppered chicken, collecting the oil and rubbing it over his bottom lip. It stings against his skin, tiny tingles of pain grounding him to this reality as his mind remains empty, the scent of incense mixing with pepper and the implication of their words. He likes money, and he likes power, but most of all he likes the look on people’s faces when he stands before them unafraid to die and absolutely unafraid to watch them die.

Yixing is sixteen, and he decides this kind of authority could be fun.

Yixing is sixteen. And at sixteen, he becomes a king.

Yixing’s network makes nine thousand dollars on his eighteenth birthday, which is coincidentally the day he learns it is easier to chase pleasure between a woman’s thighs than it is to chase money. The start of this day looks absolutely nothing like the way it ends, and he is glad to be a chameleon, fitting into whatever shape the world requires of him.

Today, a knife was held to someone’s throat because Yixing demanded it. Today, a shipment as organized back to Shanghai - a warning and a threat for anyone who dares challenge him again. Today, he pressed cocaine against his gums, celebrating his good fortune with a brief bump, and got paid in crisp bills for the quality of his product.

And tonight, he recognizes the way women smile when he speaks, aware that he is someone worthy of being noticed.

There’s something addictive about the feeling of money in his pocket, a sense of power and pride rooting itself in the base of his spine. He stands taller, walks faster, shoulders rolled back and expecting the air to part for him. Weeks before his coming of age, he noticed women would smile when he spoke, heads cocking to the side as if bewildered by the sound of his voice, and now he decides to use the magic of beautiful boyhood to his advantage.

He is honey, and he knows it, an aphrodisiac hit that makes women lick their lips as they spread their legs - only slightly in the hopes that he will see it and, better yet, want it - as they recline in their chairs, waiting to be taken. It’s no different tonight, and, perhaps, the money and the manhood he carries amplifies his transcendence. A thin lipped woman lounges against the couch, puffing her chest to ensure he notices the perky roundness of her breasts beneath her tube top, skin warm and shimmering from the summer heat.

Across from her, Yixing eyes the length of her body, cock stirring to a semi-hard state as he regards the yellow undertones of her lips. He wonders if her pussy looks just as golden, if it would part with the same ease as the air if he spread her with his thumbs, and his tongue runs dry, wanting to suck her clean.

Sensing his arousal, she rises to a stand and does not bother to straighten her skirt, letting the smooth length of her thighs remain on display. Tying her hair back, Yixing watches with a placid expression as her breasts lift with the effort, top moving with them to expose her midriff, unashamed of letting him look before he tastes her against his teeth.

They disappear into a bedroom, the bed full of coats and boxes which he pushes to the floor as he bites languidly at the tendons in her neck. She steps out of his arms, pushing her skirt down to her feet before removing her top, cocking her head to the side when she stands, naked and refusing blush, and notices Yixing remains fully clothed.

Quirking an eyebrow at him, she smirks. ‘Are you scared, pretty boy?’

It’s the first time he’s been asked this question, and he almost falters. Even when he was nine years old and men with murder on their lips handed him a backpack, they did not bother to ask if he felt fear - up until this moment, he did not think he had a choice.

‘I’m not sure I know how that feels,’ he replies, honestly, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

She shrugs, turning to lay down on the bed and spreads her legs, idly rubbing a finger over her clit to keep herself wet. ‘Man’s first inhibition is always being naked in front of a pretty girl.’

Yixing chuckles, letting his expression darken at her confidence. ‘You have a high opinion of yourself.’

‘You’re here because you want to feel like a man,’ she reasons, arching her back as she slips the tip of her middle finger between her folds. ‘I’m allowed to interpret that however I want to make sure we both get off.’

‘Looks like it’s just you,’ he counters, licking his lips as her eyes flutter closed momentarily, and nodding in the direction of her wet cunt.

‘I’ve never seen you with a woman.’ Her words are carried on a high pitched breath, her own mouth curved into a blissful smile. ‘Word is you’ve never done this and I want to make sure I can come. It’ll be over quick.’

Yixing undresses slowly, hypnotized by the movements of her fingers and studying the motions. She maintains a steady rhythm with two fingers, and he wonders how much better she would feel if it was his hand, if those were his long fingers - he wonders how he would feel, how much pride he would take in filling her with himself.

When he settles between her thighs, she wraps her small hand around his cock and guides him to her entrance. He braces himself above her, unsure what to do with his weight, but the feel of her hand around his girth and the silky entrance rubbing wetness over his tip is enough to have his thighs already shaking. Now, he understands what she meant by saying this will be over quick.

‘Stay like that,’ she commands, releasing her hand from his cock and the base of her palm against her clit as she fingers herself. The spread and movement of her folds makes Yixing’s arms shake, and he latches his mouth around one of her nipples to distract himself. Arching into him, she holds his hip with her free hand, keeping him still as she lets her sensitive nipple be teased to a hardened nub, bringing herself closer and closer to release.

Eventually, she moves both her hands to the flesh of his ass, and nods as she pushes him inside.

The tight warmth of her walls around his cock has his eyes rolling back, biceps trembling as he thrusts messily into her. It takes only a few thrusts before he comes, spilling into her as he chokes back a moan and keeps himself quiet. She laughs as she comes, slightly and vaguely, not nearly enough to be satisfied. Even as he collapses against her, she writhes beneath him, weaseling her hand between their bodies and guides herself to the full bloom of an orgasm. Her walls clench rapidly around his softening cock, and he relishes the sensation of the pleasure mixing with discomfort.

It feels, he supposes, much the same as knowing men die for the money he earns.

‘You’ll be a natural,’ she says, pulling her hand away from her wetness and running them over his lips. He sucks at the tips, brow furrowing at the slight bitterness of her flavor. ‘You didn’t crush me with your weight. Most guys are shit at that the first time.’

Yixing says nothing, thinking on sex and pleasure, driving and working, the market he runs and the sensation of his come dripping from her cunt.

He’s a natural at a lot of things, a lot of grim and horrific things, and he’s glad sex is just as messy as money.

It means he doesn’t have to learn to be careful. In this, he is just as natural as driving.

You buy your freedom on the night Yixing leases his first McLaren Coupe. He does this with money, credit if he’s being honest, fully intending never to give the car back. You do this with a knife to the stomach of your pimp - a knife to his stomach, his chest, and his dick - fully intending never to go back.

He turns off Main Street, driving along the river and expecting to run into Baekhyun, hoping to watch as jealousy seeps into his irises and to pull away before his palms can mark the hood with his prints. Tonight, he wants to pretend - pretend that this is his car to keep, that his life is as simple as expensive metal and carbon put together with the sole purpose of moving fast. He’d like a life like that, existing without thought and without care, he thinks, and he wants the pink and passionate smile that always forms on Baekhyun’s lips when he teases to help him along with the fantasy.

Instead, he sees you.

He’s unsure how you’ve made it so far, but given the state of you he imagines that the people who have seen you have given you a wide berth. Pulling up ahead, Yixing parks the car and watches you approach in his side mirror. He recognizes you from high school, neither popular nor an outcast you were merely someone quiet, another face in the crowd that did not bother to make themselves known. You kept to yourself, and now he wonders what crowd wound up keeping you.

The blood smears on your thighs have dried, turning a muddy brown beneath the ripped denim of your shorts, and splotches on your neck mean you have witnessed something messy. Arms crossed over your chest, your eyes remain empty as you walk, neither looking around you nor in front of you, seeing through space as you walk and walk, jaw set like iron in the effort of keeping yourself moving.

Resting his head against the seat, he closes his eyes and hums, conflicted. This is breaking every rule he has ever sent for himself and for his team - you never pull over for someone, you never stop, you always move, and you never give pause. But he knows you, and he knows how it looks to have seen someone die. He recognizes the features of his fourteen year old self in yours, sees Junmyeon's hollowed expression in your unfocused vision, and he knows that death will always catch up to those who face it alone.

And so, he gets out, leaving the door open and calling your name.

'Y/N.'

You pause in front of him, looking around for others to follow close behind, and when they don't you fix your gaze back on him, the fierce heat of it enough to make him bite his tongue.

'Get in the car,' he offers, keeping his voice calm. 'I can keep you safe.'

He's not sure why you comply, but you do, wringing the blood stained slickness of your fingers together. Yixing's eyes follow the movements as he cats glances away from the road to your trembling hands, and when he stops at a light he reaches to the glove compartment and pulls out a rag. It's meant to clean his prints from the wheel before he sells this car off to some unassuming, overexcited college student, turning a profit and turning away from the situation altogether, but he supposes you need it more. And you certainly need it to not stain the interior.

'That's not my name anymore,' you mumble, wiping and wiping at your skin.

Yixing keeps his eyes trained on the road, knowing not to look at someone who feels raw enough to take a life.

'No?' is all he says, accepting your truth for what you need it to be.

'It's Eve.'

Yixing nods, turning the corner to take you to his house, still unsure why he chose to do this at all.

'Did he decide that for you?' he questions, noticing the purple bruises on your arms as you press the cloth into your skin.

'No.' It's the loudest you've been, the full richness of your voice catching him off guard. 'I did, right after I watched the life fade from his eyes.'

Yixing nods, rebranding you at the same time he considers the sheer consequence of you. You are a bad idea - all of you, from the death and the mess and the baggage are a thing that runs the risk of weighing him down. But he knows, inherently, that you won't.

However long you spent under the wing of a man who pressed himself against your body in the hopes of breaking your soul was not enough to ruin you, choosing instead to break his flesh with your bare hands. You are resourceful. You are smart - uncoordinated and full of risk, but smart enough to know the only person anyone can fully trust is themselves. And you are unafraid, prepared to burn the world so long as it ensures your survival.

You are a bad idea.

At twenty, Yixing is addicted to bad ideas, and the idea of you is full of promise.

It’s a cloudless night towards the end of August when Yixing finds himself, twenty-one and standing on Junmyeon's porch, preparing to make promises. The chill in the breeze ensures summer's end, the oncoming storm of September and plans and change carried with the wind, and he grits his teeth as he considers his assets.

Dongkyu’s death is an unspeakable loss, the kind that puts tangible grief in the air and reminds Yixing of the ash he tasted when he burned his cousin’s body, and he wonders how he’d be now if someone had promised to help with revenge. He knows how that feels, the fire it puts in your veins and seemingly endless drive that pushes and pushes and pushes until you don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore. You felt it too, still feel it sometimes when you wake up screaming and scratching at your skin, remembering the way men pushed themselves inside you and demanded that you feel them.

Yixing thinks if there’s anyone who understands Junmyeon, its you and him.

It takes a long while for Junmyeon to answer the door after he rings the doorbell, and he’s surprised that he’s the first one here. Sun set hours ago, his first stop of the night a shipping container by the airport where he picked up guns and drugs and a car he gutted with Huang. But his eyes do not droop with tiredness. He wanted the adrenaline push of the job to lead him here, ready and wired and feeling in control before the details of death turn him cold.

When Junmyeon opens the door, he doesn’t need to say anything - he doesn’t even extend his arms for a hug or extend his condolences, Junmyeon simply knows. He’s ragged and hollow, but alight just the same, blood boiling with a vengeance that Yixing feels against his skin like electricity.

The air burns with change, and they - eyeing one another wholly aware and wholly prepared to tear the world down - burn with a rage that will set their futures in motion.

Yixing is twenty-one when he crosses the threshold into Junmyeon’s house, already a king, and a man, and a god, and finds himself becoming a brother.

#yixing x reader #yixing smut #exosnet #prettyboysnetwork #kpopwonderlandtag #lay smut #lay x reader #yixing fanfic #lay fanfic #lay au #yixing au #yixing scenario #lay scenario #exo au #exo smut #exo scenario #exo fanfic #zhang yixing

263 notes · View notes

pbwsports · 4 years

Text

How the coronavirus is forever changing the way MLB connects to fans

IT BEGAN WITH the hype video that was supposed to introduce the 2020 Los Angeles Dodgers on Opening Day. Organist Dieter Ruehle followed by playing the national anthem and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" from his home piano. Third baseman Justin Turner, closer Kenley Jansen and manager Dave Roberts shared updates on their suddenly monotonous lives. Comedian George Lopez cracked jokes at the Houston Astros' expense and country musician Brad Paisley wore a Dodgers sweatshirt that described the team as "2017 World Series Champs."

Along the way, the Dodgers' first live Zoom event provided its fair share of predictable glitches -- ringing cellphones, awkward silences and buffering videos, one of which distorted an uplifting message from Vin Scully. Joe Davis, the Dodgers' play-by-play voice pressed into virtual hosting duty, cringed through some of the technical difficulties. He thought social media would be as unforgiving as usual. He was wrong.

Major League Gamers

How video games are bringing MLB players and fans together. Joon Lee »

"The people appreciated whatever we were able to do, even if the video was skipping a little bit, or there were audio issues, or somebody dropped out at some point," Davis said. "The general sense was that it was like, 'So what?' There was an appreciation, it seems like, from the fans that there was something baseball-related to be able to cling onto and distract them for a night."

The Dodgers initially planned to host 1,000 fans at their first "Zoom Party" on April 27. They ultimately opened it up to 11,000 people. Over the next couple of weeks, the guest list increased to 12,000 and then 15,000, proving two key points about this unimaginable period: Teams are trying anything and everything to fill a massive void amid the coronavirus pandemic, and their fans are here for it -- a dynamic that could change the fan-engagement experience forever.

There have been re-airings of old postseason games, broadcaster calls of home movies, training tips from coaches, bedtime stories from players and bracket-style tournaments for items such as jerseys and bobbleheads, all in an effort to create content in a time when baseball's main content pipeline -- live games -- is shut off.

Ryan Zimmerman interviewed Dr. Anthony Fauci, a diehard fan of the Washington Nationals. Miami Marlins catcher Francisco Cervelli taught viewers how to make focaccia. Kansas City Royals director of behavioral science Ryan Maid hosted "Mindfulness Mondays" to provide tips on living in the moment. The Cleveland Indians offered instructions for creating games out of items in one's sock drawer. And former Astros infielder Geoff Blum hosted a series called "Feel Good Stories For The Heart" in hopes of providing some much-needed positivity.

Major League Baseball and the MLB Players Association also teamed up to create an MLB The Show Players League, where big leaguers went head-to-head in video game matchups that were livestreamed on Twitch and broadcast on television during the virtual playoffs, culminating in a final showdown between Tampa Bay Rays ace Blake Snell and Chicago White Sox ace Lucas Giolito that aired on ESPN.

From making pancakes to playing baseball with Charley, follow @ClaytonKersh22 and his family in this episode of A Day in the Life with the Kershaws.

177 people are talking about this

"We want to give everybody sort of a relief from what's going on, and if we can help them and we can entertain them, we've succeeded," Dodgers chief marketing officer Lon Rosen said of his own team's strategy. "We're in a really difficult time right now. We all feel like we're gonna come out the other end and life will come back to some normalcy, but until then, we wanna make sure that we're connected to our fans and our fans are connected to us. And that's our mission."

In pursuit of that, the Dodgers arranged for their director of player performance, Brandon McDaniel, to guide fans through in-home workoutstwice a week. They handed a smartphone to Ellen Kershaw so that she could record her husband, Clayton, flipping pancakes and playing Pop-A-Shot. And they utilized Ross Stripling, their agreeable right-handed pitcher, for an interview series with some of his teammates. Davis himself has hosted his own cooking show and also started a podcast with his broadcast partner, Orel Hershiser. The response floored him.

"We've had multiple people tell us that it brought them to tears to hear us, multiple people tell us that it's the best part of their week when that comes out, and their favorite thing during the quarantine," Davis said of the podcast, called "Off Air." "Man, we're just trying to have a fun conversation. We started it realizing the void that everybody was feeling with no baseball, but I don't think we fully appreciated how big that void was."

MARCO GONZALES LEFT Arizona shortly after MLB effectively closed spring training complexes on March 15. He hopped in the car with his wife and their dog and drove 1,400 miles to his home near T-Mobile Park, returning to Seattle -- the country's first coronavirus epicenter -- for the first time in more than a month.

Gonzales, the left-hander announced as the Seattle Mariners' Opening Day starter less than a week earlier, was struck by how a bustling city could feel so desolate. Parks were empty, traffic was nonexistent, stores had shuttered, and the few people he saw, usually at the local supermarket, dressed as if they were "going into surgery." The anxiety was palpable, omnipresent, and it helped spur Gonzales into action. He donated blood, partnered with a local hunger-relief agency and stepped outside of his comfort zone to help entertain a populace desperate for levity.

The best of MLB social media

Here are just 10 of our favorite recent social media plays from around MLB.

Just for fun:

A's: Broadcaster calls home movies Cubs: "Parks and Rec" crossover Dodgers: Zoom parties Marlins: Cervelli makes focaccia Phillies: Story time with Bryce & Fanatic

Quarantine-inspired:

Astros: Feel Good Stories For The Heart Indians: Sock-drawer sports at home Nats: Zimmerman interviews Dr. Fauci Orioles: Phone Call Fridays Rockies: Out-of-context quarantine tips

The latter morphed into a weekly interview podcast called "Inside Corner," which Gonzales co-hosts alongside Mariners broadcaster Aaron Goldsmith through the team's YouTube channel. Catcher Tom Murphy and fellow starters Taijuan Walker and Justin Dunn have made up the first three guests. Murphy spoke from his dining room, which features a 400-pound black bear he snagged on a hunting trip. Dunn, now 6-foot-2, revealed he was shorter than his 4-foot-11 grandmother when he entered high school. Walker estimated owning 400 pairs of sneakers.

"I miss baseball, I miss that interaction with my teammates," Gonzales said. "And I think the goal of this, ultimately, is for fans to get to know us a little bit better away from the field, and to feel like they're a little more connected to us."

It's part of an ironic twist in all this -- a time that is keeping fans from baseball is also allowing them, in some respects, to feel more connected to those who play it. During the season, their time is precious. During the offseason, their time is sacred. But now athletes are stuck at home waiting this out, with unkempt hair and a dwindling supply of toilet paper, just like the rest of us. To pass the time, many have offered rare glimpses into their personal lives and have seemingly become more willing to reveal their true personalities. Gonzales has acted as a willing tour guide.

"The guys that I've dealt with, they want people to get to know them as people," Gonzales said. "Because a lot of times when we're on the field, we're in a mindset, we're in a mentality, that is rare to us as a person. We're in a competitive, testosterone-driven mindset, whereas right now, when we're stuck at home, and we have a chance to talk to each other, it's a lot different communication. And I think that people will hopefully see that."

Our video editor has been itching to make a hype video. Behold...

103 people are talking about this

Kevin Martinez has been overseeing the Mariners' marketing efforts for the past quarter-century. Four days after MLB suspended its season, Martinez led a meeting that served as a brainstorming session for how the team could pivot in its content strategy and fill an unprecedented void in a reeling city. Martinez saw it as "an opportunity to innovate and think differently."

It led to a hype video of home movies, a series of tutorials from Mariners coaches, an MLB The Show tournament pitting fans against players, and Gonzales' podcast.

"Seattle has been one of the most affected by this, and one of the first for sure," Gonzales said. "We're trying to get behind the notion that we'll be one of the first to overcome it and really show the rest of the country what it looks like. Right now, all we can do is try to fill everybody up with some optimism, put some good content out there, and try to just give people that hope that we're gonna get back to normal as soon as we can."

#NewSociallyDistantProfilePic

2,818 people are talking about this

BY NATURE OF their status in local communities, sports teams can often serve as information hubs for regions. The Boston Red Sox, for example, represent the baseball team for all six states in the New England region, making Twitter -- where the team has more than 6.1 million followers -- an ideal platform to distribute factually verified information regarding the pandemic. Kelsey Doherty, senior manager of digital media for the Red Sox, says the team has kept in touch with the Massachusetts Department of Public Health and the State House to stay up to date on the best official safety measures.

"It's a little nerve-wracking every time I put out any of that messaging, because especially early on, things were changing so rapidly about what was or wasn't good for you or how you're supposed to go about things," Doherty said. "We were linking a lot to the Mass Department of Public Health, but we're also trying to put the Red Sox spin on it. This weekend we put out, 'How far is 6 feet really?' And it's like, 'It's one Rafael Devers away.'"

The Red Sox are far from the only team to use its social media accounts to pitch in. Zimmerman's interview with Fauci, via the Nats' Facebook page, delved into plans for slowly and safely restarting the economy. The Colorado Rockies are one club that sponsored a mask-making project, reaching out online to distribute free team-branded masks to front-line workers. New York Yankeesfirst baseman Luke Voit connected with medical staff at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. The Baltimore Orioles have been holding Phone Call Fridays, when members of the team check in on fans and first responders.

EDITOR'S PICKS

When baseball cards become pop art: Inside the Topps 2020 Project

How the internet helped crack the Astros' sign-stealing case

If only Twitter had existed: The most meme-worthy moments ever for all 30 MLB teams

There have been other notable effects. With no games on the calendar for the near future, each team's social media account now represents the primary connection clubs have with fans on a daily basis. Typically at this point in the regular season, an internationally iconic team like the Yankees is focused on building hype around the club, selling individual game tickets and targeting tourists who might be coming into New York. Stephi Blank, senior manager of digital and social strategy for the Yankees, says the pandemic has flipped the team's social focus upside down.

"Especially when thinking about targeting individual game ticket buyers, tourism in New York City is something that is a massive industry, and talking with our colleagues at Broadway and others, you see that so much of the individual game, the individual ticket buyers, come from people who are outside of New York who don't live there," Blank said. "That had been a big focus of ours prior to this, but New York has been the epicenter, and we've been focusing a lot more on our local fans."

With no team to root for or games to play, teams are reframing their social media presence to think about fandom as a lifestyle.

"It's new territory," Doherty said. "I always joke that I am so grateful that I work in sports because our content can change day to day based on a win or a loss or who had a big night, and now suddenly I'm in this uncharted territory and everyone in sports is, where it's like suddenly we aren't dependent on that and we're dependent on our history, the lifestyle, the fan base and the culture around the team."

Luke Voit recently surprised frontline medical heroes from our partner @nyphospital to show his appreciation for their strength and hard work. @LLVIII40

241 people are talking about this

THE LACK OF day-to-day, game-centric content leaves more room to experiment. The Yankees have dabbled in more player personality-driven content, posting intentionally lo-fi workout videos from the likes of Giancarlo Stanton and Luis Severino, shot in vertical video on an iPhone. Yankees head of communications Jason Zillo says the lack of wins and losses allowed baseball's most traditional brand to let loose and have some fun.

"[Player-personality content] is not only a neat concept, but I think this has legs to live long beyond the pandemic," Zillo said. "The thing that constantly is a push and a pull during a baseball season is that games matter so much. And you have to temper 'fun' things up against the fact that every day, there's a game that you're trying to win at all costs. There has to be a measure of caution. If you've lost six of eight games, my first mindset isn't, 'Let's do something fun.' It's like, 'Let's kind of scale back and then when we've won six of eight, then maybe we can push more of the fun stuff.'"

Social media follows for shutdown

From Twitter to Twitch, these 10 players are providing a window -- often silly, sometimes serious -- in an unprecedented time in baseball history. Joon Lee »

Baseball is unique among sports in its challenge of creating inclusive, compelling social media content. The schedule is arduous -- nearly every single day, often for about 10 hours, from the middle of February until at least the end of September -- and the culture can often feel repressive. Marketers have mostly found players to be less motivated to promote themselves, both because of the volume of their workload and the guaranteed nature of their contracts. Teams, in some respects, have taken a relatively conservative approach on their digital platforms.

But maybe that'll be different now.

"It has been a challenging time," Martinez, the Mariners' senior VP of marketing, said, "but it's been a time for innovation, and a great opportunity to create fans with our players in ways we haven't explored before."

While baseball has been slow to adapt to the new age of social media, the pandemic plopped a mirror in front of many teams. Many took that as an opportunity to try something new -- and have seen it bear fruit.

"You hear a lot of people from a lot of different walks of life saying, 'Use this time to get better at something,'" Zillo said. "I think baseball, as a whole, has, when it comes to looking under different rocks, now is really using social media and all of its tentacles to reach as many fans as possible."

Source - ESPN

#MLB

1 note · View note

popcartoonkabala · 7 years

Text

Wonder Woman as axis between history, mytholgy, religion and pop modernity: Cartoons as family ritual and social education pt1 (Malchut sheb Bina)

http://nerdist.com/wonder-woman-mash-up-tribute-beyonce-madonna-britney-spears/ I went to see Wonder Woman with my 9 year old daughter yesterday. I asked her an esoteric question before we went into the theater: What planet, from the big Seven, would she identify Wonder Woman with? Her answer surprised me. She’d grown up on some of the original Marston masterpieces as well as the sweeter parts of Gail Simone’s ultra-dignified yet sweetly hilarious run, alongside alot of represntation in Sholly Fisch’s Super-friends tikkun, and Grant Morrison’s JLA-into-Final-Crisis, and eventually the JLU cartoons, and that fantastic Gail Simone scripted movie. Co-incidently, she grew up with the Sepher Yetzirah as a fundamental play-text, a song to start summertime pre-school with. A child, 3 or 4 years old, we used Wonder Woman to introduce the liminal moment where history, mythology, religion and pop-media all meet, a mystery that troubled me since I was her age. Because Religion, History, Mythology and Pop-media all serve a certain degree of Same Purpose: Education. Empowerment. Perspective. Wisdom-as-Story. The confusion between the literal and the rhetorical has afflicted the exploitation of these four synonyms, intentionally or unconsciously. Growing up and honestly believing in the depth in stories, moral and conclusion, truths communicated in ways that they could be understood and thus irresistibly and subtly digested. I also, in late adolescence, was introduced to the Torah of R’ Nachman of Breslov. A radical Chassidic master, probably the greatest one ever according to arguably the majority of religious identified Jews nowadays, amongst radical principles testified and justified by R’ Nachman was the divinity and secrets of the sublime nature of G-d and divine experience and the nature of being buried in, specifically, popular folk stories. At the end of his life, after revealing a series of the most astounding and yet integrated and coherent and accessible pieces of Torah in all Chassidic and Jewish history, at least since the Zohar and honestly more coherent and functional, amidst an epic bout of Tuberculosis from which he would eventually succumb, R’ Nachman stopped giving over Torah in the forms of dissertations or theological treatises or apologetics or explanations almost at all, “realizing” that folk stories would A) say so much more and B) reach so much deeper. So he began his epic telling of thirteen long stories, composed by him as sometimes subtle sometimes startling fairy tales, in the Eastern European Grimm’s sort of model. Disney is bad, right? Because corporate and archaic introduction of sinister commercial morality? Maybe, BUT: the stories they relate are sold because they are so resonant, and they are resonant because they are so deep. R’Nachman’s very first story was the main fall back bedtime story I would tell my daughter, or really anyone else, when asked for a story: The Lost Princess. The story of the King’s Daughter, who is so loved until the day he father gets angry for one moment so she flees in the night, and disappears from the Kingdom. A Hero is sent to find her, and in the end he does, but we never hear QUITE how until the very last of all of R’Nachman’s stories, The Sixth Beggar. Where R’Nachman’s first story is about the experience of the Hero, on his functionally mystical quest for the precious beloved lost Daughter of the treasured King-of-kings, R’ Nachman’s last story, and several of his intermediary ones, are about the experience of the Princess herself, as she goes on her way, often amoral and always capable. In the very last story, the entire problem of control is adressed, as is the secret of The Sixth in this context, the last day before the end of the problem. The King’s Daughter is identified, in the initial story with the divine presence, and thus, the Sephira of Malchut, Jerusalem, and the Moon. All the yearned for and distant and yet realized and extant, Real Somewhere. This is because the Hero is looking for her, and occasionally being found and communicated with by her, as he searches, forever, not giving up hope despite failing to rescue her repeatedly, for lack of appropriate discipline and consumption-into-slumber at all the wrong moments. This is a simple Apollonian parable, about the importance of not giving up the quest despite finding no one who can help direct. Going beyond and searching infinitely for the true precious. Compare this with her in the last story, the wounded but powerful force now under the auspices of the Prince of Evil, eventually turned against her out of fear of losing her. I don’t know how much she is Malkhut when Malkhut is the enemy. My daughter was introduced to the idea of Wonder Woman as I sought to find characters who appear in both Jewish Midrashic Tradition, “History” and in modern media, to address and introduce the idea of Characters and Different Versions of how they’re used and expressed. In the Talmud as well as in a range of world traditions of Alexander Romances, both Western and Eastern, stories are featured describing Alexander the Great’s conflict with, and ultimate submission to, and Island of Only Women, successfully using both Power and Wisdom to maintain autonomy. A character functioning in a modern era as an expression of that refuge, coupled with villains who are actual literal Nazis was too tempting for me as a young parent to resist the opportunity to willfully confuse my daughter’s emerging morality with. Nazis are enemies of Women, Jews, likeable Americans, Blacks, Indians etc. A force of aggressive playfulness and exctatic responsibility-as-adventure, the story of Wonder Woman overtly identifies the great world war with the conflict between Mars, the literal God-Of-War with all the repressed Goddesses, starting with Athena and encompassing the once contentious trinity of Athena, Hera and Aphrodite, as if they were all united in fear of and love against the horrors of male aggression, female subjugation and war at all. So. In light of Goddesses like Athena and Aphrodite, as well as Luna or Artemis being such strong parts of Wonder Woman lore, I was shocked by my daughter Chayleigh’s response: “I think she’s most like Ares.” I asked her why and she said look: We were in the theater, and looked over at one of the many ads hanging on the walls. One was a shot of Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman, coming out of a very red background with the word “power” writ large. So much red. Which is what the word for the planet Mars means in most languages. MaAdim. Mancala. Etc. Identified with the color of blood very often, the regional God of War is always a different kind of thing. Because different times and different places relate to their God-of-war differently. More to come about this, and the presence of actual gods-as-charachters in media this week, soon enough!

0 notes

professionalpractice2blog-blog · 7 years

Photo

Rosy Martin. Too close to home?

Martin created the series 'Too close to home?' From the traces left behind of absent presence, the last remains of her childhood home which was a 1930's semi-detached house, which her 93 year old widowed mother had lived. The decoration and paintings inside the home were all created by her father, making them have great sentimental attachment to Martin, as he was gone also. These items a sort of legacy and reminder of him left behind to remember him by, and the memories which had also been held within this family home. The series is an attempt to retain this sense of place, and focuses on the contradictions of the attachments we have with a place. With photography playing the role of being able to reflect upon a hard time or experience within our lives, and helps us to confront our emotions and feeling of sometimes isolation and loneliness through difficult times. It shows the elements of lived experiences, which are made strange because of how they are suddenly removed from our day to day lives and way of living. Martin concentrates on the materiality of things, and offers the possibility of a second glance, as sometimes it may usually be overlooked. It is the act of looking around and the way In which the viewers eyes wander around a room, looking for clues and answers. "In contrast to old family album images, a poignant unpicking of family mythologies is made visible." (Martin) The series looks at a variety of aspects and how there is an overlap of photography alongside memory, identity, loss and unconscious processes. Martin talks of how she made the work because she must, and is compelled to do it because it is an expression of herself, and 'not a closed circle that I am refusing to unpick'. Martin says how the series also has a lot to do with the psychic process that photography 'necessarily inhabits'. It focuses on the 'absent presence' and the way which we are able to hold onto "the moment, the place, the trace which I cannot stop, cannot keep, cannot hold. I know this, and yet however partial, incomplete and vain the attempt, I return and photograph again. It's a pre-bereavement project". (Martin) The project was born out of Martin's response to the death of her father and the searching and longing to hold on which goes alongside the emotions of loss and mourning. Martin describes it as a melancholic project, with the view finder being slightly misted with tears and heart ache that no image can convey fully. But yet it is filled with the contradictions of remorse and the longing to escape. Like Martin, I also chose to make this a public project, as it speaks much greater than just being a personal project, it is supposed to evoke an emotional response with its viewer, who will not be able to share the exact same emotions and details as with Martins project, and mine being different also, but it still evokes this sense of loss, mourning, death and the passing of time; it follows what we do after the loss of a close one, the steps we take to come to terms with what has happened, the items we may collect and keep safe, little things which are sentimental for reasons only known to ourselves. A photograph of a clock would mean nothing to somebody, but yet to somebody else it would be their most prized kept possession which means the world to them.

Choosing to make it a public series means that although it is still a personal project, it needs to be able to communicate universally with its viewer, so they can find a way to connect as there is always a danger of it becoming too personal. Too close to home looks at place and memory through the notions of absent presence within the family home. The work uses and includes metaphors for the process of ageing, and as Martin's starting point she drew upon family myths and looked at detailed explorations of her memories of a specific place. Martin uses a mixed way of exploring the details, using not just photography but a combination of that and video, which makes it more intimate and feel more real, after watching the Vimeo video you sort of feel a part of it. Like you could imagine the objects and the emotions running through Martins head, it makes it more real and helps you connect with the series, it brings that important connection which separates it from being just an average project to something which has been talked about and is well known still. It's the little touches which make it stand out, and make it so lovely in a way still when it is about death and departure, it is a thoughtful way of remembering her mother and father, and remembering her home and memories from within, there is a connection. The details captured are also really beautifully done, the light is very soft and not too harsh, it is photographed and captured just right as to capture what she wished. It helps the audience to build up a sense of space over time, and the many layers of history which have been built up over the years spent within this household. Martin wants the viewer to also build up their own meanings upon the images, as everybody has something in common with at least a few items photographed, such as the hair net, which most people's grandmothers or elderly female family member commonly use to sleep in at night, or to arrange their hair and keep it in place. So I can relate to this item, even though it isn't my own grandmothers, I can remember seeing my own grandmothers hair net, and remember that time and memory of her. It evokes your own personal memories through the use of Martins mothers items, as they are commonly seen and used items within every-day. For Martin the images symbolize and stand in for the continuity and discontinuity of change over time.

Photographs tell stories and the people who view photographs will have their own stories about them, they hold a narrative which can be played with, can be changed by each viewers perception on the image. For one person it may mean one thing, yet for another a completely different meaning and narrative altogether. It just depends how your mind reads an image, what certain objects, items and places mean to you from your own individual experiences of life, it's this that makes us unique, each person would and will have an individual version of their opinion of the image and a different narrative. I don't think it is possible for someone to have exactly the same perception of something, as each individual is unique, with unique experiences in the world. Stories are an important part of our lives since we were all little, being read bedtime stories, watching tv dramas and listening to friends stories of what happened to them. Martin talks about how of the thousands of photographs she has seen, it’s the ones which are easily to recall and have had a connection with a story she is familiar with, those are the aspects within photography with she works within and connects with.

"Phototherapy:

Jo Spence and Rosy Martin developed “Phototherapy”, the use of photographic representations within a context to promote self-awareness and healing."

"So, how can a photograph touch me? A piece of paper, I may touch it, but yes it may haunt me." (Martin)

Martin talks of how she looks back over all her work she has made over the past fifteen years, and looks at the relationship that photography has played in her life, how photography and memory has preoccupied her. “Make the most of your memories” A slogan which is on the folder of a company which process and return Martins prints and negatives (Fotorama) Martin was struck by this quote and how photography and memory can relate in a poignant and perverse way through this sense of loss. "How much are the images from the past that I visualize in my mind’s eye constructed and mediated through the few photographs that have survived in my family album? How else might I aim to re-connect with my memories? Can I speak to a collective memory through photographs that express my location in history and culture?" (Martin) Martin feels that she was fotunate to have access to this piece of 'working-class social history in aspic' which her parents moved into a newly built house in 1930 where the area was first developed for mass producing houses as an escape from the overcrowding of London. Which turned what was previously country-side into a suburb.

The actual exhibition instillation of the show in the gallery is transformed into this domestic environment, and is like actually stepping into the place itself. It has been designed to make you feel like you could actually be there and imagine the feeling of the home itself, there is a video playing on a TV set, which are contextualized by sound, and use Martin's mother's messages from telephone answer machines as the narrative voice. Martin aims to create this sense of recognition in the audience with the viewer, through the association with the ordinary (the home) and objects we all know, and the timelessness of certain words and images used. The camera being used to search from the point of view of the adult child, and the words from Martins mother being fragments from another story, which leaves it still very open to the audience to make their own connection with the work, and create their own individual narrative as to what it could be about and what connection they have with memory and loss within photography. The series hadn't always been intended on being shot the way it was though, as Martin originally had plans to document the house in a flat using harsh lighting to isolate the objects, to make an emphasis of the stains, marks and worn surfaces. However as the project was carried out over a long period of time (8 years), Martins gaze softened, and came to enjoy the natural lighting and sought the 'present' within the space, which she felt spoke strongly of the past. Allowing the images to be subtle made them more gentle, and they appeared as hints to what she was alluding to, rather than dramatic overstatements of the obvious. Using a shallow depth of field also, combined with reflections and layering of photography by using mirrors and glass make it more interesting visually, and speak of this sort of memory of the past, which is a little unclear but there. The glass which Martins has used to reflect her photographs off, are the frames which hold other images including her father's paintings of idyllic landscapes, and represent this idea of a romantic ideal, country-sides, seascapes and a boy fishing by a bridge, woodlands and paths. From moving out the of city as a young married man, there are questions raised as to if he really did escape his inner city life, as the fields which were in front of his newly made front gate quickly retreated, as more houses sprung up. However this didn't stop him dreaming of his childhood longing for beauty and freedom of open space the country had to offer. With Martins fathers paintings being of the picturesque and sometimes touching the sublime, they were an act of his observations and he took pleasure creating them. Martin says that in her father's compositions he was taking control and commands of the scenes, which works as a metaphor for a form of control which he could never have on the world, that he had no control over how many new houses they would build next to his, and the disappearing countryside he longed to live in. "It is another nature that speaks to the camera than to the eye: other in the sense that that a space informed by human consciousness gives way to a space informed by the unconscious... Photography, with its devices of slow motion and enlargement, reveals the secret. It is through photography that we first discover the existence of this optical unconscious, just as we discover the instinctual unconscious through psychoanalysis." (Martin).

Working on the personal, marginal, the ordinary and the everyday touches upon both the private and public memories. Photography offers the opportunity to confront these memoires and to confront in isolation experiences, which are then made odd by their sudden removal from day to day life. Re-encountering the image allows the impermanent, ephemeral elements to be reconsidered and thought about with more detail, how something is non-permanent, and one day will be gone, how we are only here in the world for such short space of time in relativity to the size and age of our universe and star system, how we are such small beings on an earth of 7.5 billion people and counting. Photography allows us to reveal secrets that the moment contains to be revealed, as items and objects can represent an event in the past, and we can return to that place by viewing that object, which becomes "which becomes a point of entry into a labyrinth of reminiscences." (Martin) As a child, the place where Martin grew up was just unquestionably home, as to any child it would be the same situation also, no matter where the place may have been situated and how big or small it was. Being an only child however, Martin had to play alone a lot of the time, with the garden being her 'treasure of earthly delights'. From the garden Martin's imagined dreamed up various scenarios and stories of adventures and explorations, where she would have a fantasy life. However as Martin grew older, so did her horizons and ideas. She had realized that she lived in suburbia, not a city nor countryside, and that it was a place of endless repetition of the same kinds of houses, semi-detached alongside a council estate. Yet Martin made where she lived special, and the streets she played in, the corner shops she bought ice-cream from and the grocers where she had to remember her mother's Co-op number (15205) which I still remember doing the same things myself and my own mothers Co-op 'divi' number to this date off by heart (17439) she made these very everyday places special, even though there are thousands of suburbia's over the country with very similar planned houses, shops and schools. But like many people of Martins generation she grew restless and bored, she soon despised this space in between, it was neither the city full of excitement and life, and not the open rolling fields of the countryside, it was just something in-between. She longed to escape the confinement of place, and thought that she needed to leave and discover something else. Martin mentions how her father had an over-burdended sense of the 'mill-stone round his neck' keeping up the mortgage repayments, the saying meaning that 'he has a heavy burden, as in Julie finds Grandma, who is crabby, a millstone around her neck. The literal hanging of a millstone about the neck is mentioned as a punishment in the New Testament (Matthew 18:6), causing the miscreant to be drowned.' This offered her a good reason to go.

Upon returning, Martin returned to a place which is full of loss and it is far too familiar, yet she is still curious about it. The place she spent her childhood growing up in was once a place of pioneers and a place of escape from the city, it was supposed to be a place of tranquility. Martins researched the development of the suburban corner of London she grew up in, visited the local history library to find photographs to see what it used to look like before the development of houses took place, as it was hard for her to imagine what it might of looked like when all she could remember was houses there. Her parents had taken the decision to move here when they were 19 and 23 with a small baby and a second on the way, it was a huge adventure for them to take and to leave the inner city behind, but it was their dream. Martins relationship with this suburbia is uneasy, as she feels herself being torn by its bleak repetitiveness. Although she thinks about what her parents done for her and to make her have the best life they could give her, the message lodged inside her head is 'we did it for you' we did it all for you'. A three bedroom house with a garden opposed to a busy and highly polluted city, where they were living above a shop on a high street in two rooms being threatening eviction due to the landlord not wanting children. “The Land of Open Spaces” Cannon Hill Estates, Raynes Park. ‘Open your window to the tonic air of Kent’s healthiest estates!...On a Morrel estate the joy of healthy, drudge-less living can be yours for as little as 11/2 per week’"

However, this land of open spaces was not all that it appeared to be, as Martins mother soon was stuggling to adapt to this new lifestyle and was of living. It wasn't just the mortgage, but the things that came alongside that, the isolation and lonliness she had to endure being 20 with two small young children. She was not as close to her mother anymore as she wasn't just around the corner, and instead miles away, it was the distance which separated her from her normality which made her feel isolated. What was once a close knit family was no more, and it was a struggle, and it was hard to make it feel like a home with their little income, so decorations and furnishings were added when they could afford it to make it more homely. However Martin's father was a determined man to make it a 'home' and would do much of the work himself.

The depth and details in which Martin is able to recall her childhood and the stories which come attached with it about her Mother and Father as really pleasing to the curious mind, she unearths every stone and explains in great detail about her memories. Which that in itself is just as interesting as the photographs taken inside the home, I can actually start to imagine this suburban outskirt of a town in the early development stage, a young family seeking a better future and how they had always longed for fresh air in the countryside. However it wasn't quite the countryside as it continued to be developed, however it was what they could afford, and what worked best for keeping not too far from the rest of their already existing family in inner city London. I can imagine Martin playing as a child, and I feel that this place where she grew up is a sort of similar place to where I had also grew up in certain ways. Although I don't live near a city as big as London as such, when I was little Ipswich was to me a huge place in my eyes compared to the town of Woodbridge where I lived. Woodbridge was not completely in the countryside, but had elements of it still existing on the edges, it was a developing town and still is today with new housing estates being built. But it was a much better place for me to be rather than a busy town, my parents chose to live here and chose for me to live here also, and I understand that they could of maybe got more for their money if they lived somewhere else, but for them it was important that I grew up in the same town, and went to the same schools which they both did.

Martin was offered a scholarship to a 'good' school, but she quickly found that she didn't quite fit in, as she felt ashamed to bring the snobby Sutton High School girls she had made friends with to their little semi-detached home, where her mother would be trying her absolute hardest to speak proper. "Class pain cuts deep. It made for social isolation, in a place where everyone had had to loosen or cut their kinship ties when they moved in." (Martin) Martin knew she wasn't the same as these girls and that her family were of a different class to these girls, however when looking back at it now, it all seems irrelevant. As they lived in a nice place which had open-spaces, trees and playing fields. It may have been hard accepting that she couldn't have all the things that these girls had at school as a young girl, but when thinking back upon it now, her parents were already doing their very best for her, and had already risked so much moving away, in particular the things that her mother had given up to ensure that she had a good childhood in a good area. That was far more important that what class you are considered to be, it is irrelevant. Yet as the story ends fast forwarding to the ends of her parents lives, her mother pleased to be home from hospital, and yet again becomes house-bound and isolated, with no family nearby. "Escape is not as easy as it first may seem. (Martin)"

0 notes