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bedofthistles · 5 months

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The Little White Horse: A Complete Summary

So! I finally read TLWH, and man do I have thoughts and opinions! So many... so... many....

However, before I get into those opinions, I wanted to share my summary of TLWH, since I don't think a lot of people have read the book who enjoyed the movie.

Unfortunately, my thots and opinions are too wide and vast, resulting in what is more or less a 16 page dissertation, which may grow depending on if I think I covered all the topics I wanted to cover. So, to makes things a bit easier, I'm going to be splitting them up into more readable sections.

So, if you haven't read the book, if it's been a while since you've read the book, here is a summary of the novel.

Alright friends, the time has come.

After undertaking the laborious task of consuming all Moonacre content possible (movie, minie-series and novel) I have come to some unfortunate conclusions. The book sucks. But before you go too far, especially the weird amount of you who like the book, I would like to preface that each person is allotted their opinions. I am not aiming to dis the book, it’s a classic, but it’s not perfect, no book or work of art is. No one should get so offended by another’s opinion to the point where it sparks a deep, roiling anger inside of them.

(Rachel Zeglar may be wrong about the Snow White movie from the 1930s, but I took her side, everyone got real upset about a girl having opinions, not that’s her opinion and she’s allowed it.)

I want to start out by saying there are some issues in regards to race, incest, pedophilia, grooming and sexism in the novel, if that surprises and shocks you, I’m sorry but its in there, and just because you didn’t notice it doesn’t erase the fact that it was there. I also don’t want this to be about me comparing the book to the movie, because one that would just be a rant, and as much as I love that, that wouldn’t be fair to either works, and honestly? Besides the names and setting, the book and movie could almost fully be divorced from one another.

In case you don’t know the plot to the book, I will try to surmise it as best I can:

Maria Merryweather is a recently orphaned girl, she leaves London with her governess (Miss Heliotrope) and her dog (Wiggins) arriving to live with her first cousin once removed, Sir Benjamin, lord over Moonacre Valley (and if you’re not up to snuff about what that means, he’s a landlord, more or less). While driving, Maria occupies herself by staring at her small feet, her one attribute and attractive characteristic.

While en route, Maria sees the beautiful valley lit up like silver in the moonlight, and between the trees she spots a luminescent white horse. When she tries to tell her governess this, Ms. Heliotrope tells her to stop her overactive imagination, she has always had an overactive imagination, especially back in London, when she made up a playmate named Robin (yes, that one).

When they arrive, they learn that no woman has stepped foot inside of the house in 20 years - yes, Sir Benjamin is proud of this - and, very importantly, there is no pink within the house. While there, Sir Benjamin is a very happy, polite gentleman, who calls Maria your highness, and refers to Moonacre Valley as her dominion. There are also this weird thing about Sun Merryweathers and Moon Merryweathers.

“The brave soul and the pure spirit shall with a merry and a loving heart inherit the kingdom together," quoted Sir Benjamin. “That's our family motto, my dear. It's been our motto since the days of the first Sir Wrolf. It refers, I think, to the two sorts of Merryweathers, the sun and the moon Merryweathers, who are always merry when they love each other. It is also, perhaps, a device for linking together those four qualities that go to make up perfection --courage, purity, love, and joy."

While giving her a tour of the manor, he shows her a well (this will be important later) and Maria thinks to herself if I were a medieval lady, this is where I would hide my jewels in time of war.

Weird, but okay.

The one place Maria is not shown, is the kitchen.

They go to church, while the Parson is preaching, Maria brushes her skirt to smooth out some wrinkles, and there’s a noise that captures her attention for a bit. Then, once the service is over, everyone lines up and goes up to the Parson to get absolutely read to shreds. He literally tells them their sins of the week, and when it’s Maria’s turn, despite only being there for a day, she’s scolded for her vanity and curiosity.

One of the things Sir Benjamin gets scolded for is allowing the (and I’m so sorry for this) “Black Men” to stop hunting in Merryweather park. And that’s kind of all they do, and from here on out I will be referring to them as the De Noirs because that is technically their name, but Elizabeth Goudge just keeps calling them “the Black Men”.

And yes, that is as bad as it sounds, but more on that later.

Let’s just speed run some facts.

Every morning, Maria wakes up to cookies, milk, a stroked fire, and an outfit placed out for her. Maria feels so loved by these small acts, and feels as if she loves whoever is putting out these clothes.

“[Maria] had a queer feeling, as she fastened the coat of the habit and pinned the bunch of snowdrops to the front of it, that L.M. - whoever she was - put loving arms around her; almost as her mother might have done, had she not died.”

When she is out in the forest with Periwinkle and Wrolf, she hears the shrill, shrieking rabbit, and goes to save it. As she does, she realizes that the De Noirs have come for the rabbit as well. She and Robin save the rabbit from the De Noirs and bring her to safety. Robin tells her it's actually a moonacre hare, and then upon her asking too many questions, leaves.

“Maria choked down her curiosity, for Robin had always hated being asked questions, and if she asked too many would disappear, and she did not want him to disappear just yet.”

“There was no answer, and looking up she saw that Robin had disappeared, even though as far as she knew she had not asked a single question.”

She knows this because she would dream about Robin in London, and when she asked him questions, he would just leave the dream.

Maria learns about Sir Wrolf (who was arrogant, rude, and planned on marrying the Moon Princess to steal Black William’s land), the Moon Princess (who was just pale, and kind, I think?) with her dowry of pearls, and Monsieur Cocque De noir, otherwise known as Coeur De Noir because his heart was so black (it’s a common french last name, not to mention the black cock that rides on the current De Noir’s shoulder).

“[Sir Wrolf had] got Paradise Hill but there remained the pine woods behind his manor house, that run right down to the sea, to what is now called Merryweather Bay, which were the property of Sir William Cocq de Noir, called Black William because of the black cock that was his family crest, and because of his lashing dark eyes, black hair and beard and sallow French skin. And also because of his black heart. Coeur de Noir, men sometimes called him, instead of Cocq de Noir. For he was a bad man, was Black William, cruel to wild creatures, domineering with his servants, morose and ungenerous.”

Black William remarries, has a son, and that son becomes his heir. Because of this, Sir Wrolf can’t inherit the whole of the Valley through his wife, and gets super angry. Because of his rage, the De Noir’s think Sir Wrolf killed Black William, the Moon Princess ran away, and Black William’s son, who was believed to have died from sickness, returned twenty years later with his band of men who would become the wicked, evil, ‘Black Men’ who plague the valley. Sir Wrolf is described to have died heartbroken (good) and damned to ride around Paradise Hill in a sort of purgatory for his ill-deeds.

The Parson also tells Maria that every Moon Princess is destined to leave the Valley after fighting with her love. That it won’t be until the Moon Princess humbles herself and marries a poor man she will never be allowed to stay.

“She always has gone away," said Old Parson. “Not necessarily from the valley, but from the manor. Yet the old folks in the village vow and declare that one day there will come a Moon Princess who will have the courage to deliver the valley from the wickedness of the Black Men. But like the princesses in all the nicest fairy tales she will have to humble her pride to love not a prince but a poor man, a shepherd or ploughman or some such country lad, and to effect the deliverance with his help, and that's a thing which no Moon Princess has yet done, so proud are they.”

At this point, Maria meets Loveday Minette, the lady who had been leaving her clothes, she is kind and beautiful, and cleans the Parson’s house.

Then again, while out with her animals and Ms. Heliotrope, Maria goes to Paradise Hill, which is the monastery Sir Wrolf stole from the monks because he was covetous. While there she meets the shepherd and guess who it is? That’s right, Robin, no surprise there. While the two are there, the De Noirs attempt to steal the sheep.

Robin, Maria, and the Ghost of Sir Wrolf -

“And then, through the noise of the thunder and the rain, she distinctly heard the hoofs of a galloping horse pounding upon the turf. As the horseman was behind her she could not herself see anything, but whoever he was the Black Men seemed to see him, for with faces blanched by terror they turned and fled.”

they manage to scare them off.

Maria and Robin have a fight, but they deal with it, because Maria knows if she doesn’t forgive him, she’ll have to leave the Valley. This will be handled in more depth later. Likewise, Loveday and Sir Benjamin had a fight twenty years ago, Loveday leaves the Valley, marries a lawyer, sires Robin, and then comes back after her husband dies. Because of their stubborness, neither would return to the other and apologize. More detail on this later.

After dealing with the De Noirs, however. Maria decides that she must save the valley from their wickedness.

She, Robin, and the Parson return Paradise Hill to god, Sir Benjamin no longer profits off the sheep, and that’s it. It was a really long boring chapter about all the children of Silverydew cleaning it up and decorating it again with the statue of their Lady. They sing, and I think Sir Wrolf’s soul is released from the hell that is Moonacre Valley.

Once this is done, Maria and Robin sneak into the Castle in the pine woods, ask Mr. Cock to pretty please stop stealing and he says: not until you give me back the pearls, and also your ancestor murdered my ancestor.

Robin and Maria are chased, they find the tree hollow, with evidence that someone once lived there including a knife with a carved cock as the handle-

“Once upon a time this cave had been lived in. A hollow place in the wall was blackened, as though a fire had been lit there, and standing on a flat rock beside it was an iron pot that must have been used to cook stew in. And lying on the rock beside the pot was a huntsman's knife in a metal sheath, and a tarnished silver mug. Maria and Robin picked them up and looked at them, holding them close to their eyes in the dim light, and lo and behold, the sheath that held the knife was beautifully made in the shape of a cock, and upon the silver mug also there was traced the outline of a cock."

They also run through the tunnels that go through Moonacre Valley until they reach Merryweather Bay, where Maria finds a boat that belonged to Sir William.

For Maria, this is enough evidence that Black William left on his own accord, and the magical sea unicorns brought the boat back to Merryweather Bay as proof.

Once they’re home safe, Marmaduke asks Maria for butter kept in the well, because it's cold in there, and while Maria is more or less rifling through the Merryweather fridge, she finds an old box that has the pearls in them.

Maria decides that she doesn’t want to give the pearls to the De Noirs, because they are wicked, and will just give them to the moon instead. Then, through a gold medal mental gymnastic routine, decides that she will give them over.

“And yet Maria did not want to give those pearls away. She loved them far too much. She did not want to give them even to the moon, and as for giving them to the Black Men--well--she just couldn't do it. And yet she had to do it. Monsieur Cocq de Noir had promised that they would stop being wicked if she could give him proof that Black William had not been murdered by Sir Wrolf, but had withdrawn to a hermit's life by his own choice, and if she would give him the pearls. “That first condition was already fulfilled, for when he was pursuing her and Robin he would have seen Black William's hermitage with his own eyes, and the pearls he would have too if she could bring herself to give them to him. And then he would not be wicked any more and complete happiness would come to the Moonacre Valley. Somehow Maria did not doubt that if she kept her part of the bargain Monsieur Cocq de Noir would keep his. The wickedest of men have good in them somewhere, and remembering the direct look in his eyes she felt quite sure that he was not a man who would break his word. Yet she felt she could not give him these pearls, that she had found herself and that seemed already a part of her. “And then it struck her suddenly that if she gave her pearls to Monsieur Cocq de Noir she would, in a way, be giving them to the moon. For the moon belongs to the night, and what was more like night than Monsieur Cocq de Noir and his black pine forest? And the first Moon Princess had come out of the night-dark pine wood, bringing the pearls with her. The pearls belonged far more to the Black Men than they did to the Merryweathers.”

However, when she goes to the Castle, Mr. Cock takes the pearls, but doesn’t believe her about the boat. Then she hits him with the old “magic unicorns brought him into shore”, and he doesn’t believe that, but Maria is able to convince him to come out with her to the forest where she is sure the Little White Horse will appear, despite being rather elusive this whole time. They go out together, they see not only the Little White Horse, but a whole tidal wave of Sea Unicorn, and he’s like oh! You were telling the truth.

But! That’s not the end!

Maria still has to get Loveday and Sir Benjamin back together, and that is a whole other thing that deserves its own post and I will go into full detail on later. As well as some issues that I have with Robin Minette.

The story ends with Loveday and Benjamin getting married, Robin and Maria getting married A YEAR LATER, and going on to have ten kids. While the book does not tell us Robin’s age, we know Maria is thirteen, meaning she is at least fourteen when she gets married, and who knows when they start having kids. Again, I will talk about this more later. However, despite common belief, this getting married at 12-14 was not common.

The book ends, however, with one of the most lovely quotes.

“For sometimes in her dreams at night she stood beneath the branches of a mysterious wood, and looked down a moonlit glade, her eyes straining after something that she could not see. And when she woke up there would be tears on her cheeks because her longing had been unsatisfied. “Yet she was not unhappy because of this dream. “She knew that one day, when she was a very old woman, she would dream this dream for the last time, and in this last dream of all she would see the little white horse and he would not go away from her. He would come towards her, and she would run towards him, and he would carry her upon his back away and away, she did not quite know where, but to a good place, a place where she wanted to be.”

To keep things brief (too late) I will be making other posts to complete my analysis of book, movie, and small mentions of the miniseries.

And if you were thinking about reading the book: don’t.

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#the secret of moonacre #the little white horse #TLWH dissertation #I'll figure out how to link the parts #i know you can #thots and opinions #i know I'm gonna make someone mad

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sivgaaudio · 1 month

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The mix of metal and wood. The sound of nature!

The experience of SIVGA Planar Driver Earphones: Nightingale

Those who are acquainted with SIVGA might recognize their preference for naming their headphones models after various birds,symbols of freedom and beauty.For instance,the golden oriole,luan (a mythical bird like the phoenix),and phoenix models,each features elegant wooden shells that harmoniously complement their natural,captivating sounds. Despite the company's earlier earbuds release focusing on wooden components,they did not attribute a bird's name to any of the earlier earbuds.That is,until the introduction of their thousand-yuan "Nightingale" planar headphones.This oversight highlights SIVGA's importance in "Nightingale".

Nightingale, which is often seen in literary works, is actually the Xingjiang song finch. It is characterized by its excellent singing skills, and it likes to sing at night. As an middle-aged person, I can only settle down and enjoy the music when it is quiet at night, which is quite matching with this headphones. Next, I will share my recent feelings, and let's take a look at the specific performance of this "singing elf":

As the flagship in-ear headphone product under the SIGVA brand,the packaging of "Nightingale" is exceptionally exquisite.The entire box is shrouded in a profound darkness,with a captivating,bright gold plaque that contrasts beautifully with the deliberately highlighted Chinese name below. Although there is no line drawing on the cover, this white-space approach instead gives people reverie.

In addition to the headphones,the packaging box also includes a dedicated storage box for the included earplug sleeves.I counted four pairs of silicone earplugs (each pair in large,medium,and small sizes, additionally, another pair is on the earphones, totally four pairs). As for the cable,it’s a kind of Japanese square-shaped silver-plated copper wire,with a 4.4mm plug.Given the excellent quality itself,there's no need to purchase an additional balanced upgrade cable.

This storage bag is worth talking about. It is made of rhombic patterned nylon, with a durable,hard and thick shell. It can protect the headphones from damage when placed in the backpack and being squeezed. The space inside is also very large. In short, I really like it.

The headphones feature a detachable 0.78 dual-pin design,making it convenient for future upgrades and cable replacements.The black paint-coated wire matches the earplugs nicely,while the plug handle is also reinforced with a spring,reducing the likelihood of bending.

This is also a classic design of the headphone cable of SIVGA. The cable is composed of 4 strands of 7 0.23mm diameter wire cores + 250D bulletproof silk, with an imported high-gloss soft PVC material on the surface. The cable is flexible and will not be easily tangled during daily use.

Let's take a closer look at the "Nightingale". The waterdrop-shaped earphone cavity is elegant and atmospheric.The front shell is crafted from an aluminum-magnesium alloy,while the rear cavity panel is made of precious wood that has been carefully selected and processed.Although the surface appears smooth after meticulous processing,the wood grain left behind by time varies from piece to piece. As the saying goes,birds choose the right tree to perch on,and the adoption of real wood backplates and the naming of the headphones are truly complementary.

The bright silver metal earphone shell is paired with dark-tone solid wood veneers, and the contrast of the bright and dark color differences is elegant and of high grade. Decorated on the ears, it not only has a soft and pleasant sound, but also can be a decorative embellishment when going out. The combination of different materials also puts a high demand on the manufacturer's workmanship. In this regard, SIGVA is always the master. Not only is the material selection exquisite, but the workmanship details are also very solid (the weight of one earphone is about 15 grams), making the entire earphone exude a remarkable sense of high-end. It is also very comfortable to wear, and it fits naturally with the auricle, without accidentally falling off, and there is no discomfort even after one wearing it for a long time.

Let’s take a close-up of the specific part, and you can see its fine workmanship. The alloy part is processed by 5-axis CNC, and after polishing and grinding process, it emits a metallic luster. What’s more, the wooden shell panel is made through traditional handcrafts such as painting and natural air-drying, giving a round and smooth shiny feeling.

Metal mesh detail on the sound guide tube: The inner cavity of the earphone has L and R labeled indicators for the left and right ears.The "Nightingale" accurately controls the size of the sound outlet and breathability,reducing cavity resonance while extending the life of the unit and delivering a purer sound.

In terms of hardware configuration, Nightingale is equipped with SIVGA’s self-developed 14.5mm planar unit of ultra-thin composite materials, which consists of a dual magnetic field matrix structure composed of two sets of high-performance rare earth neodymium iron boron magnets, and is equipped with built-in aluminum wires. It has the advantages of high sensitivity, uniform sound field distribution, and good transient response. Compared with ordinary single magnets, the efficiency is significantly improved. In addition, its impedance is 16 Ohms, sensitivity is 100dB, and the frequency response range is between 20Hz-40KHz.

Finally, let's talk about the subjective listening experience. As a kind of planar headphones, "Nightingale" is not easy to drive. For mobile phones, it is best to pair it with a portable headphone amplifier (forget about the "small tail adaptor" with average driving power). After I got "Nightingale", I partnered it with Qianlongsheng's MUB1 “big tail adaptor” and XD05 BAL. And I continued to condition it for about 50 hours in a row, and the sound that was slightly tight when I first put it in my ears became more stretched and loose. In addition, it also has a better performance in details, dynamics, separation and sense of envelopment.

Its low-frequency response is moderate,but by no means deficient.The control over elasticity and density is impressive,with good clarity.Compared to the captivating and stunning sound that comes from instant gratification,the "Nightingale" offers a more straightforward approach.Although it doesn't contain excessive seasoning,it's not bland,either.Instead,it's refreshing and enjoyable,particularly due to its rich atmospheric presence,akin to the mist hovering over a mountain peak,providing a strong sense of presence and immersion.

The details of the intermediate frequency part are quite rich, and the layering is also very obvious, with outstanding resolution performance. Its sound is delicate and bright, the sound bottom is pure, the imaging is clear, and it has a certain cohesion, without a loose and thin feeling. The human voice is penetrative and the separation between each instrument is good. When listening to Cai Qin's "Forgotten Times", the low humming and singing at the beginning, and the belting out later, every subtle change and sound detail can be accurately grasped. The unaccompanied singing part has a mellow and vicissitudes of voice, with a relaxed and natural hint of sadness. When listening to the female voice, although it lacks a hint of sweetness and agility, it does not simply seek sensory stimulation, but tries to restore the original taste of the voice. The advantage is that it is real and peaceful, and full of charm.

The high-frequency response of the "Nightingale" is transparent,clean,and smooth,without any harshness.The linearity is clear,and the resolution and positioning are excellent.The details are rich,with ample information and good extension.Although the resolution is strong,it is relaxed and not dry or harsh. In terms of sound field,the horizontal and vertical distribution is reasonable and tidy,with a wide opening and a strong sense of immersion.Overall,the sound of the "Nightingale" is delicate and soft,smooth and silky.The vocal expression is sincere and warm.The connection between the three frequency bands is relatively balanced.

Summary: As a new in-ear flagship of SIVGA, "Nightingale" has a relatively high access threshold, which requires you to have a good front end on hand and be patient to condition it for a longer period of time. Its appearance has a unique texture under the shape of metal and wood and a high appearance level under the fine workmanship and beautiful shape, but in terms of sound, it is not the type that makes people amazing at first listening. It feels plain at first, but after a deeper appreciation, it becomes aware of the charm, the more you look, the more beautiful it is, and the more you listen to, the more pleasant it is. In short, it is a planar in-ear earbuds with distinctive features, and it is very suitable for one listening in calmness.

#hifi #audio #headphones #music #sivga #Sivga #Nightingale #earphones #wired #sora

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amatchinwater · 3 years

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First box done for Steo Spooktober!!

Square filled: Underwater

Warnings: Drowning

Words: 1963

Song that I listened to while writing. Well, the first 6 minutes of it at least lol.

When The Siren Sings

After his grandmother passed away and her will came to light, Stiles inherited a lake house that neither he nor his father knew existed. Desperately wanting a break from all the supernatural fuckery in his life, Stiles left that weekend to go scope the place out. His father was okay with it so long as he checks in. Other than that, he set himself to ‘do not disturb’, using an excuse that he was visiting colleges. It at least made Lydia promise to have the pack leave him alone, so that’s something.

That’s all Stiles wanted. Was some time alone. When he pulled up to the massive two story brick house, he almost wishes he had someone come with him. If Stiles hadn’t been around so many werewolves that he basically shares their attributes, he definitely would’ve gotten lost on the way here. GPS or not. Desolate just grazes the description of this place. The house itself is gorgeous. But save for the lake, it’s a ten minute drive to the nearest break in the trees. Ten whole minutes away from the main road. From help.

The lake is actually pretty. If you’re into the whole pebble beach and water you can’t see the bottom of even when the sun is shining. Which it’s not. It set past the tree line before Stiles even pulled up. And no, he’s not even thinking about sitting on the opening between the railing of the dock and dipping his toes. No, sir. Stiles is heading straight for the front door. When he gets inside, it’s surprisingly not dusty and the furniture is uncovered. Even the piano by the stone fireplace is sparkling in the moonlight through the sheer curtains.

He hasn’t played the piano in years. A smile pulls at his lips and he sits on the small bench, opening the door. Sitting on the keys is an envelope with his name in black ink.

It reads:

My little Mischief,

You probably don’t remember, but you used to come here all the time before your mother got sick. I taught you to play piano on these very keys. I hope you still play. This house is very old, Stiles. It could use some music in its bones. So could the lake. The water flows so beautifully when it hears music. I bet even the trees would sway if they heard you play. Open the doors and let nature hear you.

With all my love,

Nona

P.S. Don’t be afraid if the lake starts to sing back.

“If- if the lake starts to sing back?” Stiles stares at the parchment, turning it around to see if there’s anything on the back. There isn’t. Just what’s single handedly the weirdest letter he’s ever received in his entire life. Lakes don’t fucking sing. And why the hell is this place so clean? Nona has been in a home for years. It just doesn't make any sense.

Yet Stiles actually wants to play. And taking this letter as his grandmother’s last wish, he gets up and opens the french doors to the patio. And subsequently, the lake. A gust of wind rushes from the water, sending a chill deep in his bones. Stiles pulls his hoodie closer to his neck before sitting back down at the piano. His fingers brush the white and black keys as he ghosts his foot over the pedal.

Closing his eyes with a sigh, Stiles poises his hands, letting muscle memory play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It was always his favorite. Haunting, yet beautiful. He barely makes it two minutes through until Stiles swears he heard humming that wasn’t his own. His finger pause, not hearing it again, Stiles picks up where he left off.

Too entranced in his own mind, Stiles doesn’t notice the humming returns. It isn’t until he’s halfway down the dock and a deep, melodic voice whispers his name- his actual name- that Stiles realizes he's stopped playing in the first place. The ethereal voice is the only music left.

“What the fuck?” Stiles squints as the fog in his brain and the mist over the lake clears walking to the edge of the creaking wood. “I didn’t even smoke yet,” he mumbles, blinking hard because there’s no way he’s seeing a head sticking out of the water. Even more impossible that it looks like the man is grinning at him. When he blinks again it’s gone. Just a few ripples in the distance making him question his sanity.

With a shake of his head, Stiles pushes off the railing of the dock to head back to the house. But the gentle sound of water breaking and the deep humming resumes, stopping him dead in his tracks. He should run, Stiles knows that. Except he turns on his heel.

“Hi,” the boy in the water says. Features too dark to make out fully despite the bright moon. But what he can see is gorgeous. “You must be Mieczysław.”

I’m sorry?

“What?”

“Cleo’s grandson, right?” He grabs the edge of the dock, pulling himself up enough to prop his arms. “I’m Theo,” his head tilts in curiosity, “was that you playing?”

What the- is he sleeping? “How do you know my name?” His real fucking name that he tells no one.

“Cleo told me about you. She said that you’d come back to me.” Theo smirks, showing off a hint of teeth before humming again and Stiles is locked in those blue eyes. It takes the realization that he can tell their color now to see he’s kneeling on the dock. “Was that you playing the piano?” He asks again.

“Yes,” he answers, not sure why though. All Stiles knows is he wants to talk to Theo. Tell the other boy whatever he wants to know. Something in his gut telling him that it’s safe to. That Theo’s safe.

Theo smiles wider, “good.” He lifts himself up more and Stiles notices a flash of deep red and cream colored scales. “Did Cleo ever tell you about me? The siren you were made for? Who gave up a scale for you?”

Stiles gasps, a hand moving to the gold locket around his neck. Sitting on his heels, he pulls the thin chain from his shirt and opens the heart. Having had it for as long as he can remember, he knows that inside is an iridescent red scale. Then Theo pushes up farther, sure enough on his hip is a scar where it should be. “Didn’t that hurt?”

The siren shrugs, dropping himself to his elbows again and once more, Stiles leans closer. “It did. But for you? It’s worth it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Before she left, Cleo would tell me about you every single day. You met me once when you were a kid.” Theo smiles at the memory Stiles doesn’t have. Everything before his mom is a blank slate. “I gave you my scale myself. You were so cute. Calling yourself Mischief because you couldn’t pronounce Mieczysław and kissed my forehead to thank me.”

Snorting, “no one can pronounce my name. I go by Stiles,” he explains, leaning closer still. His face inches away from the siren- the water.

“I wouldn’t take you as a child,” Theo tells him, putting a warm hand over Stiles’ own. “Will you come with me now?”

There’s a reason he should say no. But Stiles can’t figure out what that is. Too entranced by the gorgeous face telling him he was made for Theo. So instead he asks, “will it hurt?”

“At first. To become like me you have to drown.” Theo smiles apologetically, “but I’ll be there every step of the way. Please, Stiles, say you’ll come with me on your own. I can’t be without you any longer. I’d rather it be your own choice.”

The fuzziness in his head clears again and the song stops. But he still wants to. With the siren’s influence gone, Stiles still wants to go with Theo. The siren who gave part of his own body for him. Loved his Nona as much as he did. Is giving him a choice. No one gives Stiles options anymore, they just expect things from him.

“Yes,” Stiles entwines their fingers, “I’ll go with you.”

The siren squeezes his hand, “I’ll be here, Stiles. Come into the lake. Become like me.”

Standing up, Stiles strips down to his boxers and hangs his legs over the edge of the dock. Theo wraps his hands around his waist, helping him into the frigid water. Stiles shivers roughly. “You’ll warm up once you turn. Just put your legs around me, I’ll do all the work,” his voice is so soothing.

Nodding, Stiles does as instructed. His arms wrap around the siren’s neck to take his warmth. Fighting the chatter of his teeth, Stiles feels Theo’s tail move in the water, bringing them deeper into the lake. The siren cocks an eyebrow. “I-I’m r-ready,” Stiles shivers with a new wave of goosebumps that reach his thighs. Theo’s eyes glow green and Stiles takes a deep breath before they’re submerged.

Colder than ever before, he clings to the siren harder. “I’m right here,” Theo says clear as day. It makes Stiles’ eyes snap open, two vibrant green pools are all he can see in the blackness. Theo runs his hands along his back, calming Stiles. “I can sing for you if it’ll help.” Stiles nods, his lungs burning at their mistreatment, begging him to breathe. Smiling, Theo starts to hum the Moonlight Sonata.

A wave of calm washes over Stiles despite the violent protest in his chest. His head is pounding from the lack of oxygen and just when the instinct to breathe kicks in, Theo crashes their mouth together. The fire in his lungs quells to a dull ache and Stiles feels like he’s going to pass out. The hands on his back never leave as his last breath rushes into the siren’s mouth. Stiles drifts off, falling into a blissful sleep where nothing hurts anymore.

When he opens his eyes everything is in sharp focus. He can see the rock and sandy floor of the lake. The small schools of fish swimming by. More than that, he remembers everything. His mom brought him here while his dad was at work. Meeting Theo. Playing the piano and giggling when the siren would sing along with him. Theo teaching him how to swim when he was young. All of it.

And those strong arms still hold Stiles close. Gasping, he pulls back to see Theo smiling at him. He can breathe! “It worked! I-I remember you!” Holy shit! “I can breathe! And talk!”

Theo brushes their noses together, “you’re a siren now. Like me. Look,” his gaze falls to where Stiles’ legs used to be.

Now there’s a tail with purple and black scales. “Whoa!” Stiles stares, watching his dark fin wade in the water. Instinct brings his hand to his locket. But it’s gone. “Theo, your scale,” his eyes start to well though the lake carries them away.

“It’s okay,” the other siren cups his cheek, “it’s right here.” Theo taps Stiles’ hip where a singular red scale rests among the black and purple. Relief washes over him that it’s not lost but a part of him now. “Come on, let me show you my world. Our world.” Theo holds his hand out and Stiles takes it with a smile as his stomach growls. “We’ll take care of that too.”

Green eyes flash above a devilish grin and Stiles has never been more excited. Even though he knows from lore what sirens eat for food that doesn’t matter. As long as he has Theo, Stiles can’t find it in himself to care.

#steo #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #theo x stiles #steospooktober #steospooktober vol.3 #underwater #Match Writes

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ingek73 · 3 years

Text

Juneteenth

STORY by Team at Archewell

Jun. 16, 2021

YOUNG POETS OF GET LIT SHARE POWERFUL WORDS TO COMMEMORATE THE DAY

In honor of Juneteenth, we, at Archewell, connected with our friends at Get Lit and asked them to share poetry to honor this important day. We hope their poignant words allow you to reflect on the significance of this newly declared federal holiday in the United States and its impact across this country and around the world.

AND HOLD, AND HOLD

CORTUNAY MINOR AND TAMIA JACKSON

youtube

WHY THEY WROTE THIS POEM:

“When I wrote this poem, just a few weeks before June 15th, Juneteenth wasn’t yet a federal or national holiday. It wasn’t something I’d given much thought to, but when I had recognized that fact, it wasn’t information, it was confirmation. At first, I was upset about it. My immediate thoughts were along the lines of, ‘Where are our fireworks? Where’s our three-day weekend?’ But in reflection, I realized that this was demonstrating continued deference to a supposedly superior entity. Juneteenth isn’t the ‘Black Independence Day,’ it’s the only Independence Day. To have that nationally recognized feels amazing. But whether or not the date is printed in every calendar does not validate this holiday. We do.”

WHY SHE ANIMATED THIS PIECE:

“This poem, especially for Juneteenth, really inspired me. The color palette expresses the somber yet hopeful emotions that happen when black freedom is discussed, and what it means to be a Black individual in America. This poem as well as the visuals really emphasizes the impact that Black people have by simply existing, and the importance of our breath. We know that as long as we’re still breathing there can and will be change, and ultimately full freedom.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Cortunay Minor (she/they) is a performing artist who specializes in Stage Acting and Spoken Word Poetry. They are currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Theater from the UCLA School of Theater, Film, and Television. The theme and goal that Minor tries to hold in the heart of their artistry is liberation, be that emotional, intellectual, or otherwise. Expression and education are two of the most fruitful paths Minor has found that achieve that liberation, and she is immensely grateful to be able to participate in a craft that allows their simultaneous occurrence.

ABOUT THE ANIMATOR:

Tamia Jackson (animator) is a rising senior at the Rhode Island School of Design, receiving her BFA in Film/Animation/Video with a minor in Literary Arts and Studies. She has always been passionate in art, animation, and storytelling. She loves bringing stories of lesser voices, such as BIPOC, low income, female, etc., into a visual and cared-for light. Though not all of her stories or animations revolve around such identities, it is important that she shows diversity so that many people can relate and find comfort in the characters or art piece. Not only does Jackson enjoy spreading her own voice, but she also loves bringing others’ stories to life.

AND HOLD, AND HOLD

‘Holiday’ meaning ‘Holy Day’ meaning:

every second is sacred/every hour hibernates

within the spirit, huddled beneath the bosom.

To breathe is to commemorate:

inhale – exhale – cradle the thought – hold – and repeat.

When daybreak demotes breath to subconscious action,

the diaphragm still submits in reverence, still remembers that

This is Divine. This

is where jubilation begins:

in the suspension of

breathe in – breathe out – take maybe – and

forever hold the moment,

where the deferred dream stopped shriveling,

wavered in anticipation, remembered that expansion

can be soft,

recognized that it didn’t want soft

expansion.

Bodies were policied out of possession, but

the Black individual liberated their own being,

hollered themself out of state-sanctioned silence.

Words ignite, but presence sustains; this intake/expel maintains us

here

the dream explodes. The spirit absorbs the remnants and outpours,

‘holiday’ meaning ‘Holy Day’ meaning:

I hold this day as sovereign. Meaning:

I hope this day knows its home is in these lungs,

is in this breath, is in the repetition of:

inspire – expire – immortalize the memory – and hold – and hold – and release

POPLAR TREES

CYRUS ROBERTS

youtube

WHY HE WROTE AND DIRECTED THIS POEM:

“It’s easy to say “slavery was an atrocity and we need to do better” but it’s much more difficult to say “slave masters ripped babies from their mothers and used them as crocodile bait for sport.” In the average American lexicon, phrases like ‘Never Forget’ are commonplace but are rarely attributed to periods of fundamental, ongoing violence of a racial nature for the simple fact that our pain makes the people who benefitted from that pain uncomfortable. For me Juneteenth is a day of mourning; the Confederate holidays still celebrated today seem like a gruesome counterbalance. So this is my eulogy to both the country and my own being that could have been.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Cyrus Roberts (he/him) writes, acts, and directs across poetry, theater, and film. While his work has been commissioned by organizations like Toms Shoes, Adidas, and March For Our Lives, he also enjoys working on cool independent projects, whether he’s self-publishing poetry compilations, creating movies with friends, or acting in his own plays. Roberts is currently a senior in UC Santa Barbara’s BFA Acting program. Look for him in the upcoming film Summertime, directed by Carlos Lopez Estrada. His assistant director on the project was Mattie Kranz.

POPLAR TREES

Before you there was me. But before me there was (Nina Simone audio: “black bodies swinging”). And that was the gentler time period. Everything base within you, reflected in your actions. Please don’t censor me when I mention how you wrangled our teeth from our mouths and used them to seduce your own illnesses into submission. Or how you took an interest in the skin that had a monopoly on sunlight and then took what you wanted underneath the moon. Or how you used our babies as crocodile bait and our skin as shoe leather. Look right into the eyes of our demise and try to say those times are past, that I’m being rash, that I’m being bad and so full of woe and I should be glad I’m writing this on my MacBook Pro. Yeah? Who am I to complain about slavery? Because it ended, right? On June 19, 1865, Union Army general Gordon Granger made his way to Texas and proclaimed slavery’s supposed fall and us colored folk supposed to have a ball? I mean it was two and a half years after Lincoln already announced it, but we needed a white man to tell other white men what another white man already said. I mean that is until that white man found himself dead and Reconstruction found itself at a head and chain gangs, sharecropping, Jim Crow, private prison options, perc popping, bodies dropping, cops still stopping, guns cocking to ensure that (Nina Simone audio: “black bodies swinging”). Every 19th of June we celebrate the end of chattel slavery and every 20th we’re back to fighting its descendants. Private prisons / a cop’s knee is a modern lynching / it ain’t my decision to get busy dyin’ or busy living / I paid attention, to all the digitized depictions / all the people packing up pensions while we’re backed up by the system. Put your back into the system, this is wack how mother’s missing their babies kisses and I’m supposed to be celebrating? I’m sorry. Will you forgive me, I’m jaded. My grandmother looks at me and says confidently that I made it. That she can’t possibly imagine the life that I’m living, I owe a debt to her generation, and I hope that I pay it. I just get so angry, hazy laughter at the thought of thoughts and prayers ending enslavement. So after you hear me, I’ll forgive you if you’re jaded. But you still need to know the history to have an appreciation. It’s no mystery why it’s a mystery present in our education, presently the gatekeepers keep us from it and it’s heinous. On Juneteenth, Americans across the nation eat red foods in honor of the blood spilled before and during emancipation, we celebrate the secondary, pushed-to-the-side independence day, but you don’t have to know our proclamations of jubilation for us to be heard. We will be heard in our voices screaming thanks that we are not treated as herd. We dance and we sing hymns of freedom. Freedom: absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government. Are my brothers and sisters in jail cells free? When there’s a glaring loophole in the 13th amendment smiling from cheek to cheek I’d imagine there’d be some incentive to ensure our purity is never free. And how can I be free when I can’t sleep because my dreams keep whispering I can’t breathe. Regardless of that fact, progress is still being made. But I fear progress is just an exchange of chains for other chains. Same way they changed our names for other names, I rest a bouquet on the graves of enslaved, singing regardless this day. In the hopes that I never again have to see (Nina Simone audio: “black bodies swinging”).

UNTITLED

SIERRA LEONE ANDERSON

youtube

WHY SHE WROTE THIS POEM:

“When writing this poem, I really made an effort to think back to my ancestors. What was their impact? Who did they inspire? How did they carve the path for the road I now choose to take? This poem is about legacy. I am calling back to the ancestors before me to give me the strength and courage to be the ancestor I want to be to future generations.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Sierra Leone Anderson (poet) is a youth activist and professional spoken word artist from Los Angeles. Rooted in liberatory joy and armed with ancestral truth, Sierra Leone aims to bring light to the power of language, empowering Los Angeles youth of color to recognize the quantifiable influence of their voice. She has placed both second and first in Get Lit’s annual middle and high school Classic Slam respectively, co-wrote an article for the political column of USA Today, and has shared space with several influential changemakers including Dr. Melina Abdullah (co-founder of BLM-LA) and Cecily Myart-Cruz (president of UTLA). Her other organizing work includes collaborating with Students Deserve LA to make Black Lives Matter in and beyond schools. She is currently a ninth grade student at Girls Academic Leadership Academy and an avid lover of trashy teenage dramedies.

Her director and editor is Lukas Lane, an award-winning filmmaker and founding member of Literary Riot (started in his junior year of high school), and he is currently attending UC Berkeley.

UNTITLED

Every generation, the world gives birth to a new fleet of freedom fighters.

I am one of them.

I stand on the shoulders of tired women.

I dance in the footsteps of Pan-African poets, liberation fighters, and Black writers

who grew fires from a pit hungrier than a stomach. They call my name and I call theirs.

Malcolm X. Phyllis Wheatley. Maya Angelou. Sojourner Truth. Audre Lorde. Ida B. Wells.

Your resilience rivers through me. You are my founding fathers. The blueprint to a world we need to be brave enough to see, to seek.

Let us imagine a world in which we know each other’s palms

and never the fist. Not unless needed. Not unless united together.

Let us be the drum and not the war.

Let us know each other’s names and not the languages we cry in.

Let us be, let all us be more than a slave’s wildest dream

Let us beam past blueprints and what-ifs and start becoming the now we want to see, the now we want to be

Trees growing so far past the Earth, Allah would mistake our bodies for angels.

When I die, I want to ripple through lifetimes. I want my name to graffiti the mouths of the next 10 generations.

I don’t want to be forgotten. Or remembered for the way my feet wouldn’t stop running.

I wanna grow roots in this soil, in this American skin. Join the forest of my ancestors. Let my grandkids climb up my branches and tell stories of school.

And before the first pulse of morning, I want them to drip from their homes and gather at my roots.

I want to tell them my name before I forget it.

I want to tell them that morning is coming. And will always come. And will never wait for when you are ready.

I want to tell them that there is a point far beyond this tree, this forest, this temporary point in time, their bodies, their fears, their fathers, their memories. Where the sun is eternal and smiling. Where freedom rings and is never silent, never out of reach. It is called horizon. And it is right there.

#juneteenth #archewell #sierra leone anderson #cyrus roberts #cortunay minor #tamia jackson #get lit #poetry #poets #Youtube

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germanicseidr · 3 years

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Wodan

It has been more than a year since I published my post on Wodan. Just like with my post on the Batavi, I wanted to rewrite this post as well to include more information about this fascinating God and also add a bit of my own personal experiences with this deity. This group has gained thousands of members since last year so there are also quite a lot who have perhaps missed my previous post on Wodan. I also want to discuss the similarities and differences between Wodan/Odin and the moment when humans started to worship him.

Wodan is the chief God of the Germanic pantheon. He has countless of names in many languages, it would be truly fascinating to try and collect all of his names into one big list. He is the God of wisdom, knowledge, battle, magic, death, primal rage, healing, tricking humans and the runes. Most of our knowledge on Wodan is based on the eddas. Unfortunately the ancient Germanic people did not write anything down about him but we do have archeological evidence for his worship.

His name comes from the proto-Germanic word Wodanaz which means rage. This already provides us with a clue on how the early Germanic people viewed this deity. Interestingly, the Dutch word for rage is woede, derived from the old Dutch name for Wodan, Uuoden>Woen, Weda in old Frisian. The meaning of the word Wodanaz has not changed for the Dutch people in over 2000 years. This God personally holds a very special place in my heart. Through my work with seidr I have come into contact with him several times.

When did the Germanic people start to worship Wodan?

The first written mention of Wodan comes from Tacitus in 98AD. Tacitus describes several Germanic Gods but unfortunately he uses Latin names to describe them. The Romans compared Wodan with their own God Mercury. Why the Romans compared Wodan with Mercury also isn’t fully clear. Both Gods escort the dead and carry a staff but that is where their likeness ends. Curiously, the Romans compared their chief God, Jupiter, with Donar. This is perhaps a clue into the changing roles that Wodan played.

Just because this is the first written mention of him, doesn't mean that the worship of Wodan comes from this time period. The Germanic people didn't write anything down, their religion was passed down to the next generation by telling stories, it's an oral tradition so we still do not know how old Wodan exactly is.

We can look at archeological evidence as well. When do we first see images appearing that look similar to Wodan? I think most of you are familiar with the classic Odin/Wodan images found all over the Germanic world, from Norway to Denmark, Germany and the Netherlands from the Vendel period and early medieval era. But looking at these images provides us with another problem. How can we be absolutely sure that these images represent the same God? Maybe Wodan was portrayed completely different from how we know him now? Maybe a face of Wodan was carved on wood, similar to the wooden statues found in bogs dating back tot he bronze age? Maybe all the early depictions of Wodan have simply been lost in time.

There is however another theory that suggests that Wodan was introduced to the Germanic people by the Saami. One of Wodan's most defining traits is that he is able to wander across all the realms, speak to spirits and gain knowledge this way. Technically this makes Wodan a very experienced shaman. The Saami people were/are practitioners of shamanism. The Goddess Freyja taught Wodan how to practice seidr. Seidr is a mix of shamanism and witchcraft similiar to the shamanic practices of the Saami people.

Another theory suggests that a Saami shaman, called Wotan, simply became deified by the Germanic people. Perhaps he led a tribe to victory after leading them into battle. Another even wilder theory suggests that Wotan was a Celtic druid who was deified by the Germanic people. The only historic truth that can be verified is that the Germanic culture borrowed elements from both the Celtic and Saami people.

Wodan could also have been introduced to the North-western European people during the bronze age by the proto-indo Europeans. The proto-indo European language spread all across Europe and evolved into different languages, perhaps the same happened to their chief God, Dyeus, as well. Almost all Indo-European cultures have a (chief) God who is quite similiar per example, Zeus, Wodan, Perun, Tiwaz, Jupiter, Dagda, Dievas, Papaios, Brahma.

Even if you research all these possible topics deeply, it is still impossible to say when exactly Wodan was a known deity amongst the Germanic people. The Germanic culture developed during the late Bronze age and if you combine all these theories together, his possible origin could lie near the end of the Bronze age and the start of the Iron age. That would mean that the worship of Wodan began around between 1800BC-1300BC in modern day Denmark, northern Germany and North-eastern Netherlands, more than 2000 years before the viking age even began.

However most of the physical and written evidence for the worship of Wodan came from the early medieval ages until the middle medieval ages, the era between 400-1000AD. One example is a fibula found in Heiloo, the Netherlands. This fibula from 7th century Frisia depicts Wodan flanked by two wolves. There are also coins found in Frisia that depict Wodan. More of such fibula, amulets and coins have been found throughout Norway, Sweden, Denmark, the Netherlands, England and Germany.

Written sources outside of the eddas that mention Wodan have also been discovered. This is the nine herbs charm which was written somewhere during the 10th century AD in England. Christianity was the official religion of the English people at that time but it seems that the common people would still fall back on the old Gods in times of need. Here is the charm:

“A snake came crawling, it bit a man. Then Woden took nine glory-twigs, Smote the serpent so that it flew into nine parts. There apple brought this pass against poison, That she nevermore would enter her house.”

There is also an Old English rune poem that basically explains the futhark. This is the stanza for the ansuz rune:

"god is the origin of all language wisdom's foundation and wise man’s comfort and to every hero blessing and hope" The word Ansuz/Os is used for God. Christians did not use this word to speak of their God so this rune is directly related to Wodan.

He is also mentioned in the Old English poem Maxims I:

"Woden worhte weos" Woden made idols.

The last written record that I want to mention is the German Merseburg charm which I have written about before:

"Phol and Woden travelled to the forest. Then was for Baldur's foal its foot wrenched. Then encharmed it Sindgund (and) Sunna her sister, then encharmed it Frija (and) Volla her sister, then encharmed it Woden, as he the best could,"

Wodan later became known as Odin in the early medieval Scandinavian world. Wodan and Odin are essentially the same deity but there are some differences between the two. These differences formed over time since Wodan is an older depiction of Odin. Here I tried to list the attributes of both Wodan and Odin in an attempt to show how the early Germanic people viewed Wodan compared to how the vikings viewed him.

Wodan: Skilled sorcerer, God of death, trickster of humans, God of knowledge, bringer of the runes, still has two eyes according to some sources, shaman, primal force of rage, leader of the wild hunt, God of war, God of healing, carries a staff and spear, two ravens, is a deceiver and was a feared God because of his ability to trick humans into death or madness.

Odin: Skilled in battle and magic, God of Knowledge, bringer of the runes, one-eyed, shaman, shapeshifter, dead fighters go to Walhalla to fight for him, God of war, owner of Sleipnir, carries a staff and spear, two ravens and two wolves guide him, more closely related to the Saami culture.

There are still some traditions left in Europe that are linked to Wodan/Odin. Since I am Dutch, I will explain some Dutch traditions: Sinterklaas, the old wanderer on his white horse who rides in the sky and gives presents to children. Midwinterhoorn blazen, the blowing of the midwinterhorn to announce the arrival of the wild hunt, the traditional start of winter. Hanging the placenta of a horse in an oak tree. Sint Maarten, the old wanderer on a horse who shared a piece of his cloak to a freezing stranger. And lastly possibly the game of paalzitten. If you know about other traditions from other countries that are linked to Wodan/Odin, feel free to share them in the comments.

Here are some of Wodan/Odin’s names in different (Germanic) languges:

Proto-Germanic: Wodanaz Old English: Woden Old Saxon: Wodan Old High German: Wuotan Old Frisian: Weda Old Norse: Óðinn Dutch: Wodan/Woen Old Dutch: Uuoden English: Odin Norwegian: Odin

Feel free to expand on this list in the comments.

The reason why I decided to rewrite and post this article today is because Sinterklaas has arrived again in the Netherlands. This was traditionally viewed as the start of the wild hunt led by Wodan. He would ride in the cold dark winter nights through the sky, trying to collect as many of the dead as possible. If you were unfortunate enough to see him in the sky, it meant that your life is soon ending and you would join Wodan’s hunt back to the underworld. In order to please the wild hunt, people left behind small offerings of food near the hearths of their homes. Carrots were left behind to feed Sleipnir. Until this very day, Dutch and Belgian children gift carrots to his horse in the tradition of Sinterklaas.

At last I want to share one of my own personal experiences with Wodan. As a child and teenager I was always searching for a spiritual home. My mother is a practitioner of witchcraft, a tradition which goes back for many generations in my family. I was raised with this practice of witchcraft but still I felt spiritually lost. That was until one day, on my birthday several years ago, I started to explore the older variant of witchcraft, shamanism.

During that first trance I met Wodan by surprise. His appearance was so unsettling that it caused me to experience a full blown panic attack and I was thrown out of my trance. I felt physically ill for two days until I returned into trance and stumbled upon Wodan once again. I was finally able to communicate with him and it turned out that he caused my panic attack because he likes pulling such tricks on humans, especially when he senses fear. We talked for a few minutes about knowledge until it was time for me to return to the mundane world. Before I left, he gave me a name in Proto-Germanic which I now use as my spiritual name.

Of course I was extremely skeptical about this whole experience afterwards. Was this just something I imagined? I was thinking about this for days at an end while at the same time I had the thought of placing a tattoo on my left arm with the word Wodan spelled out in the elder futhark. Eventually I decided to visit the local tattoo shop to make an appointment for this tattoo. Until my great surprise, the tattoo artist was not only a skilled artist, she is a professionally trained shaman of the native Canadian culture. She knew instantly that I was also dabbling in the art of shamanism and that I was in doubt whether it was actually real.

She then told me everything that Wodan had told me. Wodan , knowing that I am quite a skeptical person by nature, decided to inform another shaman in order to finally convince me that this was after all a real experience. She had to pass this information to me in order for me to finally believe in the old Germanic Gods. It’s interesting that Wodan decided to use a shaman from a completely different culture, showing that the practice of shamanism is at its core exactly the same all over the world. I got the tattoo as well. This first experience with Wodan led me to finally find my spiritual home and it started the quest for knowledge on the ancient Germanic culture. I eventually decided that it would be best to share as much knowledge as possible, the reason why I started this facebook group.

I am so sorry for this incredibly long post and I congratulate the ones who actually fully read it. In the future I also want to write more about Wodan/Odin’s role in the Germanic mythological lore, his work with the runes and his archetype.

Here are images of: A depiction of Wodan as a wanderer by Georg von Rosen, 1886, A depiction of Odin by Mary H Foster, 1901, A depiction of Wodan riding Sleipnir from a 18th century manuscript, Frisian Wodan fibula and coins, Sacrifices made to Wodan in the Netherlands around 300AD (human and horse remains, arrow heads and jewelry), The Merseburger charm, Wodan VS Sinterklaas,

#Wodan #Odin #Germanic #Nordic #God #Pagan #Deity

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hockeyboysiguess · 3 years

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eight maids a-milking -> eight pucks a-slinging | j. debrusk

a/n: a christmas fic at 10 am? sure. there are no rules about time in 2020. rest of the series linked here.

word count: 3,046

warnings: none. pure christmas fluff

You sighed as you slammed your car door closed with your hip, your movement jostling the box you were carrying, causing the bells inside to ring among the garland. Luckily, the contents of the slightly overfilled box stayed inside. You let out a sigh of relief and headed inside the arena, box in tow. The Bruins were doing some charity thing that involved decorating a tree and Jake forgot his box of decorations at home this morning, so he asked you to bring it by on your way home. It was just one more thing to do in your already incredibly busy day. Jake was always forgetting things, his wallet, his phone, his keys, his coat, everything, constantly. You frequently had to drive to the airport, ten minutes behind him, hot on his heels, with his passport in your passenger seat, so he could actually get into Canada for a game. Picking up Jake’s forgotten things was something you were used to now. It had become a habit, part of your daily activities.

It was something you did for him, because of the thousands of things he did for you. Jake was the one who told you when you were trying to carry too many things, when you were stretching yourself too thin, he always noticed before anyone else and shifted weight to himself to lessen your burden. He never let you push yourself too far, to the point of fully expending yourself to exhaustion, something you did far too often before him and something that was so easy to do this time of year. Work piled up, tasks upon tasks to finish before the end of December to be completed, along with pressing from yours and Jake’s family with activities and travel and gifts to buy, it was all too easy a time to forget to put some things in Jake’s lap to take care of. He might be a tad forgetful, but he never failed to step up to the plate if it made you happy. If there was nothing he could take on, no burden he could share, then he used every ounce of him to try and be a bright spot in your day. Jake was positive in the face of anything, incapable of holding a grudge or letting negativity rest on his mind for more than a fleeting second. He was a forever kid at Christmas, loving each present more than the last, no matter the cost or its contents. His love of it came from love for the person who bought it for him and in the intent of giving it, not in the material item.

That purity of the way he loved, as fresh as snow that has just fallen, was why you didn’t mind coming to the arena after a long day at work with a box of Christmas decorations. Because Jake would do the same for you, with an even bigger smile on his face than the one he gave you when he saw you coming down the hallway with that box in hand. He looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in ages, even though he’d kissed you goodbye hours ago when you left for work. He scooped the box out of your hands while placing a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you, as always,” Jake told you, relief evident in his voice.

You never felt underappreciated with Jake, even if part of the reason he appreciated you so openly is because you were always the one tying his ties and making sure the back of his dress shirt was tucked in properly. Jake didn’t have much polish about him but you had plenty to spare and didn’t mind sharing. Relationships were a series of compromises. You tucked in shirt tails and Jake made sure you took breaks, used your paid time off from work, and always threw your towels in the dryer in the last ten minutes of your shower so he could wrap you up in a warm one when you were done, even if he forgot until you shouted his name in search of your towel. You missed the warm towels and your far too warm boyfriend when he was away.

“No problem. Happy to do it.”

And you were. You were genuinely happy to do it for him. Anyone else, and you couldn’t stand the forgetfulness of the small things, but it was Jake’s biggest fault. If your partner’s biggest fault was forgetting their wallet, you were pretty sure you’d won the lottery.

“So,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair as you did, “where is this tree we’re decorating?”

“We?”

He raised his eyebrows at you in a challenge, but Jake could only hold an expression that wasn’t a smile for so long. It fell apart and gave way to that smile you saw across the table during your first date and realized you wanted to see it for the rest of your life if you could, if he allowed you to.

You rolled your eyes, which only spurred a small laugh from him, “Yes, DeBrusk. We. I didn’t come this far out of my way during rush hour to not decorate a Christmas tree.”

Jake smiled at you broadly, then nodded softly, “Okay, okay. We’ll do the tree then. Come on.” He turned away from you, sticking his hand out behind him for you to take, “Follow me to your Christmas tree.”

You followed Jake through the arena, hand in his leading the way. You waved to a few familiar faces as you passed, who waved back more excitedly than usual. You attributed to a large majority of people’s favorite holiday being right around the corner, and the annual Christmas party tomorrow where the champagne would be flowing tomorrow night. Jake gave your hand a tug when you fell behind trying to wave to one of his teammates and you took a few long steps to catch up to him.

“You’re eager,” you pointed out as you had to practically jog every few steps to keep up with his ungodly pace.

“Always eager to do things with you,” Jake replied smoothly, but he ruined any ounce of smooth he might have had with a giggle after.

You loved that he couldn’t keep up a straight face, or really any sort of false face. What he felt and his intentions were drawn perfectly on his face every single moment of every single day. You never had to question what he was feeling. It was another reason among the many as to why you loved him.

He pushed open a door with the box on his hip and guided you in, dropping your hand to put his entire self into his best impression of a doorman. You thanked him with a tip of an imaginary hat and that smile you loved more than Christmas morning spread across his face. Jake dropped the box onto a nearby table next to a lit, but undecorated Christmas tree you assumed would be your joint task together. The room was set up for the annual Christmas charity event they did with local kids. There were different game stations set up around the large foyer of the arena, some you recognized from last year and others that were new. The largest addition was on a wall covered in netting and trimmed with red piping designed to look like a hockey net with balloons taped to it in a grid, each balloon red or green or white with a different letter printed on the latex.

“That one’s new from last year,” you noticed.

Jake smiled one of the widest you’d seen from him in a while, a smile that seemed to tell you something had just fallen perfectly into place for him. You couldn’t even begin to fathom how Jake’s mind worked, so you let what you thought his smile might have meant pass without comment. You could spend your time and energy trying to figure Jake out, or you could spend your time and energy being with him and enjoying him and the results of his less than linear thoughts. You chose the latter as Jake dumped a crate of pucks out onto the ground.

“It’s for the kids,” Jake told you as he grabbed a stick leaning against a nearby wall, “but I don’t think they’ll mind if I show you, as long as we fix it after.”

He separated one puck from the rest, handling it back and forth across the floor effortlessly. He jerked his head, motioning for you to come over and join him. A bright smile came across his face when you moved to comply with his silent request.

“So the whole point for them,” his hands continued to mindlessly shift the puck back and forth across the floor as he talked, “is to spell words by popping the balloons. There’s glitter and candy and stuff instead for them if they can do it.”

“Ah yes, the herpes of crafts,” you noted in response to the word glitter.

Jake’s ever familiar laughter rang out through the lobby in response to your statement, bringing you right along with him. No one made you feel brighter and lighter than he did, even on your heaviest, darkest days.

“God, I love you,” he breathed out as his laughter slowly came to a close. “Anyway, so it’s just like this.”

Effortless, Jake pulled a puck back with his stick on the floor, then sent it sailing forward effortlessly. The puck collided and popped a red balloon with the letter “B” printed on it, causing glitter and candy to rain down onto the previously spotless floor below. Jake didn’t hesitate before repeating his actions, targeting and successfully popping a green balloon with the letter “E” emblazoned on it. Jake paused, leaning onto the stick and gesturing for you to go retrieve your candy. He’d seen the look on your face when one of your holiday favorites had dropped to the floor with the second balloon he popped. You pressed a quick, grazing kiss to his lips before shuffling to retrieve the candy he’d freed for you, happily opening your favorite immediately and sighing with relief when the taste hit your tongue.

“Hey, get out of the way!” Jake teased you when you didn’t return to him, too focused on your candy to realize you were in his way.

“Oh, you’re still going?” you asked him as you headed back over to join him, candy in your mouth muffling your words a little.

He nodded to you as you returned to your place beside him, “And you better be paying attention to what I’m spelling. There’s a quiz at the end.”

“A quiz? After my long day of work? With your spelling skills?” You were smiling as you teased him, and he was smiling back. You were allowed to tease him whenever you wanted because he knew it came from a place of absolute and complete love. “Seems like cruel and unusual punishment.”

“It’s not too long, promise,” he informed you. “Also, it’s three words, just to help with your spelling a little bit.”

“Three whole words?” you gasped, words heavily coated in sarcasm. “However will I manage to keep track?”

Jake didn’t answer. He just laughed lightly before, just as easily as the first two, slinging a third puck against the wall, popping a balloon with the letter “M” on its surface, showering the floor below it with glitter and candy. He followed it up quickly by popping his first white balloon with a “Y” on it, more candy and glitter joining the rest on the floor. You mentally tallied up the letters so far. B, E, M, and Y. You decided it was most likely as simple as it looked, just “be my.” Jake’s hands slipped on the fifth puck, sending it wide of whatever balloon was his target, leaving a black mark on the wall instead.

“Whoopsie,” he giggled a little. “Nerves are getting to me I guess.”

“What are you even nervous about?” You laughed a little as you talked, hands fussing with your second candy wrapper that was putting up a hell of a blockade between you and Jake’s favorite Christmas candy, which had become your second favorite after all this time with him. “It’s just me.”

“Have you ever seen you?” he joked, glancing back at you so you could see his eyebrows raise. “You’re always going to make me just a little nervous, baby.”

You rolled your eyes at him as your cheeks heated up a little in response to his words. With a wave of your hand, encouraged him to get back to spelling whatever he was so insistent on spelling for you. You figured it was probably, knowing Jake as well as you did, something incredibly cheesy and Christmasy, so sickeningly sweet you’d definitely roll your eyes again when he finally got to the end. You knew his intentions were nothing but pure, just him trying to bring a smile to your face. He didn’t need to go to all this trouble to do it though. His smile did the trick itself.

Jake separated another few pucks from the pile, setting himself up for his remaining word. He took a deep breath and bounced on his heels, spinning the stick in his hands as he did. He settled down and set himself up for the next shot in one motion, letting the puck fly forward. Another balloon, this time with a “W” detailed on it, burst on the impact from the puck. You suspected it had something to do with winter, a suspicion further upheld with the next green balloon to fall victim to one of his pucks with a spray of its contents to the floor had the letter “I” drawn on it. He took a pause with the next puck, spending a little extra time lining himself up, stick swinging back and forth for a moment in the motion of his shot, but not actually letting it content with the puck. Jake took a deep breath before letting it go. You were expecting an “N” to continue with your winter theory, but the puck made contact with and bursted a red balloon with an “F” on its surface, the now familiar sound of candy hitting the floor rang through the foyer after. Now, all of your theories were thrown out the window. Whatever he was spelling, you were done guessing because you weren’t going to be able to align your thoughts with his.

Jake hesitated another moment, as if waiting for you to have put the pieces together already, but when you didn’t respond, he lined up another puck. His hands shifted on the stick for a moment, finding the perfect positioning again before pulling his stick back, then letting it snap forward to send the puck toward the wall. You watched as another balloon burst, no candy or glitter raining down this time, no newly familiar pings of candy hitting the floor following it. Instead, all you could hear was your heart beating in your ears and your body forcibly pulling air in and pushing it back out of your lungs. It was an “E”, the final balloon. B, E, M, Y, W, I, F, and E. Be my wife.

“Jake…”

He set the stick down before turning to you, dropping to one knee as he did. Your hands flew up to cover your mouth as he opened the box in his hands. He was breathing as hard as you as he watched you take in the ring he had been agonizing over, designing and redesigning, for months. Jake’s hands were shaking, the box shaking a little along with it, and he didn’t even notice because it felt like his entire body was shaking as nerves ravaged him. All you had said was his name.

“It was, um-” He paused to clear his throat because the first two words had come out choked. Jake took a deep, centering breath before trying again, “It was, ‘be my wife,’ in case you missed a letter or something. I don’t know. I didn’t actually get to do a practice run of this or anything. But, baby, I love you. You’re the most patient and incredible person I’ve ever met. I- I feel like sometimes I annoy everyone else on the planet, but I’ve never felt like that with you. You make me feel so loved and appreciated for being me, exactly how I am, and I can only hope I make you feel the same way because how you make me feel is something I wish everyone could feel at some point in their lives because it’s the single most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. I want to spend my life trying to make you feel like you make me feel and you make me feel like I’m your favorite person and I feel like, maybe just me here, but you should probably try and marry your favorite person. You’re mine and I’d really love it if I got to remember Christmas for the rest of my life as the time when my favorite person said she’d be my wife. So, what do you say? Will you marry me?”

You couldn’t speak with every possible emotion built up in your throat. You had to nod as your answer, and shakily extend your left hand to him. The smile that came across his face was the broadest and best you’d ever seen from him, and it warmed you from the inside out. The cool metal of the ring sliding onto your finger contrasted the warmth you felt inside and the warmth of his hands. It was yours now, the ring Jake agonized over for months, and he was yours now, soon-to-be forever yours. He stood on shaking legs to press a soft kiss to your lips. Forever was an odd concept at a time of year that was inherently limited, but the warmth of Christmas would hang in your heart forever, and on your left hand forever, and in the bed you shared with him forever. Christmas lasting forever, like Jake DeBrusk, was a dream come true.

#jake debrusk #jake debrusk fic #jake debrusk imagine #jake debrusk fanfiction #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nhl imagine #Hockey Fanfiction #hockey fanfic #hockey writing #hockey imagine

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indigobackfire · 3 years

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HPHM MC Profile ✧

Indigo Silverwood

“ Getting near you is like stretching my hand into an open flame. I know I’ll burn myself, yet I crave the heat. ”

Nicknames: Indie. Didi (only by family). Silverwood. Silvie (by people who don't bother learning her name).

Gender: Female.

Birthday: 6th of March, 1973.

Born: Edinburgh, Scotland.

Mother: Clarin (née Tramer) Silverwood - Half-blood, Ravenclaw, English.

Father: Palmer Silverwood - Pureblood, Slytherin, Scottish.

Siblings: Jacob Silverwood (b. 1968), Phoenix Nobleworth Silverwood (b. 1973) - Phoenix was adopted after the death of his parents when he was just a couple of months old.

Ethnicity: Scottish, English, (probably with some Spanish roots).

Sexuality: Straight.

MBTI Type: ENFP-A

Blood Status: Half-blood (by her muggle grandmother on her mother's side).

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor.

Appearance

Eyes: Naturally yellow/golden/amber (nobody knows why, since their parent’s eyes are brown) but both hers and Jacob's eyes are like this). She wears glasses for her Astigmatism.

Hair: Naturally dark brown, but she asked her mother to turn it red when she turned 8 and doesn't plan on undoing it any soon.

• She’s average tall and reasonably strong build, honey-brown skin littered with scars from venturing with the vaults and being freaking attacked by dark wizards, big hands and feet due to her height. A large chest that grows at once in her 4th year (”Everybody's starring, Rowan!”).

• She keeps her nails short. Her makeup is often down to just some lipstick (mascara smudges her glasses, eye shadow irritates her eyes), her hair is often long wavy and fluffed for extra volume. She often smells like coconut oil from all the creams her mother insisted she used.

• She looks a lot like her father which gives her a rather rough look - like a handsome but wild animal - yet has enough of her mother’s attributes to be considered attractive and poise if well-groomed.

Magical Aspects

1st Wand: Red Oak wood with Dragon Heartstring core, 12″, pliable. "The true match for a red oak wand is possessed of unusually fast reactions, making it a perfect dueling wand. Its ideal master is light of touch, quick-witted and adaptable, often the creator of distinctive spells, and a good person to have beside in a fight." Indigo had good times with her red oak wand but as the years went by, her emotions start affecting the wand's efficiency. The wand would bleed a glowing red light in moments of extreme physical or emotional pain and become extremely unstable.

2nd Wand: Beechwood with Thestral hair core, 13", rigid flexibility. "The true match for a beech wand will be, if young, wise beyond their years, and if full-grown, rich in understanding and experience. Beech wands perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant. When properly matched, the beech wand is capable of a subtlety and artistry rarely seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation." Indigo has a hard time adapting to her new wand, it's stubborn to her spells and acts upon its own will especially considering its unusual and unstable core, Thestral hair, which is of unknown habilities, except for its use in the mythical, Elder wand. Her wand is one of a kind which is why she has to adapt her abilities to match the wand's requirements. Despite all, it's a remarkable instrument for undoing curses/spells and detecting danger.

Animagus: Somali cat. She's already certain she wants to be a cat animagus - harmless, of easy blend, and enables an approach to humans -, but decides for the Somali breed, during the process, for its sumptuous golden fur and agility.

Patronus: Kangaroo, for its fighting spirit and family values, not to mention its strength. (In-game it's the Abraxan, but only because I thought it would be cool.)

Patronus memory: (During the first times) Her first Quidditch match, not just because they won but because everyone she loves from Hogwarts was there, and she got to cheer their victory together. (Later years) Her family gathering for hot cocoa during a rainy night with Jacob with them.

Abilities: Legilimency, and great emotional influence over magic (Don't get her frightened or angry or she will blow you up).

Boggart: Her boggart changes constantly - she can't decide if it's either because she overcame the old fears, or if the new ones toppled those, creating a pile of fears. And since the new DADA teacher is always teaching Riddikulus again and again, the famous curse-breaker is always the most awaited in the line.

Jacob, eyes dark and musty, clothes covered in blood, someone's blood. He walks to her and slowly raises his sleeve, the Death mark is craved deep in his flesh and it glows. Behind him, it rises the Dark Lord.

Riddikulus: He turns into a younger version of himself from a photograph she recalls laughing about with her mom (he's running wearing a loaded diaper, crazy hair, rosy cheeks).

For a while is someone in a cloak threatening to cast the killing curse over her friends, whispering each of their names like a snake but she's frozen unable to stop them.

Riddikulus: The cloak falls to reveal a bunch of gnomes piled up wearing wigs and makeup.

For another, very realistic corpses of all of her friends spread at her feet, a dark wizard across from her, it's over and there isn't anything she can do to save them anymore - it was a grim day in DADA, but they all wanted to see it didn't they?

Riddikulus: This is the one time she fails to defeat a boggart, letting the horrible scene consume her, she falls to her knees defeated, and even after Rakepick's shouting, when she tries to cast the spell, it fails again and again.

This last boggart came to show everyone around her how truly terrified she was, not for her own life, but for that of those around her. How despite the confidence she was constantly displaying, in reality, she was afraid she couldn't save them from whatever was trying to get her.

Amortentia: Her Amortentia smells like Jacob's cologne — which he used to borrow from their father which is why she recalls so easily —, fresh Catnip ever since she became an animagus, bakings just out of the oven — extra intensity if there's chocolate involved, and freshly washed sweaters (from hugging Barney and the Weasleys).

Mirror of Erised: She's under the shadow of a tree, Jacob on one side along with Phoenix and Aspen, Barnaby's head resting on her lap, Rowan by her side, and Orion for some reason. They're laughing and reading books, it's an eternal spring afternoon.

Miscellaneous

Pets: A Sphynx cat, Mocca, a brown and white rat, Franccesca, and (later in her Hogwarts years) a Great Horned owlet, Plum.

Things she always carries with her: Her wand (duh), a handmade Gryffindor bracelet that used to belong to Jacob, the Handbook of Magical Theory, a handful of peppermints, a pouch with some money, a flask of Wideye potion, some Murtlap Essence, and a family photo during Christmas of 1980.

Lucky Amulets: She has a dream catcher made by Phoenix from feathers he shed during transformations and a "broken" knight from Murphy's chessboard who decided to leave the game for good and now sleeps on Indigo's nightstand with its horse, she likes stroking the horse the night before every Quidditch match

Best Friends

Her brother, Phoenix, takes the crown in matter of importance because, well, they're siblings who grew up practically like twins, but their relationship deserves their own detailing.

Rowan has got to be the first. Not only they share the same adventurous nerdy spirit, but Rowan also is the one to stick around even when everything is dark and uncertain and Indigo's popularity plummets. Indigo is always excited to hear whatever Rowan has to say - most times about books or Bill Weasley - and she's rarely fazed by the weird things Rowan does.

Murphy McNully is a close second, having officially met in the middle of her second year, they're both still fresh in a matter of friendships which allows them to open up, both in desperate need of company and support. He's often a companion in the girl's library and common room study sessions and sits with them during meals.

Charlie Weasley has her heart and soul from the moment they first speak during year one, but it actually takes a while until they form any real bond, which begins after he finds out she has been seeking his brother's help to search for the cursed vaults.

Ben is a friend she cherishes deeply but often finds it hard to break through his protective shell which makes him feel distant even when he opens up to her. Unlike her friends, she grows more liking towards Ben after he has his change in personality, as he feels more open about himself.

Chiara is a friend she deeply appreciates for her courage in reaching out for her help in times of need and trusting her with her secret. In Marauder fashion, she likes keeping an eye on her on the nights of full moon - which is good to train her cat tree climbing. They often have afternoon tea together and she teaches Indigo useful healing spells.

Andre and Indigo didn't have a great start, as she thought of him as arrogant and inconsiderate, and he thought she was careless and selfish. But when she helps him with a transfiguration mishap during their 3rd year when he was trying to be creative - and the reason he now has a two-headed cat - they start opening up to each other and begin a friendship. He's a good friend to confide in about the mundane aspects of her life and Quidditch intrigues.

Orion means to her more than she can put into words. Not only he is her team captain, but also a dear friend whom she turns to in times of emotional instability cause she knows he'll be the one to successfully help her clear her mind. They enjoy each other's company even if they don't have anything interesting to say. They sit together during every Divination class for as long as the subject goes.

She has no "rivals" as she finds that sort of labeling quite petty, but would definitely punch Emily Tyler on the stomach and perhaps Face Paint kid for all his eavesdropping.

She has an easier time bonding with her fellow Gryffindors since they spend most of their time together in classes, lunch, and hanging around in the common room.

Dormmates: She and Rowan got placed in a room for three people, as the ones for five were already full, along with a girl called Tanya. But at the beginning of their 4th year, they find out she has bailed out to another dorm room claiming they 1. Snort and speak in their sleep on a regular basis, 2. Will eventually endanger her with their cursed vault shenanigans, 3. Will get her killed - which, spoilers, actually happens, oops. So they basically have the dorm for themselves.

Academics

Favorite Classes:

Potions

Flying

DADA

Magical Theory

Least Favorite:

Transfiguration

History of Magic

Arithmancy

Favorite Professor: Kettleburn. Despite CoMC not being on her top favorite subjects, she enjoys her time in his classes and reminds her of her grandfather on her father's side who's a highlander wizard.

Least Favorite: Binns. Just retire you old man!

Quidditch Position: Chaser. Despite enjoying her time as Gryffindor's beater, she notices the position takes a toll on her physical wellbeing, having to carry a heavy bat and being injured by bludgers more times than she can keep track of. So she returns to her chaser position after a year.

Favorite Team: Montrose Magpies. She never had an interest in Quidditch before she began playing but decided to pick a team to support. Of course, it had to be a Scottish team and settles for MM because of professor McGonagall who's also a supporter.

She's not indigo's face claim, but it's hard to find good red-haired characters out there.

I guess I'll leave her background and history for another post since it interweaves very tightly with her sibling. And since I'm still exploring her story.

Well this is just an intro to my beloved MC

#hphm #hphm mc #hogwats mystery #oc profile #gryffindor #indigo silverwood

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ruralurbanite · 3 years

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Lost Cat | Tips Resources Prevention | The Flyer

Have You Lost Your Cat?

Things to Know & Things to DO NOW!!

Losing a pet is a harrowing experience. Losing your pet cat comes with a host of extra challenges, and must be met with a host of extra strategies and resources. Of the complete exhaustive account of the Lost Cat Response (which i plan to write later😉), today we are just going over:

The Flyer (on the streets and on social media).

What to do at home right away.

And a great list of resources to help ground you and get you started on your mission to find you baby

BEST WISHES FOR YOUR FELINE FAMILY ❤❤❤

LOST CAT—SHOUT IT OUT!!

Today we are looking at Pet Flyers, Social Media Posts, and Actions to Take When Your Cat Has First Gone Missing

The Flyer

The Terrestrial Flyer

The IRL Flyer. The flyer you make is hugely important. It does not have to be fancy with color photo (though that would be best) a marker on a piece of printer paper will do. It is a federal crime to open another person’s mailbox. Fold the flyer and wedge it into their mailbox flag, or place it on their front door.

Other Places to Put a Flyer:

stop signs. telephone poles. (GET GOOD STRONG TAPE)

try to strategically place them at traffic points in your neighborhood/area—entrances, exits, 4-way stops.

areas that are difficult to avoid & areas that are popular (telephone pole or road sign right by the entrance to the strip mall)

neighborhood & community boards

any nearby gas-station, grocery store, general store, pet store, and vet clinic that will allow a sign.

dont back down on the first no. most places WILL say no first. (times have changed)

take a flyer to your local shelter(s)

this is key. they will see the initiative, the effort, the care for your cat. you have made their job much easier.

and now they know to keep their eyes out for a cat like yours!

Things to Consider Putting On Your Paper Flyer and/or Your Social Media Posts

1) Key Basics

Photo if Possible

Name (plus nicknames the cat responds to)

Male/Female

are they spayed or neutered?

Average Weight/Size (pounds. or S/M/L)

Age

Fur Color, Coat Pattern & Length, Claw/Declaw

Are they Microchipped? (add chip number if possible)

Were they wearing a collar?

Date/Time/Location they were last seen

2) Medication—Do they need any medication? or are they soon due for their vaccine shots?

3) Unique Traits—Are there any attributes that are unique to your cat? Anything noticeable so that a stranger could identify them?

raspy meow. a black cat with white toes. etc.

4) Personality—Describe your cat’s personality. What can people expect if they approached your cat? Also, think about what you would want someone to do if they did find your cat.

will she run away?

that will make reuniting her much harder. if so, insist that people not approach her, and contact you upon sight.

would someone be able to coax her with a can of wet cat food, or treats, & calling her name?

if so, is that something you’d like to ask people to do?

do you want to ask people to try to catch her if they see her? or to leave her be & call/text/message you immediately?

this relies a lot on the individual knowing how to read the situation and read cats.

5) A personal message of her family back home!

how much she is loved and missed

by the kids, by the dog, extra cute stuff!

how grateful you will be to have her back

THIS IS A MUST-DO. TRUST ME. FLYERS THAT SAY “LOST CAT PLEASE CALL” GET PROBABLY 10% THE ACTION OF WHAT PERSONABLE FLYERS DO

6) Personal Info—this is just that, personal. Give out the amount of personal info you’re comfortable with, but…

never give out your address

maybe start with less on the personal info. add more details if they seem needed (i.e. last initial on your flyer instead of last name. but this is totally up to you)

i eventually kept increasing what info i put out as time went on. i didn’t care, i needed random people to be able to find me. that said, i do not have kids.

remember, the street flyers have some info, Facebook has a different chunk of info (like your full name) and the lost pet sites (you’ll see these below) have another chunk. so keep tabs on what you’ve shared

7) Reward Offer—I have read legitimate source articles that say to never offer a reward. I have read legitimate source articles that say offering a reward will increase your chances of a re-union (while the anti-reward folks say it will encourage theft and ransom. maybe with a purebred registered canine, less probable with a housecat) AND HEY—ITS NOT LIKE YOU SPECIFY WHAT THE REWARD EVEN IS! (is it $20.00? is a giant bag of candy? a half used iTunes gift card? 🤣 you know it!)

my poster, which ill show them all later, says “REWARD + MY INFINITE GRATITUDE”

DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO DO WITH THE REWARD. WHEN IT COMES TO CATS, ITS A DIFFERENT STORY.

if you can think of any other helpful things to add to a flyer; please share in the comments at the bottom of the page! ❤

Sites to Make Flyers

—they also actively reunite pets and have tons of reading material, resources, advice, etc.—

PetLink

Canva

Pawboost

PetFBI

HomeAgain

Lost My Kitty

Things To Do On The Ground At Home

!! Buildings, Structures, and Vehicles around the neighborhood/area !!

NEIGHBORLY LOVE—ask people to keep an eye out for your cat & to look in their sheds, their garages, underneath their boats, their cars, even underneath their homes. Cats can hide for days and days.

In The Earliest Days After They’ve Gone Missing, You The Pet Owner, Are Strongly Advised To:

Put your cats litterbox outside, on the front porch, or the front of the house.

Leave a window cracked or open as much as you can, for her to find you.

Put dirty clothes and/or or her bed outside.

Leave a bowl of the cat’s food & water outside.

Call for her in the dead night hours (sorry neighbors)

truly, 12-4am is best cat-callin’ time.

Walk the neighborhood at night, bring a can of wet cat food, a flashlight, and a box or a pet carrier.

walk around with a flashlight to catch a cat’s retina (eyes) glowing at you!

you might spot her in a tree or in a bush, not coming when called bc she is injured or scared

if your cat is great friends with your dog, try bringing the dog along for some of those walk-outs, he very-well may be the one that finds her!

DONT GIVE UP HOPE!!

WE JUST RE-UNITED A WOMAN AND HER CAT AFTER FIVE YEARS APART! SHE HAD MOVED TO NYC BUT HAD NEVER GIVEN UP HOPE (PROOF IN HER FACEBOOK) ! 5 YEARS LATER HER ORANGE TABBY IN the LOWCOUNTRY, SC, WAS BEING SENT TO HER! IT WAS A NEWS STORY YOU CAN LOOK IT UP! CATS NAME WAS CHARLIE.

Insanely Helpful Resources

HomeAgain | Lost Cat Article

No Kill Network | Lost and Found Pets

PawBoost | Lost and Found Pets Network

Community Cat Coalition | Lost Cats

Pet FBI | Lost Cat Action Plan

Best Friends Save Them All | Resources | Lost Cat

i hope this little bit here begins to help. my heart breaks for everyone missing their furry family member. i am in this with you, stay strong! you must!

LOVE ASHLEY

#cats #lost pets #animal shelters #pet care #pet emergency #lost pet #found pet #lost pet flyer #lost cat #missing pets #kittens

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cogentranting · 4 years

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The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and Mockingjays and Roses

*Warning: Full Spoilers for The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes*

Symbols are an important part of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. Symbols are used to mark the identities of different characters, define relationships, and provide thematic links to the original trilogy. The symbols work to create a tension in the story, a question of whether they complement or contrast. Symbolism is used to explore two of the most influential people in Snow’s life: Lucy Gray and Katniss.

The various symbols associated with Lucy Gray are color, music, and birds. Each of these things plays a special role in the story and serves to distinguish her from Coriolanus. In a typical setting, love interests with different symbols could be understood to show how they complement each other-- opposites attract, two halves of a whole, etc. This novel lets the reader play with that interpretation for a large portion of the book; the story questions the relationship between them, wondering repeatedly how strong, or even how genuine, their love is. Ultimately, however, the contrasting associations sets them up for their final conflict and foreshadows the eventual destruction of both of them.

At the first sight of Lucy Gray, she is in a “dress made of a rainbow of ruffles” (24). In her first interview she says “the Covey love color” (53). The Covey are all named with colors. Lucy Gray wears bright colors at all times. The snakes which end up being drawn to Lucy Gray in the arena are bright neon colors. The colors represent her exuberance, her love of beauty, her eccentricity, her freedom to stand apart. But Coriolanus is white. The absence of color, the opposite of all that Lucy Gray loves and represents. However, this symbol for Coriolanus is not prominent in this book. In fact it only really exists in this book in the form of his last name-- Snow. Even that is not the name he goes by. But it is the name that forms his connection with the Capitol and all that it represents: Dr. Gaul calls him by his last name; the Capitol media makes frequent plays on his name; he is associated with the legacy of his family name; in the peacekeepers he is officially addressed as “Private Snow”. It’s also used as the voice of his ambition in the phrase that he and Tigris use, “Snow lands on top” (9). Eventually, when his character arc is complete and he has embraced evil, he switches to going by his last name, as the Epilogue exclusively refers to him as “Snow”. However, to fully grasp that a part of the symbolism of his name relates to the color white requires knowledge of the Hunger Games trilogy. There Snow is represented by his white roses. The roses are present in this book, but they are colored roses. Therefore, Coriolanus being symbolized by white is not a constant in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, it’s a progression. It is Coriolanus turning against what drew him to Lucy Gray. While the progression is ongoing, the decisive moment comes when Lucy Gray uses the bright orange scarf he gave her to set a trap for him (or at least so he assumes) (581). The shift is there as he is “betrayed” by Lucy Gray’s colors, and the fulfillment is present in the person of President Snow in The Hunger Games. By knowing the trilogy, the reader knows Coriolanus’s future and can see that he eventually eschews color, choosing the stark white which here sets him apart from Lucy Gray, but will also inevitably mark the violent contrast between him and the Girl on Fire.

The second hallmark of Lucy Gray is her love of music. Her singing is her survival. It’s how she earns her living in District 12. It’s what unites her with her family. It’s how she expresses her emotions. It’s how she attracts attention at the Reaping and how she gains enough favor to win the Games. Coriolanus does not start out opposed to music. In fact, it initially attracts him to Lucy Gray, especially since one of her songs she sings in the Capitol awakens memories of his mother and a song she sang to him that “mentioned loving him” (78). Music is associated with his mother on several occasions, and his mother is the figure who most represents love and goodness for Coriolanus. When asked how he is like his mother he replies that they “shared a fondness for music” but also internally admits to himself that “she liked music, and he didn’t hate it, he guessed” (290). Despite his positive associations with music and his connection with people who love music (his mother, Lucy Gray, and also Pluribus), Coriolanus himself does particularly like music and doesn’t really understand it. He notes that he “can’t really sing” and when he sings the anthem “his singing was more like sustained talking” (127, 129). Beyond lacking talent, it seems that music and poetry are something that he cannot grasp; all the Capitol’s songs “sounded the same to him”, and Livia Cardew mocked him for “his inability to decipher the deeper meaning of a poem” (185). This extends later into the novel when he specifically fails to grasp the meaning of Lucy Gray’s song, which he describes as “nonsense words” and “ridiculous” because he “couldn’t make sense of it” (425, 427). Coriolanus has an inability to understand something that is an essential part of Lucy Gray which represents a failure to connect to her on a deeper level. It also distances him from those characters who demonstrate positive moral character: Lucy Gray, his mother, the generous Pluribus, and Sejanus (who Coriolanus notes had “always been good at rhetoric” (427)). Livia Cardew attributes this to Coriolanus being “self-absorbed” (185). The presentation of this trait within the book represents his moral failings and his rejection of the Romanticism which defines the Covey and the philosophical rhetoric of the Rebels and Sejanus. This puts him at odds with all that the novel holds up as praiseworthy. His attitude toward music only worsens as the book progresses and he finds that he is “weary of the infusion of music into his life. Invasion might be a better word” (445). He feels the way it pushes him away from others and threatens his position. But the significance of the music does not stop with the concept in general.

The novel features the lyrics of multiple songs. Lucy Gray’s ballad is notable for the way it describes her mystery, how it shows Coriolanus’s failure to truly understand or appreciate her, and how it foreshadows his hand in her destruction. However, as he brings about her destruction, she has a hand in his eventual destruction. Lucy Gray is revealed to be the writer of the two songs from the Hunger Games trilogy-- “Deep in the Meadow” (“Rue’s Song”) and “The Hanging Tree”. “Deep in the Meadow” has less prominence in this book. The context is essentially the same-- Lucy Gray sings it as a lullaby to Maude Ivory in the same way that Katniss sings it to Prim and Rue-- so it carries the same weight initially. It is a symbol of peace and comfort and love. These are things which are mostly denied to Coriolanus and things which he rejects by the end of The Ballad, and actively seeks to destroy in The Hunger Games. However, it is eventually used against him, as Katniss’s use of the song-- her gesture of love for Rue-- is what causes the first sparks of rebellion to rise up in District 11. “The Hanging Tree” plays this role to an even greater extent. Lucy Gray writes the song about a moment that Coriolanus is present for and deeply disturbed by (350-351). The song is, on one level, about doomed lovers. Within the song you have Arlo and Lil-- two Rebels whose fate is mourned and romanticized, and whose doom Coriolanus has a hand in, already casting him in the role of antagonist. However, there’s also the speaker in the song. At one point in the narrative, the speaker is Billy Taupe calling to Lucy Gray. With him in the role of speaker the love story of the song is poisonous-- when they can’t be free together, Billy Taupe wants her to die rather than be free without him (487). After his death, the song transfers to be a call from Lucy Gray to Coriolanus. However, his character is entirely antithetical to the song. He rejects the dark romanticism that makes star-crossed lovers appealing, and rather than being willing to “wear a necklace of rope side by side with” Lucy Gray, he tries to kill her, betraying her and everything she and the song stand for. The song could also be applied to another pair of star-crossed lovers-- Katniss and Peeta. In their Games, Peeta tried to save her life-- “called out for his love to flee”-- then they try to survive together-- “I told you to run, so we’d both be free”-- and when that hope is lost they are prepared to die together-- “wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me”-- in order to deny the Capitol its victory and its ownership over them. Despite being the only couple without a literal connection to the Hanging Tree (and being a fake couple at the time of their actions) Katniss and Peeta most truly embody the spirit of the song, which Lucy Gray calls “too rebellious” (491). The song is meaningful on a broader level because it subverts the symbol of the Hanging Tree, which is meant to be an instrument for the Capitol’s control, and turns into a symbol of love and hope for freedom and resistance that would rather die than submit to the Capitol. Katniss later takes this song and transforms it into an anthem for the rebellion. In fact, it’s compared by Lucy Gray and Coriolanus to the Capitol’s anthem, saying it “has authority” like “when [Coriolanus] sang the anthem in the Capitol” (491). Katniss gives it the platform to be the rival anthem that it was destined to be, and she uses it to attack Snow. Lucy Gray haunts Coriolanus through the Hunger Games trilogy through her songs. These songs which are all that remains of the girl he betrayed and destroyed, come back as weapons against him, brandished as symbols of all that he and his tyranny stand against.

Beyond her general association with music, Lucy Gray is associated with birds. Her musical nature makes her a songbird like that of the title and her family is deemed “the Covey”-- covey is a word which means “a small party or flock of birds”. The way she is continually conscious of her appearance early in her time in the Capitol evokes a bird preening, as the ruffles of her brightly colored dress evoke feathers. Coriolanus ends up dealing with birds through his work as a peacekeeper, rounding up jabberjays and mockingjays. While his team member shows an affinity for birds, Coriolanus does not. He specifically notes that while some people “just understand birds” he is certain “that he would never be one of those people” (413). In an immediate sense, this once again signals a distance between him and Lucy Gray. She is a bird that he can never understand. In contrast, Lucy Gray has an affinity for snakes. The clearest counterpart for snakes is Coriolanus himself. His use of poison in this book and the Hunger Games trilogy creates the suggestion that he is venomous (especially when the evidence of his poisoning is found in the sores in his mouth). Dr. Gaul also breeds deadly snakes in the same way that she grooms Coriolanus into the man he becomes. Her snakes ignore him as if he is one of them. And Lucy Gray “always knows where [snakes] will be” (433). She uses her understanding of snakes to her advantage, dropping one down Mayfair’s dress, leaving one as a trap for Coriolanus, and poisoning Treech with one. The snakes in the Games end up drawn to her and soothed by her singing. Coriolanus is drawn to her and her singing in the same way, and likewise is used by her to win the Games. Lucy Gray seems to understand Coriolanus in a way that he can never understand her. However, she may have confused him for one of the non-venomous snakes from District 12, rather than a snake specifically bred to kill by Dr. Gaul. Or perhaps she subconsciously knows the truth about him since she states, “I love all kinds of things I don’t trust… snakes. Sometimes I think I love them because I can’t trust them” (441). Regardless of how his role of a snake attracts Lucy Gray, her role as a bird creates tension with Coriolanus. The wildness of the birds unsettles him. He expresses the belief that they’d be happier in a cage, but both Bug and Lucy Gray believe the birds should be free (418, 421). It reflects Coriolanus’s relationship with nature in general. It cannot be controlled and so he dislikes it. When he first sees the woods he is afraid of them; “the disorder alone felt disturbing” (348). This is a stark contrast to both Lucy Gray, who frequents the woods with the Covey, and Katniss who thrives in the woods. In similar fashion, the plant that Katniss is named for, and which aids in Lucy Gray’s survival (435, 497) grows wild, while Coriolanus’s signature flower, his roses, are domesticated and highly cultivated. Coriolanus likes only what he can control. It’s when he realizes that he cannot control Lucy Gray that he turns on her. This distinction takes on further relevance in his specific response to the jabberjays and the mockingjays

Coriolanus appreciates the jabberjays because they can be controlled easily with a simple remote control. Mockingjays, however, represent the uncontrollable. His reaction to them is immediate: “he’d spotted his first mockingjay, and he disliked the thing on sight” (352). Later he advocates killing all the mockingjays because “they’re unnatural” and “he distrusted their spontaneous creation. Nature running amok” (417). Lucy Gray on the other hand loves the mockingjays. When the mockingjays take up her song “the Covey were all smiles” and Tam Amber asserts “like sandstones to diamonds, that’s what we are to them” (439). Here Coriolanus expresses that what he fears most is that the mockingjays have removed “the Capitol birds from the equation” (439). He deeply believes in the need for the Capitol to maintain control, so something that openly flouts the need for the Capitol’s influence is both frightening and a threat to the beliefs that define him. Coriolanus eventually uses the jabberjays (a symbol of Capitol control) to betray Sejanus. In return, Lucy Gray uses the mockingjays to protect herself from Coriolanus as he hunts her (504). If she survived the encounter, it is because of the mockingjays. With his transformation into Snow complete, he is able to return to the Capitol. When he looks back on his time in District 12, he views Lucy Gray not as a lost love but as a conquered threat. Because Lucy Gray was someone he could not control he repaints her in his memory as someone who manipulated him and made him feel jealous and weak (516). But with his new power Snow is assured that “she and her mockingjays could never harm him again” (516). The memories have been twisted to associate Lucy Gray with mockingjays and in turn with harm done to him, though neither has ever actually harmed him. However, knowledge of the Hunger Games trilogy reveals the clear irony of his statement. Katniss uses the mockingjays to help her in the Games and makes them a tool for herself. They then become a symbol of the rebellion for the very reason that he initially hated them. Katniss comes to embody the things that mockingjay symbolizes and she and that symbol are the rallying point for the rebellion. Because of the Mockingjay that he can never predict, understand or control, everything Snow is and has built is destroyed.

Lucy Gray is a vibrant character that tempts Coriolanus toward a better life and a better way of being. Everything about her symbolizes a potential for good within him in his early years. However, he fully and irrevocably rejects that good. In doing so he commits his first great sin and destroys Lucy Gray. But he is unable to entirely destroy her. In fact, he’s never even sure if he killed her. Instead, she stays on as a ghost girl, her influence haunting District 12. From her influence rises Katniss, the Girl on Fire, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of the songbird Snow killed. Katniss is symbolically linked to Lucy Gray, but at the same time wholly distinct. Through her, Lucy Gray haunts Snow as punishment for his crimes. This link between the Songbird and the Mockingjay represents the way that Snow’s evil paved the way for his own destruction, but more importantly it shows that the things which he rejects and opposes and tries to kill cannot be destroyed. The spark of hope cannot be put out, beauty will not be tamed, and rebellion cannot stay dead in the face of tyranny. Those things were always destined to destroy him. Though The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes may end with “Snow lands on top,” Lucy Gray is the persistent reminder that “The show’s not over until the mockingjay sings.”

#the ballad of sonbirds and snakes #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes spoilers #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #katniss everdeen

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sebastianshaw · 3 years

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Shaw & Skadi for the kid meme!

Name: Sigvid Skadisson Shaw. I know it should be Shawson BUT FUCK THE RULES. “Sig” is a pretty standard prefix for a lot of Norse names from the word “sigr” meaning “victory” and “vid” from the Old Germanic “widu” for forest. Gender: Masc and male-presenting but beyond that I’m not sure? Trans man? AMAB non-binary? Look, he uses he/him (maybe they too) and people THINK ‘man’ when they look at him, that’s all I know General Appearance: Tall and beefy, he couldn’t NOT be. Medium pale skin that gets even paler in winter but tans easily in summer. Black hair, or so dark brown it might as well be black, and very dark eyes. His hair, unlike both parents and most of his Asgardian brethren, is actually kept short, and while he has a beard, it’s not the big one. The reason for this is functional; short hair is better if you’re spending a lot of time in the wild. Stuff gets stuck in long hair, it can get tangled in branches at the worst times, it’s hot in the summer, and it can literally freeze in the winter if it gets wet. His attire is very much out of a Viking fantasy, but less on the “heavy armor” end of things and more on the “wearing lots of furs and skins” side. He doesn’t look like someone you want to fuck with, but he also doesn’t look like he’s going to war. He carefully avoids any kind of dangling amulets, charms, or other jewelry that could get caught on anything, but he’s got a sort of leather toolbelt containing various survival tools made from wood, bone, etc. Personality: Sigvid, as you might guess from his attire and the reasons for it, is an outdoorsman. Not as a hobby, not as a lifestyle, but an EXISTENCE. He thrives in the natural world as Sebastian does in the business world, finding ways to survive in even the most adverse of situation. Whatever Mother Nature is doing around him, he can not only make it through it, he can work it to his advantage. His closeness to the natural world, his close observation of it, means that he sees both the facts and errors in his father’s mentality. He sees that the strongest predators will pick off the weakest prey, that the winter will take those who do not prepare, that mother animals will neglect and even devour their young if they’re sick or runty. He also sees that prey are more aggressive than predators, how some creatures will adopt and nourish infants that are not their own or even their own species, how some will share their kill with no benefit to themselves, and how even the smallest and most humble animals can make it through things that the larger, so-called stronger ones did not. Sigvid is very pragmatic, like his father, very practical, very self-preservationist. He has to be. But he’s also very spiritual, not in a way that connects to some distant god, but the world around him, to earth and nature. Not some idealized hippie-dippie conception of nature as a loving mother that is always in balance, but an acceptance that it is a greater power that he cannot control, he can only hope to survive at best. It keeps him humble. It also gives him a much wider, more relative perspective on things that is not human-centric, or Asgardian-centric for that matter. My Shaw often says that he admires human accomplishments above all else, that no other animal has built cities, computers, cars, and so on. And he is correct in this. But Sigvid always points out, how many termite mounds has man built? How many times do humans migrate thousands of miles using an innate sense of the Earth’s magnetic fields? How many fish have we hunted by literally sensing the electricity in their bodies? Yes, humans are “the best” if we judge them by standards HUMANS MADE. Judge us by the base standard of any other species, and we flop. Same for judging any species by the standards of any other. Nothing is “more” or “less” evolved than anything else, more complex does not mean better, and nor does being bigger, stronger, meaner, or even smarter mean a species is “better” or “more evolved” either. Survival of the fittest is not about that, nor about individuals; it’s about how well a species fits its environment and niche. A slime mold is just as evolved as a person. Sigvid is very passionate about this, though he’s not the type to speak up most of the time; he’s stoic and saturnine, used to keeping his mouth closed and his thoughts to himself, because most of the time there’s no one to talk to. And that also means he’s learned to exist without the validation and approval of others---ironically, something that is much like his father, learned in a completely different environment.

A lot of this, obviously, comes from Skadi. He was at side her since infancy learning to hunt and track, learning the difference between wood sorrel and white clover, how to tell when a moose is about to charge, and what it means when the woods go quiet. This connects deeply to Skadi’s Jotunn side in particular, which in Norse lore are thought to have symbolized the inherently chaotic and uncontrollable nature of, well, nature! Though Sigvid would not, nature it’s chaotic, it’s actually very ordered, people just don’t bother to understand what’s inconvenient to them. But where he differs from Skadi is that he’s not a Disney princess. Animals don’t hang out with him. He doesn’t nurse injured creatures back to health. He doesn’t keep pets. He does not see them as friends. They are not less than him, but they are not allies, they are beings he co-exists with, avoids, or eats. At least, until a thylacine started hanging out with him. Yeah, a thylacine. The extinct Tasmanian tiger. Who knows where it came from or why he’s attached itself to him, but he’s very adamant she’s not a pet and he hasn’t named her, but she is THERE. Sometimes. She isn't at his side like a dog, it's more she's following him from a distance and she pokes her head out from the trees somewhere. She's not a pet. She's more a parasite. But unlike Shaw, Sigvid doesn't use that term in a bad way, and he's fine with her presence. He's just curious where the hell an extinct Australian animal came from? Obviously, Sigvid is not interacting with people a lot, but when he does, he’s far less awkward or boisterous than people expect. He doesn’t have the overt weirdness people expect from a hermit, nor the bombastic warrior cliché of an Asgardian, or the vicious stereotype of a Jotunn. He has a quiet but overwhelming elegance, not like an aristocrat but like a great stag emerging from the forest. He chooses his words carefully, and can say much with just a few. He walks the middle ground between judging by individuals and judging by species; he does a little of both. He has preconceptions and generalities that he believes in about each group, but also believes in room for exception. After all, he’s not what a lot of people expect, is he? Despite this, he’s frequently misread as disliking people, but he doesn’t. He is utterly neutral on them, he just prefers his own way of life. Likewise, he tends to be very neutral towards individuals, and this also is often misread as dislike. One thing he does dislike though, is when people try to endear themselves to him by talking about how they agree animals are better than people, or say stuff like you know only man kills for pleasure. . . .this actually just annoys him. Firstly, a lot of animals do kill for pleasure. Secondly, when people say animals/nature is better than people. . . .they’re forgetting that people---humans, Asgardians, Jotunn---are animals too. This is just another way people, of any sort, try to insist they’re something special and different, whether in a negative or positive way. It doesn’t impress him. What impresses him tends to be how well people work within their niche, whatever niche that is. Like Shaw, he doesn’t really judge in terms of conventional morality, but a person’s success----Sigvid’s definition of success is just much wider. Like, maybe you dive for a living---are you a good diver? A great cafeteria worker? The best toilet cleaner in the tri-state area? He admires that and he commends you. When he is angered, he stays quiet, and his response is swift and physical; he either leaves or strikes physically and then leaves. When he feels sufficiently bonded with someone. . . he is still quiet. He appreciates a person who doesn't need to be filling the silences between them to feel comfortable and kinship. And kinship for him is rare, but he's not lonely----just also not adverse to it, as many assume he is. People assume a lot about Sigvid, and most of it is wrong, but he's also very chill with it. Sigvid is a very chill guy.

Special Talents: Besides the obviously mentioned talents for hunting, tracking, foraging, survivalism, and nature knowledge? Many people think he’s some kind of seer because he’s good at predicting storms and such, but actually he’s just very good at reading the signs most people aren’t attuned to. He also presumably has the attributes of Asgardians and Jotuns (super strength, etc) but if he has a mutant power, it has yet to manifest. Also cannot assume a Frost Giant form. Who they like better: Skadi, though eventually he does respect his father for performing so well at what he does

Who they take after more: I think both equally in different ways Personal Head canon: -He really likes amethyst geodes. -He finds a lot of manufactured foods, like chips or snack cakes, to be WAAAAY too strongly salty or sweet for him to stomach, is allergic to Red Dye #40, and he finds the taste of domesticated animals to be weird. - Not much of a dairy person, but ghee is good -Dislikes when people stereotype hillbillies as stupid; as in like, people who are genuinely living in the hills and mountains of the American Southeast, they're an interesting people with their own unique culture like any other group that lives off the land in isolation---which he respects---and not interchangeable with typical rednecks. -He doesn't typically carry anything with him that's not a necessity, if he knows he's going to be seeing people soon, he will pick up knick-knacks he finds in abandoned places and distribute them like a weird Santa Claus. Who, he's met, by the way, and according to him, Father Christmas is something of a badass. - He will always buy your homemade soaps, and I have no idea what he's doing with them. Yes, maybe he's using them in the normal intended way but IM NOT SURE?? - Pops up in art museums. People never expect him to be here, in these cathedrals dedicated to human creation, but he is. I think he views art a bit differently than the average person, but he's there all the same. - He's an Aquarius but there is a LOT of Saturn in his chart - The first Midgard movie he saw was Forrest Gump. He was expecting it to be about something else because of the title, but he enjoyed it and LEARNED THIS DANCE Face Claim: n/a

#sigvid #kids #kid meme

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mileycyprus-hill · 4 years

Text

What the Water Gave Me

Arthur Morgan x Mermaid Reader/OC

Chapter 4– Exploration

Thought I wasn’t gonna return, huh? Fooled you—and myself. I wanna thank everyone who’s been so patient with me updating new chapters for all my series since I know it’s been weeks since I posted a new chapter.

You can find previous chapters on my masterlist which is available in my bio.

Also found on AO3.

Summary: Arthur returns to the beach after a hunt and is re-introduced to our lovely mermaid. I hope y’all don’t mind, I’ve switched my reader-insert into an OC, because writing in 3rd person with (y/n) kind of threw off my flow and felt clunky. So I created a name but kept most physical attributes vague to sort of keep it a reader-insert.

Arthur's eyes twitch beneath his closed lids, his breathing shallow and quick. He lays upon a worn cot within the ruins of the old stone fort. The tall trees above him provide relieving shade over the small camp. The events of the past couple weeks seamlessly transition in his memory: Hosea's splattered blood upon the cobblestone street, Lenny's lifeless body on the rooftop, the rolling storm clouds beyond the sea's horizon. Arthur remembers the orange glow of the flames on the ship. The intense heat, followed by the chilling dark waters below. His heart beats hard and fast, thumping loudly in his ears like heavy drums of a battalion. Suddenly, his anxiety ceases and his breathing slows at the sight of a rising sun. Its yellow light shines with warmth as it breaks above a grassy hillside. The green prairie grass grows high as a tall animal crosses the dense field. It gently pushes through the grass, bowing its head to graze on the lush greens. Arthur begins to recognize the animal: a stag. Its rounded rack of antlers sit high upon its head, like a jagged crown of ivory. With a twitch of its ears the stag raises his head and turns to him, acknowledging his presence. But it doesn't startle. The stag gazes with its glassy eyes. They hold a beautiful amber glow that matches the sunlight. Arthur had never seen such beauty in the eyes of a beast, for he had only seen the pupils of their eyes stretch to black after their life had been taken. The sun flashes brightly and Arthur wakes with a deep, ragged breath through his nose. For a moment, he forgets his surroundings until his vision clears. He remembers the gun fight, the man named Hercule, Javier falling on the beach, and the strange woman. Arthur's worry returns at the thought of Javier and the woman surrounded by the soldiers in blue while he and the gang escape into the dense jungle. He hopes Dutch will come up with a plan to get Javier back.

He hopes to see the woman again, alive.

Arthur stands with stiff joints, the skin of his cheeks and forehead feel uncomfortably tight from the sunburn. He recognizes a dark figure crouched over the small fire in front of him. The flames and smoke are kept low to avoid alerting the local patrols.

“Mornin’ Hercule,” Arthur greets with a gravelly voice, “Or should I say, ‘afternoon’?”

He looks up towards the sky to gauge the location of the sun, bringing his hand to his brow to shield his eyes. The dense jungle trees make it difficult to determine the time, and the humidity this far inland makes it feel awfully hot. It feels much like Lemoyne, where the temperature doesn’t break until long after the sun drops and stays humid well through the early morning.

Hercule chuckles lightly and responds, “I’d say it’s nearly twelve o’clock.” He too, looks to the sky with squinted eyes.

His thick accent surprisingly gives Arthur some comfort. The man speaks confidently and coolly, as if he can foretell what’s to happen. He doesn’t waste words either—unlike Dutch who can cause the most eloquent man’s head to spin with such an exuberant vocabulary and lengthy sentences that seem to reach no point.

The man could be a politician if he chose such a life.

”You’re all low on food, my friend.” Hercule says, standing up and sheathing the machete he was wiping. “Might I suggest we go hunt?”

“Now?” Arthur asks, hinting at more important tasks at hand.

Hercule shrugs to him, “Unless you’d rather starve, then yes. I doubt you had eaten anything since you arrived.”

As if on command, Arthur’s stomach growls so loudly that he smacks a hand to his gut in an attempt to stifle its grumbles. He recalls his last meal was the bits of charred rat he shared with the men at the beach.

“Alright but...shouldn’t we focus on gettin’ out of here? Gettin’ our friend back?” Arthur asks hurriedly, attempting to mask his concern. He desperately wants to get off this island and back home—back to his homeland that he knows and understands. He feels helpless being here, like a lost child in an unfamiliar place. It’s an anxious feeling he hasn’t felt in years.

“Your friend Dutch is working on that at the moment with my comrades,” Hercule responds neutrally. “Come, there is plenty of boar on this island, and it’ll be much better with two.”

Hercule picks up the bolt action rifle next to Arthur’s cot and hands it to him after checking the bullets within the barrel chamber.

“You can keep watch for anything suspicious while I hunt,” Hercule says, grabbing a handmade bow and a leather quiver of arrows.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow at the simple bow.

“Think that’d be enough?“ he asks.

“Better to hunt quietly, unless you want that bastard Fussar to find us.” Hercule replies.

Arthur hums, “Good point.”

....

If it weren’t for the fact they’re wanted men on this island, Arthur could find this place rather peaceful. He can hear the shores in the distance as he and Hercule walk closer to the coast, tracking the boar. Arthur scans the area while Hercule walks in front, following the tracks in the sand and dirt. The vibrant colors of the tropical birds catch Arthur’s eyes and he watches them fly up into the trees. Their feathers stand out against the foliage: the bright blues and yellows and striking reds. They’re as large as eagles and far more beautiful than any bird he’s seen back home. Arthur hopes his journal is still safe at home. He wishes he could sketch them right now, while he can still see them. They reach the top of a small hill when Hercule raises his hand.

“There!” Hercule exclaims softly. He notches his arrow and draws the bowstring, aiming at the massive boar below the hill, straight ahead of them.

He looses his arrow and watches it strike the side of the animal with a swift thud. The carved stone arrowhead narrowly misses its heart. It squeals in painful terror and runs in the opposite direction, towards the coast.

“Damn,” Hercule curses under his breath. Arthur shakes his head behind him, watching the broad palm leaves rustle and shake as the boar runs off.

The two of them continue tracking the animal, following the crimson drops of blood on the ivory sand. The air starts to feel cool from the ocean breeze as they walk closer to the edge of the island. The jungle brush grows thinner and the tracks turn from subtle drops to a bloody trail and become easier to follow.

Hercule speaks, “Finally. There it is.” He points to the animal lying dead on the beach. Its dark hide stands out against the white sand.

They approach the dead pig and start to field dress it: removing its hide and cutting the meat into various cuts and wrapping them in cloth. Hercule grabs his large bag and divides the cuts of meat, one half for him, the other for Arthur and the men. The process takes them close to an hour, it’s such a large beast for two men.

“These are for you,” he says, handing Arthur his half of the boar meat. It’s enough to feed the men for several days, and Arthur manages to stuff them into his temporary satchel. Arthur’s makeshift bag is stretched to its limits, holding the large cuts of meat inside its leather boundaries held together with crude stitches.

“The rest I will give to my people and sell to the villagers,” Hercule continues. “Many people are without food on this island.”

“Thank you, Hercule,” Arthur says, following him to the shore.

They walk to the water and wash the blood off their hands. It’s clotted thick on their skin like paint, but easily dissolves away once it touches the salt water. The crimson color fades away with the gentle tide and is erased from their skin.

“You are welcome, Mister Morgan. Soon we will find your friend and get you off this island.” Hercule responds, shaking his hands dry. He starts to head back towards the jungle before he stops.

“I’ll head into the village to sell this and see if I can find a captain who will take you home. I suggest you head back to your camp.” Hercule says. “Do you know your way back?” He asks Arthur, stopping to turn back to him.

Arthur looks to him and nods, “Sure. I remember the way.”

“Always be on alert, Mister Morgan. You can find me at the old fort, Cinco Torres. Not far from here.” Hercule waves a quick goodbye to which Arthur returns as Hercule quickly steps into the jungle.

Arthur now stands alone on the beach, rubbing his fingers along his cotton suspenders and feeling the loose waistband of his pants. He breathes a rough sigh before a harsh cough rumbles from his chest and scratches his throat. He struggles to catch his breath and bends over to rest a hand on his knee. It feels as if he’s still got sea water in his lungs until he finally hacks his throat clear. A thick, wet lump of mucus is coughed up into his mouth. In disgust, he spits out the bloody wad onto the white sand and wipes a trail of blood from his lips. Straightening himself up, he finds that he isn’t alone.

He sees her, peering from behind a rock in the water just several yards away. Arthur freezes in place, watching the strange woman and trying not to spook her. Like predators crossing paths in the wild, they remain motionless and wary, waiting for the slightest twitch that could send either one fleeing or pursuing. The woman remains at her spot, watching and waiting for Arthur’s next move. Her eyes are wide and glassy. Thin white membranes blink slowly over her eyes like cloudy veils and disappear behind her eyelids. Arthur tries to see the rest of her body that’s submerged in the water, but he cannot see from where he stands. He suddenly notices she’s still nude from the waist up, with her long hair covering her chest. The long, wet strands of hair lay plastered on her chest, conforming to her shapely breasts and structured shoulders. They both stay frozen in place, unsure of what to do next.

Her feminine voice softly croaks from behind the rock, sending a chill to Arthur’s flushed skin. “Your friend. The one called Javier?” She says, her voice calm. Her voice has a slight melody to it but, with a wet gargle. Arthur can only describe it as like the trill of a tree frog combined with the eerie, nocturnal warble of an owl.

”Yes?” Arthur responds hesitantly.

“He’s alive.” The woman tells him.

A quiet sigh of relief escapes Arthur’s lips and his eyes light up in a slight rejoice. The tension in his shoulders release only minutely. The woman in the water notices this and allows herself to relax slightly. The pair of them listen to the gentle waves splash on the shore during this quiet exchange of words.

Arthur asks her, “Where, uh, where is he?”

The woman’s wide eyes look down, away from Arthur as if in remorse.

“Held prisoner,” she answers solemnly. “On the plantation.”

Arthur breathes a disturbed sigh at her notification, rubbing his scraggly beard with a rough palm. Feeling brave, he decides to take a step forward in the wet sand.

The woman notices and tenses behind the small rock. Her webbed hands grip the rock tightly, ready to propel herself away. Halting himself, Arthur raises his hands up in surrender.

“Iss-alright. It’s alright,” he drawls in his accent, “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Watching his every move, she waits behind the rock while he slowly removes his shoes and rolls his pants up to his knees. Like approaching the wild horses of the plains, Arthur steps forward into the foaming water with his hands raised just above his hips in assurance. The dazzling blue water gently splashes against his pale legs.

“What’s yer name?” He asks, stepping further in the water until it nearly reaches the fabric of his pants that reach just below his knees.

“(Y/N),” she answers, still guarded.

“That’s a nice name…(Y/N).”

“It was given to me by my tutor.”

“Your…your tutor?” Arthur queries with a pleasant smile, barely showing his teeth behind his lips. He feels a sudden inquisitive need: a curious desire for knowledge that needs to be satisfied.

“Yes. He gave me it. My real name is…Isopora.” She answers. Rarely has she given her true name to strangers, especially humans. But his presence feels non-threatening and oddly comforting. Though, she doesn’t know why.

“Isopora.” Arthur enunciated slowly.

They both smile at his utterance of her name. It rolls off his tongue and falls from his lips like the soft babbling of a stream. Its crisp, clear waters trickle gently over the rocks as it flows from its diverted source of the deep, dark river.

“My name’s Arthur…Arthur Morgan.” He states. His voice is warm and inviting with a rich, complex timbre that mirrors the guttural vocals of the seals from Isopora’s homeland. And that accent! Isopora can’t recognize it. It sounds funny, with his slight garbles and relaxed slurring of consonants.

Arthur reaches out, extending his sunburned hand to her in good faith. Isopora stares at his thick hand and calloused fingers, confused and unsure. Removing her webbed hand from the rock, she mimics Arthur’s pose to place her hand within his. She’s reluctant at first, twitching her hand away at the slightest touch, like a shy wild thing getting used to human contact. Arthur remains still, his arm still extended, until she finally rests her hand in the welcoming handshake. He wraps his fingers around hers in a gentle grip—firm, yet soft.

She expects him to clench his hand around her wrist in a trick and attempt to pull her ashore, but he simply shakes her hand. Her hand grips Arthur’s tightly in a small show of strength, and he notices. Isopora’s grip is firm and Arthur catches the muscles of her forearm contracting as she squeezes. He follows her toned muscles all the way up her biceps to her brawny shoulders.

She’s a work of art, Arthur thinks to himself, eyeing her well-knit body. Her sculpted arms, rounded shoulders, jutted collarbone, and sturdy midsection glisten in the sunlight. Her skin looks wonderfully smooth and her muscles stand out despite hiding beneath a generous layer of warm, protective fat. His gaze moves further down her curves as he steals a glance at her lengthy tail. It’s nearly camouflaged in the tropical blue water, but Arthur watches a bundle of silvery scales glimmer as they catch the rays of sun. Her feathery tail fin swishes against the waves to keep herself steady.

“So uh,” Arthur clears his throat awkwardly, still shaking her hand, “yer really a mermaid?”

An unexpected laugh erupts from Isopora and she bares her teeth in an amused grin. Her sudden joyful bark of laughter infects Arthur and he chuckles alongside her.

Minutes later, after a continued exchange of greetings, Arthur wades back to shore. Isopora follows close behind, but not too close. With a tired grunt, Arthur sets himself down onto the sand, allowing the tide to barely lap at his bare toes. Isopora remains partly submerged in front of him, resting on her stomach and elbows and softly swishing her flukes in the shallow water. A moment of silence passes for God knows how long. Arthur remains transfixed by her colorful form. His eyes examine the seam of her scales that perfectly mold into her skin just below her navel. Arthur expected all of her scales to be smooth and flat like a trout, but the further his eyes travel down her length, he notices the scales grow thicker and larger. Much like the textured scales of a snake, they cover her lower body in a protective armor. The glistening wet scales catch the rays of the bright afternoon sun and shimmer like tiny mirrors, flashing bright colors off her body like rainbows.

"Do you remember anything from the shipwreck?" Isopora asks him in a soft trill.

Arthur’s eyes snap from her tail up to her dark eyes. He furrows his brows in thought as he replays the memories in his mind.

"Sort of," he shrugs, "I remember Dutch waking me up, and there was a fire. And then..."

While Arthur takes his time remembering the incident, Isopora takes the opportunity to look over his features. She admires his tall frame, his broad shoulders, and barreled chest. He looks to be a man of great strength, conditioned by heavy lifting. Though his waist looks narrowed from starvation.

No doubt he's the workhorse of the family, she wonders, recalling the other men she had seen him chained to. She looks at Arthur's hands while he twitches his fingers and raises his arms to animate his story of jumping off the boat.

"...then there was this real high squealing, like a...hum or somethin’," Arthur continues, trying to articulate his thoughts, "And then nothin'."

Isopora hums in agreement, “I forget when I speak underwater, humans can’t quite understand it.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at her in a mix of shock and confusion, “Wait, that...that was you?” He points to her.

She smiles in embarrassment, cinching her eyes closed as she admits, “Yes. That was me.”

“So, you...you saved me?” Arthur points to her. The gears in his head continue to turn as he recollects his memories.

“That’s why you washed up there with me.” He finishes.

Isopora looks behind her towards the water and turns back to Arthur with a playful look. “Would you like to hear?” She offers.

“Shoar,” Arthur drawls. Like a curious child, Arthur scoots a bit further up on the sand, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Isopora’s smile grows wider and she begins to drag herself further into the water. “Okay,” she says, “Stay right there.”

Arthur watches her enter the water. Her blue-green scales disappear under the ocean as the gentle waves splash upon her. With a soft kick of her fin, she swims backwards until the water rises up to her chest. Her eyes stay fixed upon Arthur, who waits curiously on the sand. Arthur watches her smirk and dip silently below the water’s surface. He watches her disappear into the water and slows his breathing so he could listen for her sounds. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Until, an eerie howl echoes from the water. The hairs on his arm stand on edge, but he doesn’t feel afraid. Her high-pitched moans and howls continue and Arthur listens attentively. It almost sounds like singing, he thinks to himself. It’s both haunting and ethereal, like the echoing wail of a loon. Her various pitches become littered with clicks and pops that are so sharp, Arthur could feel the sounds vibrate in his ears. Arthur breathes a small chuckle of amazement at her beautiful song. It lasts for only a minute and finally ends as he watches her break the water’s surface.

She returns to him on the shore, her thick hair wet against her silky skin and the cloudy membranes on her eyes retreat back under her lids. Her naked breasts remained covered by her long hair. Isopora smiles humbly at Arthur while he softly gives a clap of his hands.

“Beautiful,” he says, “What were you singing—er, saying?”

She answers, “The same thing I was trying to tell you that night.”

Arthur looks at her in confusion.

Biting her lip, she explains, “You were struggling and I swam up to help, but when I went to pull you up for air, you started thrashing.” She hesitates for a moment but continues, “I tried telling you ‘it’ll be alright’, but you were so scared.”

Arthur finishes for her, “And that’s when everything went dark,” he says.

“Yeah,” Isopora cringes, “I’m sorry about that...I had to, uh, ‘knock your lights out’. So to speak.”

“What?” Arthur asks in surprise.

”You were thrashing so badly when I grabbed you!” She defends, “I wasn’t trying to keep you under like you thought I was. I was trying to help. But I should know by now that when trying to save a person from drowning, expect to be dragged down with them,” She chuckles.

“Well, that explains why.” Arthur laughs, “No hard feelings, I guess. Ain’t the first time someone did that.”

The smile wanes from Isopora’s face and she looks at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” She asks, her tone serious.

Arthur shrugs in response, picking the sand beneath his fingernails.

“Well,” he sighs, avoiding her gaze and looking past her shoulder to the sea behind her. It extends far beyond the horizon like a blue void. The ripples of the surface waves look like textured glass with bright yellow colors of the sun merging with the ocean blues.

“I tend to find trouble or trouble finds me. I ain’t a good man…I do bad things and bad things are done to me in return.”

“Like what?” Isopora asks, suddenly fearful for her own safety.

“I’ve robbed…killed people. Run with a gang of people like me,” Arthur answers, unsure as to why he’s suddenly opening himself up to a stranger. A creature that should only belong in fairy tales, no doubt. Why is he so talkative all of a sudden, he wonders?

He continues regardless, “Used to be that we’d only steal from the rich and give what’s left to the poor but…seems so long ago now. Now we’re shootin’ up towns in the name of survival. Tryin’ to find a place in the world.”

He speaks with such uncertainty and dread for the future, that whatever choices he makes are fruitless and inconsequential. All forked roads lead to the same inevitable end. Perhaps this is his time for confession. An opportunity to repent one’s sins, with no risk of judgement. There truly was no one else he could speak to about these things—no human being that is. Why not unveil them to this woman? This creature that, realistically speaking, could just be a figment of Arthur’s imagination?

“What made you change?” Isopora asks.

Arthur looks to her eyes with a cold stare, “Weren’t us who changed,” he states defensively, “The world’s changed. Civilization’s movin’ in. And there ain’t room for people like us no more.”

Isopora hums, as if in agreement. “Those men you were chained with,” Isopora recalls from memory, “they’re your people? Your gang?”

Arthur nods.

“That boat,” Isopora continues to pry, “Where were you going?”

“We were headed to Tahiti, initially.” Arthur answers.

Isopora gives him a confused look.

Tahiti? That’s on the other side of the world.

As if hearing her thoughts, Arthur explains.

“Our boat was supposed to go to Cuba. We were runnin’. Hopped on the boat from America and…ended up here, I guess.”

An American? How exciting, Isopora thinks to herself. She’s met different characters throughout her life, but never an American. She’s only heard about these wild, free-spirited, gun-toting creatures with a thirst for adventure.

Isopora laughs dryly, “You’re a long way from Tahiti, my friend. That’s all the way in the South Pacific…We’re essentially in the Caribbean.”

Arthur looks to her inquisitively. He never gave it much thought as to where Tahiti actually is. At this point, he thought it was a fantasy island made up by Dutch to keep spirits up. Isopora guesses that Arthur isn’t quite familiar with world geography, outside his own familiar territory. After all, she doesn’t even know that he’s only ever stayed on land. Never travelled across the sea.

“Well,” Arthur states. “Accordin’ to Dutch, it’s supposed to be an untouched paradise.”

“Kinda small,” Isopora replies.

Arthur gives her another confused look. “You been there?” He asks, almost excitedly.

She shrugs, “Oui. Une fois, il y a longtemps.”

Another blank and confused stare is painted on Arthur’s face in response to her foreign reply.

Isopora smiles, “It’s a French colony. It’s been…decades since I’ve traveled there, and it was only once. But…how do you know there’d be room for you there?

Arthur bites his inner cheek in thought as he huffs, “Hmm…you got a point there.”

“To be honest, it’s better you’re shipwrecked on the way to Cuba than Tahiti. There’s a lot more open ocean to be stranded in the Pacific.”

“You’re a hell of a world traveler, ain’t’cha?” Arthur smirks.

“One could call me that, yes.” Isopora answers with a similar smile.

“Well, I ain’t much of one so, I’ll take yer word for it.”

Isopora opens her mouth to respond until she catches movement from the corner of her sharp eyes. Narrowing her gaze, she sees two men on patrol, heading their way.

Fussar’s soldiers.

Arthur notices her chest falling and rising rapidly.

Following her line of sight, Arthur asks, “What is it?”

Without hesitation, Isopora grabs his hand and tugs him towards the water.

“We must hide!” She hisses in fear, pulling him in with immense strength. She drags him with her as she swims behind a large bundle of rocks. Three large stones stand tall above the water, with a small gap in the center— enough to hide one of them out of sight. The middle stone stands tallest, with the other two standing parallel to each other.

The gap is tight and the water is high. Arthur holds onto Isopora tightly by her waist as he feels his toes float freely in the water, unable to touch the bottom. He struggles to hold himself against the slick rock with his wet hands slipping at each attempt. Isopora’s naked breasts press against his chest as she helps him stay above the water against the waves. He tries his best to avert his eyes, turning his head awkwardly to peek at the oncoming patrol.

Idle fingers start to involuntarily caress Isopora’s smooth scales. A palm lies pressed against her hips, keeping Arthur safely close to her while the other hand tries to brace himself against the rock. His fingers cannot help but examine on their own. The sensation transitions from slightly coarse to velvety soft with each subtle rub on her scales and up to her skin. A pair of voices grow louder as they near the spot Arthur and Isopora once rested. Their words are unfamiliar to Arthur, but he can detect the casual tone of their chatting.

Until he hears a surprised exclaim from the beach and Arthur suddenly remembers.

He left his shoes behind.

His eyes grow wide and he looks up to Isopora. She mirrors his look of terror and listens to the patrolmen talk excitedly.

She understands their language clearly, hearing them talk of where this mystery person could be.

“They must be in the water,” one says.

“Let’s look,” the other replies.

With their chests pressed together, their hearts drum rapidly in sync. Despite the adrenaline surging through his veins, Arthur keeps his breathing slow. He clenches his eyes shut as he silently scolds himself for being so foolish. When his eyelids open, he nearly jerks away in alarm. Isopora remains close to him, but her entire body has now changed color. An arm is slightly outstretched above Arthur’s head with Isopora’s hand pressed against the rock behind him. Peppered with splotches of gray, black and white, her skin has turned into the same pale shade as the stones surrounding them. Her once smooth arms are now textured with raised bumps and edges that mimic the stone. She covers Arthur’s body with her camouflaged form and remains still like a statue. Her eyes turn black and the cloudy membranes of her lids cover her obsidian orbs.

Time passes slowly while they remain as still as can be. The rifle on Arthur’s back painfully presses into him, but he doesn’t dare to adjust himself. He feels Isopora’s hand gripping his side tightly, her arm wrapped around his lower back. The tips of her fingers squeeze his flesh and her body presses against him completely, covering him in a protective cocoon. Arthur’s chapped lips nearly brush her shoulder as she towers over him closely, keeping his face hidden in the crook of her neck.

Isopora’s eyes dart to her left. A man in blue stands at the edge of the tide, less than a hundred feet away.

Rifle in hand, he leans forward to peer towards their hiding spot. It’s as if he’s staring right at them, unaware.

Arthur’s eyes remain on Isopora, fearful of making the slightest movement that could give them away.

Isopora stares at the blue soldier with unwavering eyes. She watches him examine the rough pillars of stone with his own dark eyes. She can feel him follow the curves of her body that’s almost merged with the rock. Arthur stays hidden within the small gap. He squeezes his arm around Isopora’s waist for dear life.

The unseen second patrolman calls for his companion, and the man turns away to look. Isopora’s eyes follow him as he walks out of sight. She hears the men speak as they hopefully assume whoever left those boots is now drowned far away from shore. Isopora listens closely as the men leave and resume walking along the beach. Their voices grow faint until she can hear them no longer. Gradually, the splotchy pale camouflage disintegrates and Isopora’s natural tone reappears in a smooth cascade. Like the blush in Arthur’s cheeks, her beautiful color flushes to her skin. The two remain in a quiet stillness, barely feeling the other’s heartbeat under the gentle waves that splash over them. The waves push and pull in a gentle rhythm. Isopora’s body softly pushes against Arthur’s before pulling away. His own body follows towards her as the wave pulls them back, moving their hips in an almost aquatic dance.

“Come,” Isopora finally breaks the silence, drifting away and extending a hand for Arthur to follow. He lightly grasps her hand and swims alongside her back to shore.

“You think it’s safe for you to head back?” Isopora asks, looking to him with her unveiled eyes.

His clothes drenched and heavy, Arthur stands and walks up on the sand.

“I dunno,” he says, staring blankly in thought, “This island seems t’be crawlin’ with ‘em. I don’t know if it’s safe anywhere.”

An idea breaks in Isopora’s head while Arthur slips on his boots.

“There’s a cave,” she tells him, “Not too far from here, behind the waterfall. Meet me there when you can.”

Arthur’s jaw goes slack and he raises an eyebrow in question, “How do you—”

“There’s a channel that leads to it,” she explains, “I can easily go through it and it leads to a small pool on the other side.”

Arthur nods before looking up towards the sun. It’s still early in the afternoon yet; plenty of sunlight to find his way back.

“Okay. How do I find it?” He asks.

“Just follow the river upstream. You’ll see it. Climb behind the waterfall and follow the cave straight ahead. Follow the gaps in the ceiling. The light will show you the way. You’ll reach the end of the cave that opens to a clearing.” She answers.

Another nod and Arthur turns to face the jungle. He feels exposed on this empty beach with no canopy of cover to hide in, but to enter the hanging vines and broad ferns of the dense forest fills him with dread. What lurks in the dark corners of this humid labyrinth? A single step in the wrong direction could lead to doom.

“Arthur?”

He looks back over his shoulder to Isopora with his bright, blue-green eyes.

“Be safe.” She tells him.

“You too.” Arthur replies in a near whisper.

He steps forward into the trees, shoulders tense and eyes scanning his surroundings. Isopora watches him from the shore until he disappears into the thick and shady foliage.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #mermaid #guarma #fan fiction #i’m back baby #what the water gave me #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x reader #romance #slow burn

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crossingscon · 3 years

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March Myth of the Month: The Legend of Skalsh

The myth I’m bringing to you today is about a rock. Specifically, this one:

It’s most commonly known as Siwash Rock, though I’ll be referring to it as Skalsh (for reasons I’ll explain later). It’s a beloved local landmark here in Vancouver, BC, which I assume is mostly due to its location right off the busy Stanley Park seawall, surrounded by beautiful ocean, mountain, and city views. It’s in one of the most picturesque places in an already very picturesque city, and as such it gets photographed a lot:

People love this big rock!

And, to be fair, Skalsh is a very cool rock. It was formed some 32 million years ago when magma pushed up through a crack in the Earth’s crust and then cooled into basalt. Over time, wind and water wore away at the (relatively less dense) sandstone surrounding it until what we see today was all that remained.

There are also trees growing on top of Skalsh! The Douglas Fir trees seen nowadays were planted back in the 60s to replace an earlier (and much older) tree that had been growing out of it since at least the 1800s, as seen in this photo from either 1889 or 1890:

When that tree died following Typhoon Frieda in 1962, there was an honest-to-goodness obituary posted in the local paper—

—followed by a years-long effort to replace it by planting various tree saplings where the old one stood. Luckily, by the 1970s there were at least three new firs successfully growing atop Skalsh, and those firs are still going strong to this day.

But that’s not why I’ve chosen this particular rock to talk about today. Skalsh isn’t just a modern tourist landmark, after all--it’s been here millions of years, and has existed pretty much unchanged since long before Canada as a country even existed, let alone Vancouver. As such, the people who originally inhabited the peninsula that is now known as Stanley Park have legends and myths about this land that stretch back centuries. It’s one of those myths that I want to share.

The story of Skalsh was originally told to local Mohawk poet E. Pauline Johnson by Chief Joe Capilano of the Squamish nation, one of three First Nations who call this region home, and it first appeared in Johnson’s 1911 book Legends of Vancouver. There are several myths surrounding Skalsh, but this one is my personal favourite, and it’s the one most people are familiar with. I highly recommend you go read the full legend, but I’ll summarize it for you here as well:

Thousands of years ago, a young chief and father-to-be went swimming in the waters off Stanley Park to cleanse himself in preparation for his child’s arrival, for it was tribal law that all parents must be spotlessly clean when a child is born to ensure them a chance at a clean life. As he swam, he was confronted by a huge canoe carrying four equally huge men who commanded him to move out of their way. He refused, at which point the men, shocked at his disobedience, revealed themselves to be The Transformers, agents of the Creator with the power to transform him into anything, living or dead. Again they asked him to move aside, and again he refused, telling them that nothing was more important than “the cleanliness and purity of his coming child”, not even the Creator himself. While the Transformers were debating what to do about this transgression, they heard the first cries of a newborn child from the shore. Stirred, the man at the head of the canoe stood up and, rather than cursing the chief for his disobedience, decided to reward him for his commitment to his family, turning him to “living stone” so that he could stand as a “monument to clean fatherhood” for generations to come. That stone, of course, is Skalsh, who stands tall and proud to this day.

There are several reasons why I love this story. For one, it’s about a mortal disobeying the gods for the sake of his child and being rewarded for it (though I’m not sure I’d call being turned to stone on the day your child is born a “reward” necessarily). Too often people in myths do things to please a god, or because a god told them to, so it’s nice to hear about someone standing up to them and putting their family first, instead. I also love that it acknowledges the impact of a parent’s state or mindset on their child’s development and life, and casts the young chief’s devotion to his unborn child in a positive, relatively healthy light. It also isn’t a story about sacrifice, which parenthood myths so frequently are. Yes, he gets turned to stone, but it’s a transformation, not a death. In the full retelling of the myth linked above, his wife and newborn child are also turned to stone, effectively immortalizing all three of them, which is at least a kinder fate than leaving them to go on without him.

Mostly, though, I love this myth because it’s about a thing I’m very familiar with, but from the perspective of the original inhabitants of this area, whose voices and stories have so often been silenced and erased from our history. As a descendent of colonizers I think it’s important to be aware of the fact that this land I’ve been privileged to call home was claimed and reshaped and renamed against the will of those people, and learning their myths and legends (those that have been freely shared, at least), and honouring their wishes regarding how this land is seen and used, is one way to do that. It also provides greater meaning and context to the ordinary things and places I see everyday, which makes me appreciate them even more.

Which brings me, finally, to my reason for calling the rock in question Skalsh rather than its current name, Siwash Rock. Skalsh is an anglicization of the Squamish word Slhx̱í7lsh, meaning “standing man”, and was recently proposed as a new name for the rock by the current chief of the Squamish nation as it more closely resembles the names the local first peoples have been using to refer to it for centuries. Comparatively, siwash is a Chinook (not a local nation) jargon word derived from the French sauvage, meaning “native person”, and was chosen by white colonizers in the late 1800s. The plan is to officially change it soon, once everyone can decide on a pronunciation and spelling, but in the meantime I’d still rather call it Skalsh, in honour of that young chief who once stood up to the gods themselves so that his child could thrive, and was immortalized for it.

Claudia Kowalski Director of Public Relations, CrossingsCon

PS. Another of the legends described in Johnson’s book mentions Skalsh, and honestly it’s such a beautiful paragraph, and one that I feel would resonate so deeply with fans of the Young Wizards series, that I couldn’t not include it here, even though it’s not part of the original myth. Consider it an epilogue, I suppose:

The Indian belief is very beautiful concerning the results of good and evil in the human body. The Sagalie Tyee [God] has His own way of immortalizing each. People who are wilfully evil, who have no kindness in their hearts, who are bloodthirsty, cruel, vengeful, unsympathetic, the Sagalie Tyee turns to solid stone that will harbour no growth, even that of moss or lichen, for these stones contain no moisture, just as their wicked hearts lacked the milk of human kindness. The one famed exception, wherein a good man was transformed into stone, was in the instance of Siwash Rock, but as the Indian tells you of it he smiles with gratification as he calls your attention to the tiny tree cresting that imperial monument. He says the tree was always there to show the nations that the good in this man's heart kept on growing even when his body had ceased to be. On the other hand, the Sagalie Tyee transforms the kindly people, the humane, sympathetic, charitable, loving people into trees, so that after death they may go on for ever benefiting all mankind; they may yield fruit, give shade and shelter, afford unending service to the living by their usefulness as building material and as firewood. Their saps and gums, their fibres, their leaves, their blossoms, enrich, nourish, and sustain the human form; no evil is produced by trees–all, all is goodness, is hearty, is helpfulness and growth. They give refuge to the birds, they give music to the winds, and from them are carved the bows and arrows, the canoes and paddles, bowls, spoons, and baskets. Their service to mankind is priceless; the Indian that tells you this tale will enumerate all these attributes and virtues of the trees. No wonder the Sagalie Tyee chose them to be the abode of souls good and great.

#crossingscon #myth of the month #skalsh #siwash rock #Slhx̱í7lsh #squamish #legends of vancouver

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the-wintershade · 4 years

Text

— the sun goes down; he takes the day, but I’m grown

pairing: sam wilson x f!reader x bucky barnes summary: you meet him once at your favorite place and assume that you won’t meet him again, regardless of how good the conversation was, but alas, fate always seems to have other plans. wc: 6.8k+ (no self-control and I actually planned this series out) genre: slightly angsty, flirting, good banter, medium burn

Blue Shade: series — masterlist | 01

The room buzzes with the clanking of machines, snippets of conversation, and the quiet energy of caffeine tapping into the bloodstream, feet tapping against floors, legs bouncing uncontrollably. It would be lying if you claimed that you didn’t appreciate the white noise of it all. You could be standing in line, absentmindedly admiring the mahogany walls with original artwork in monotone shades and not worrying about seeming aloof or cold.

This whole establishment was a piece of artwork, something to be admired by anyone who endeavored to traverse the outrageous traffic and lack of parking in New York. It gave you a sense of home and comfort among the noise, the energy vibrating through the air calming any rising anxieties.

You ordered your usual and stood, your computer bag slung over your shoulder and a light jacket hanging around your frame. It only took a few seconds to get your drink ready as they slid it across the metal counter, your name written in jagged script. “Started working as soon as I saw you walk in.” Mark, one of the baristas, smiles at you and you flash him a thankful grin back. “Where would I be without you?”

He only smirks, returning to the espresso machine and preparing the next drink. Your first sip is heavenly, flavors traveling across your tongue at a lightning fast pace and blending into a richness and warmth that can only be attributed to the feeling of this place. Safe and comforting, inviting and welcoming.

You pick your usual seat, right up against the wall, resting against the wood that acts as a divider between the line and the seating area. The tables are all carved from trees with a cherry veneer whipped across before a sealing, clear coat. You run your fingers against the surface, searching for any lingering crumbs, but also to take in the feel, the smooth gloss against your hands, the sturdiness against your fingertips.

Somehow you wish you could take the emotions that rise as you come into this place with you as you go home, but you can’t. The only thing you can do is savor it all as you do the same thing every time you come in.

You zip open your computer bag and pluck your laptop from its case, setting it on the table and waiting for it to boot to life. It whirls and displays a start up screen as you take another couple of sips of your drink, trying to make the cup last for the next hour or so you’ll spend here, glancing out the window at passing traffic.

It’s a pain to find parking—you had to park a good way down the block just to make it here—but it’s all worth it. Just for this. Just for the feeling of sitting here and admiring the light outside as it splashes against the buildings, swathing them in wonderfully rich whites and browns and blues. The sunlight reflects against cars and shining sequins, its rays spreading every which way with its brilliance.

It’s wonderful.

Then your computer finally finishes its load up sequence as you dig around for your earbuds, fishing them out to plug into your phone, opening up a calming playlist as you click the web browser on your computer.

Today’s topic will be about how light plays an integral role in the consumer’s experience between the home and their enjoyment they get from it. You’re not a realtor per-say, but you have a deep respect for architecture and how it connects with people.

Just like this coffee shop is comforting to you, you wonder what are the elements that make buildings enjoyable for other people. Is it the light? Is it the noise level? Is it the people and culture that a building attracts? The location?

So in order to explain these questions, you’ve kept lists of them, stored on the hard drive of your phone in a note keeping app. Then, you come here, the place outside of your home that you enjoy coming to and focus an hour of your time on researching these things, discovering answers to problems and questions that need solutions.

It’s relaxing, lets you get away from some of the problems that you might be having in daily life, like work or in your relationship. It gives you time to delve into something that doesn’t relate to you personally, gives you another subject to focus on while you strive to find those answers about personal issues that you can’t quite come up with yet.

Your music is calming, the various voices speaking around you fading away as you open ebook after ebook, article after article, searching for responses and research that points to a connection between light allowed in the house and customer satisfaction. Surveys come up, testimonials offered, research specialists all weigh in on the topic and you ravage through it all.

The explanation of the connection between sunlight and serotonin can’t be denied and even without the research, you’d be able to tell people that, yes, you’re much happier when out in daylight and fresh air. You feel better. The science is there to back it up, but what happens when architecture is applied?

What about the location of the home? The size of their windows? Where on earth they live?

What if they explored this furt-

“Hello.” The voice sounds foggy and far away and you draw an earbud out of your ear, gazing out of your article to find someone actually standing in front of you. “Sorry to distract you, but is this seat taken?” He gestures at the seat in front of you.

You spare a glance around the restaurant for half a second and observe the empty tables lingering all around you, wondering why he would want to sit right in front of you when there’s all that space lingering around.

You nod, slowly, with apprehension, and scoot back to allow for more shared leg room. “Thanks.” He sits down as you write a few more notes onto a notebook you slipped out of your bag a few minutes ago, trying to keep your place and appear busy to him.

If he were to try to strike up a conversation, at least you’d remember where you were and what you still needed to look up, but if he saw you writing furiously with that pen like your life depended on it, maybe he would leave you to your work.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

“Do you always sit here?” He sips on his drink encased in a white mug, sunglasses still resting over his eyes. His voice is kind, but holds weight to it, like he’s trying to pull you out of what you’re working on. You’re not rude, so you appease him.

“Yeah, it’s kind of my spot.” You smile and close your laptop, taking away the temptation to keep searching and just ignore him. You sip your drink in your paper cup and lean back, placing your pen back on the notebook, about ready to put your stuff away.

“Interesting.” He sits forward, pushing the sunglasses out of his eyes, the deep chocolate of them apparent to you now, not that you were looking that hard in the first place. You tell yourself that you definitely weren’t looking that hard. Or that you noticed the slight abrasions on his leather jacket. “You’re not the first to claim this table.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows shoot up and you take a sip to hide your shock. “This is your spot too?”

“Clever girl.” He leans back and observes you and you laugh at his nonchalant approach to the situation. “Though, I do accept company every now again. Good to allow the table some exposure.”

“How gracious of you.” You muttered over the lid of the coffee cup while the stranger just smiles at you, appreciating your joke and humor in the situation. “I bet Rachel loves being introduced to new people.”

“How do you know her name?” He fakes surprise, setting down his mug. You nearly burst out laughing at his expression, all twisted with his mouth and eyes wide open. “That was supposed to be our little secret.”

“Well I happen to know Rachel pretty well, thank you very much.”

“I can see.” He narrows his eyes and leans back, looking down at the table as he shakes his head. “No loyalty.” He sips his drink, foam sticking to his lip. “Where’s the trust?”

You giggle and hand him one of your napkins, pointing to your upper lip. He gives his thanks as he wipes away the evidence.

You check your watch and jump at the time it reads. You were supposed to leave five minutes ago, planning to meet up with Bucky just down the block. Hastily, you grab your notebook, pen, and earbuds and stuff them into the right pockets.

“Blowing this joint, huh?” He acts cool but you see the curiosity lingering behind his eyes and you stop for a second.

“Um...yeah. I’m late to meet someone.”

“Do you need help with anything?”

You slide your laptop back into the bag. “No, but thank you. I appreciate it.” You grab your jacket from the booth beside you and slide it over your shoulders, the material scratching against your skin. “Take care of Rachel for me.”

You slide your bag over your shoulders and begin to walk out when he stops you. “Hey, Coffee Girl.”

You turn and smile at him. “Yes, table parent?”

“When do you think we can discuss more options about custody over the table?” His smile is warm and there’s something else underneath. Something you don’t recognize, something that sounds like intrigue. You haven’t seen someone look at you with that in, well, a while. It nearly scares you right out of your skin.

“I’m..” Your voice begins to falter and you hang onto your coffee cup just a little tighter. Not out of a general fear of him, he seems really sweet and kind, but for yourself. No one, no one, ever looks at you like that. “I’ll probably be here, next week.” You manage to get out. “Same time.”

“Hmm.” He watches your demeanor change and his smile becomes less beaming, more soft and subtle. “May I ask for a number.” Your face erupts with astonishment, eyebrows shooting up. “Just to confirm, of course.” He adds, trying to placate your sharp change in expression.

“Um…” You look around to see people watching you and notice how awkward the situation is becoming. Closing your eyes for a brief second, you open them to see his smile now gone and replaced with confusion. “I’ll meet you here again and then I’ll swap digits.”

“Okay.” He nods, seeming still confused. “Have a good one.”

You want to punch yourself in the gut.

“Yeah. You too.” You turn away and nearly run out of the coffee place, the bell ringing like a gong of judgement as you swing the door open just a bit too hard.

There was going to be nothing wrong with giving that man your number, nothing at all. There was just...just this feeling of overwhelming disbelief and a deep piercing sorrow at the fact that he wanted your number at all.

You didn’t see the conversation swerving in that direction. You liked him, thought he was great to talk to and seem genuinely interested and intrigued by what you were saying, but the thought of him having a deeper interest terrified you.

Because he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

He didn’t know what a bore you were, let alone how uninteresting you could be.

He wouldn’t be happy with someone like that. How could he be? He was the sun and you would only swallow him in shadow, drowning out his humor and smile and inescapable light.

He would die with you by his side.

He doesn’t want you, not really, because he doesn’t know you. Because he would be horrified by you.

….

“Hey, doll!” His eyes light up as he sees you, crinkling in the corners as he opens his arms wide to trap you within his embrace.

You loved when the bright blue of his eyes did that. Their shape turns into splits and his happiness seems to vibrate from his gaze into you, warming you up, making you feel alive. His arms are sturdy and warm, safe and bracing. You don’t feel like you could ever fall with him by your side.

But he smelt foreign to you, like jasmine and lavender. He always smelled like fresh pine and the forest. It was the thing you always loved about him.

He was corrupted, but he was still beautiful. Still the Bucky you knew.

“How are you?” He kept his hands resting on your arms, drinking you in, smiling down at your grinning figure.

“Good. Are you ready to go?” He nods, slipping his hand in yours. “Where’d you go today?” You stare at your linked hands and grin, not noticing the way his mouth turns into a fine line before a small, pretend smile takes its place.

“Oh, just to the gallery down the street.” Your eyes snap to his and for just a split second, hurt crosses your features before you smooth it over. It all comes back to the gallery. Every single thing.

But if you ignore it, maybe he’ll still be happy with you, happy with the way things are. If you try to fuss about it, he’ll run away or get angry, and you don’t want that. You don’t want to see him upset. He’s not very reasonable when upset.

He seems to see how your face changes and silence takes hold as you walk down the street filled with warmth and sunlight. Although you feel his heat bleed into your hand, you feel as if you’re next to an iceberg, a stranger, someone you want to put distance between, not someone you feel you love.

Bucky shifts, reaching for something to soothe your hurt. “Come on, doll. Don’t be like that.” He laughs, and you try hard to believe him, to fill the air with your warm giggles, but you can’t. You're physically unable to. “She’s just a friend.”

Liar.

She’s not just a friend, no matter how much he tries to convince you. You don’t have any evidence to support your theory, not any true evidence that he can’t refute, but you know a bold faced lie when you hear one.

That’s why you try to be good, be interesting, because maybe being interesting will bring him back to you, back to your side.

He’s here now, but he’s never really here. He’s not as devoted to you as you are to him, but that’s your fault. You’re just not good enough for him, but you could be better. You can be better. You just have to show him.

You just have to hold on. Just give him a chance. Show him how exciting you can be.

Taking in a healthy breath of air, you sigh. “Right.” You shake your head as if you’re trying to clear these treacherous thoughts from your mind. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” You smile at him, as much attempting to convince him as you are trying to make it all right in your head. This is the correct way to handle things. This is how you pull him back. Just forgive and move on.

He relaxes at your acceptance, deflating at your calmed hostility. “You know you’re the only one for me.”

“I know, Bucky.” You rub his arm and his happiness is not as apparent as his serenity over solving the previous conflict. He presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to your head, leaving an impression there that makes your skin crawl, but these feelings will dissipate as time goes on.

Time will heal everything.

“You still remember that party tonight?” He drawls, as if proud that he’s secured an invitation. The party is for his friend at the art gallery, a celebration of her achievements. It’s supposed to be a small gathering, but with how many people were there at her opening, you would be shocked if the numbers were really that low.

You nod, leaning away from how Bucky’s face hovers so close to you. “Yep. I remember. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” He pulls you closer and you would be lying if you didn’t feel your stomach warm, butterflies recklessly taking flight without fear of slamming into the lining around your gut.

Your chuckle isn’t quite a lie and Bucky catches on to your honesty, seeming to grow taller and believing himself completely absolved from all original misdeeds.

Then you hit him with your next topic. “A man tried to get my number today. At the coffee shop.”

He stops walking completely, his arm falling from around your shoulders. “He did what?” His voice is tightly coiled, ready to spring at any moment.

You keep walking, not waiting to see what his face would look like. You know his brows are well furrowed and eyes are dark, devoid of any lighthearted fun. They’re not the blue of a gentle stream but a churning and violent ocean.

“Oh, come on, Bucky. I said tried. I didn’t give it to him.” You roll your eyes in front of him, turning to hold an arm, beckoning him forward and into your arms. He doesn’t move. You stop and cross your arms over your chest.

“Don’t tell me that you did this to make me jealous.” His words carry bite, but they fall harmlessly from your frame made of metal and steel. Impenetrable. After what you’ve seen and know, nothing he could say or do to you could truly harm you.

“That’s rich, considering he asked me.”

He sees that his tone has no affect on you and stalks closer, ignoring your arm that now begins to fall back into its place by your side. “But you won’t go back there, right?” He grins, malice and hope curling together, like he wants to lure you into a complete false sense of security, urging you to agree. “You know how I don’t want anyone else stealing you away from me.”

He drips with imitation honey and you’re too smart to believe the gold of it is real. “Bucky, you know that’s my spot.”

“And I’m telling you, (name), that you can’t go back there.” His teeth make each syllable sharper and harsher, but it doesn’t scare you.

But maybe if you back off, get him to stop fighting, he’ll just let this one go. You only told him just to make him aware, not to cause a real argument. This isn’t worth turning into a complete debacle. You’re not going to allow his anger to grow any larger.

“You can’t stop me from going there, but I won’t go back at the same time or on the same days. I probably won’t even bump into him again. It was the first time I’ve ever seen him there anyway.” You turn, holding out a hand to him that he takes and squeezes so hard your hand aches when he relaxes his grip.

“But,” He drills holes in the side of your head. “If you see him again, tell me.”

“Sure thing, oh great shining knight.” You nod fervently, like you’re completely devout to him. And in a way you are. There’s something about him that keeps you just hanging on, refusing to let him go completely.

He laughs with acid behind it. “You know I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He looks wounded as you spare a glance at him. “He might try to take advantage of you.”

“Well good thing you’re here then.” Your face adapts to pure happiness, his concern for you starting to trump all of these horrible things you’re beginning to feel. It always makes you feel important and wanted when his protectiveness jumps out, his vulnerability unlocking something in you.

He grins just as strongly back at you, gently running circles over your hand. “What did he look like?”

“Bucky!”

“What?” He holds up his other hand, looking like he can’t understand what he’s done wrong. “I need to be ready in case you call.”

“Well I’m not the damn police. I wasn’t really looking that hard.”

“Oh cut that out. I know you got a good look at him.”

You sigh, thinking of a way to get out of having to actually answer his questions without him becoming angry again. You can’t, so you give him crumbs. “He had brown eyes, darker skin. Sunglasses.”

“Doll, I know you can do better than that.” He smirks but it’s strained.

He doesn’t believe you.

“Not really.” And that’s kind of the truth. You weren’t really paying attention to his attire, besides the rip in his jacket. “I wasn’t really paying that much attention to him. Research remember?”

“Hm.” He consents. “I’ll give you that.”

You breath out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“But just remember to call me, alright?”

“Sure.”

“Doll.” He stops, turning to gaze deep into your eyes.

“Okay.” You hold up your hands and cross your fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

He searches your gaze for just the inkling of a false statement and doesn’t find it. “Alright. I trust you, doll. Don’t make me regret it.”

You nod, your stomach feeling just a little sicker as your hands rejoin and the sun begins to set, the buildings turning a deep shade of crimson.

…

The party is more like a college frat palooza than a respectable meeting for supporters of a budding artist. Red solo cups line the room and the kitchen is stocked with all sorts of wine, tequila, whiskey, and bourbon.

Drinks for respectable people, of course.

Bucky already has a buzz going from taking two shots of whiskey before you even came to pick him up. You insisted on driving so he could enjoy the full effects of the alcohol before you even made it to the party. Somehow that BS worked and he was getting a little loopy and handsy before you made the door.

His hand now rested at a respectable place on your hip, but you had to keep his hand from drooping lower and lower. Now, his arms spread wide as he saw his red-haired friend, wrapping her into a hug and placing a bottle of rose into her hands. He spun out his congratulations in a slur of wonderfully crafted and charming phrases to which she blushed deeply at, at least until she saw you.

“Willow, this is (name).” He gestured back towards you and you stepped forward, shaking her hand with a polite smile on your face. Even her name was beautiful. Figures he would choose her.

Her smile was nice enough, but her eyes still dragged back to him, lingering on his beautiful face and warm eyes. Of course, any one would be drawn to him, you would be a fool if you ignored that, but there was just something a little too warm and knowing behind her stare. Like she was blushing at meeting her long-lost childhood love again.

It made you slightly sick but you ignored it and tried to send her your best in the only way you knew how. Words that weren’t quite a lie but still sounded nice. For the most part. “Congrats on your art display. Your work is very colorful and has a really cool avant-garde aspect to it. You really could be on to something, Willow.” You winked at the end and she laughed, seeming to take your compliment well.

“Thank you. I know it’s not super conventional, but I hope it opens a new interpretation into art.”

“I’m sure it will.” Yeah, if you’re a lunatic or a complete believer in work that makes absolutely no sense.

She grins and the room erupts in starlight. Her smile is like starting at jewels under direct light, beautiful and dazzling. No wonder everyone seems to gravitate to her. You start to fold inward while Bucky dismisses you, telling you to “make yourself comfortable” and “introduce yourself to people.”

You nod and immediately make a B-line to the corner, standing away from all of the people in overly priced clothing and drinking strongly proofed wine. It’s not that you didn’t enjoy a good bottle of wine or even something stronger from time to time, but if you had ever learned anything from being in college, it’s that if you’re unsure of drinking something while you’re there, don’t drink it.

You briefly wonder if there’s a regular can of pop to be seen in this place.

Then you look at your surroundings, admiring the wood of the walls, the accent tapestries adorning them and then start to think that this girl might have good taste. The current tapestry you observe has burgundy and gold blended together in a beautiful amalgamation and you play with the strands between your fingers. It’s soft and strong, wonderfully crafted.

The wood behind it is hard and sturdy, easy to run your fingers along and feel the stronger edges behind every cut. It’s beautiful. A good selection.

But there’s almost no windows. No light. No opportunity for incorporating the day with the dark atmosphere her home carries.

“(Name)! Come over here.” You sigh, peeved by your disturbance from being silent in your corner. You follow his voice till you’re beside him, letting him put an arm around your shoulders. “I want you to meet, Chris Tallow. He designed this place.”

Chris was probably one of the most famous architects in the whole state. Standing in front of him made your knees wobble. “Hello, nice to meet you.” You timidly were able to get out and he smiled warmly at you, reaching out to shake your hand.

“James tells me that you’re quite the architectural connoisseur.” He grins and you nod, enthusiastically.

“I love your work! It’s ingenious and visionary. It’s amazing how you’re able to work with multiple mediums and incorporate them seamlessly.” The words pour out of your mouth before you’re able to stop them, now embarrassed at your unrestrained confession.

“Girl knows her stuff.” He seems impressed and appraises you accordingly.

“She’s quite the fan-girl.” Bucky laughs, pulling you a little closer. “She’s obsessed with buildings, sometimes in neglect of other things.”

You almost glare at him, but then you remember where you are and who you’re in front of, so you let out a reserved snicker and unwrap yourself from around him, Bucky a little uneasy on his feet. “Nice to meet you. Bucky you want anything to drink?” You look at him expectantly, but he just leans in and presses a kiss on your cheek, waving his cup.

You dismiss yourself again, frustrated with how he brushed your passion off like that.

You travel back to the kitchen, right about to pop the lid open again when you see the man from the cafe, staring you down. You duck under the table and try to catch your breath after the lightning bolt that went firing through your veins. What in the world is he doing at the flighty girl’s party? How does he even know her?

“Nothing you’re gonna want is in there.” He states plainly, but not in a rude way, just in a I-don’t-think-you’re-the-beer-type kind of way.

He would be right. “Oh,” You stand up, wiping the condensation on the fabric of your jeans, “Right.”

He watches you with such an unabashed directness that you can hardly breathe. He’s dressed in a tan leather jacket that sets off his deep red sweater and dark jeans nicely, pulling against his strong physique. He’s still as bright as you remember him to be and you’re lost as to what to say to him to continue the conversation.

The mystery man seems just as distracted until he sets down his coke to reach into the fridge to pull out another one for you, handing it to you politely, fingers sparking as you hands graze. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You mutter as you crack the can open and take a long sip, needing a distraction from the man in front of you and your growing unsteadiness around him. At least you have something in your hands that you can cling onto. “I didn’t think that opening a cold one with the boys would be the smartest thing I could do.”

He chuckles, warmth pouring out of him. “Me neither.” He leans against the counter as you drink, surveying the party and drawing his eyes away from you for a moment. It’s a relief as you still don’t think you’re going to be able to think straight. “Not one for parties?”

“What gave it away?” You speak, your voice warbling after your drink and you try to steady it, cringing heavily at its harsh quality.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “In the corner. Where I usually take up my post.”

“Oh, don’t tell me the sunglasses aren’t a hit?” You lean next to him and his eyes graze yours with a twinkle. You smile back as his teeth shine against the hazy lighting the string of lights behind you provide.

“Well,” He leans a little closer, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I’ll give you a hint. It might not be the sun glasses.”

You gasp.

“I know. I know.” He chuckles taking another sip, still grinning at your reaction. You feel a warmth start to spread and fight down the urge to lean closer, to prompt him with far more personal questions. “It’s hard to believe that all this could be such a mood-killer.”

“You know, full disclosure, I do find that a bit startling.” You watch as he looks to you with perplexity and something deeper. You ignore the warmth again as you explain yourself. “I mean, come on, you’re hilarious.”

“Okay, Coffee Girl, what’s your excuse?” It’s your turn to be bamboozled. “You’re funny and intelligent and witty. Why aren’t you out there killing the game? These people would be on the floor if they heard you.”

You look down at your drink, taking effort to pull your eyes away from his deep orbs, keeping you from falling in. You take a deep gulp before you think about answering. He sobers up at your actions and watches gently, waiting for response.

He’s not so demanding as Bucky, watching you with soft interest not with blatant scrutiny. You actually feel like you can talk with him and not be judged by your responses. You decide to take the leap. “I have a deflector for that.” You tip your coke towards your “plus one” that’s so absorbed in what strawberry is saying that he doesn’t even notice you talking with the man whose name you still don’t know.

“Ah.” He sighs, swirling his drink around, his energy collapsing. “Your boyfriend.”

You turn to him and watch him pointedly avoiding your eye, searching around the room without settling on an object.

His words sting for whatever reason and you feel that you need to correct him, stop him from getting the wrong impression. That you need to make him understand. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” He scoffs, taking another swig.

“I mean that we’re not together, together. Yes, I came with him. Yes, I’ll probably leave at some point with him to stop him from passing out on the street dead drunk, but we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that.” You don’t look at his face as he turns to you, knowing he’s trying to find any evidence of deceit.

“Was that who you were meeting after leaving the shop?” He’s open, asking for honesty.

“Yes.” You look at him then, taken aback at the unabashed staring he’s doing, not even looking away as he observes you with such a gentle intensity, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. He’s wrong, but the way he’s looking would convince you otherwise.

“Okay.” He drinks again, placing the empty cup down on the table. “So, this boyfriend of yours doesn’t let you speak to any guy in any sort of flirting fashion?”

“More or less.” You wash more cold liquid down your throat as he looks away and scoffs. “What?” You prompt, genuinely interested.

“He’s one of those types.”

You purse your lips but say nothing.

“As he should be. You’re so unaware of yourself.”

You almost choke, but he doesn’t give you a chance to respond as he grabs another coke from the fridge and pops it open. You look around the party and find Bucky and Willow conveniently absent. What a host. Doesn’t even make sure she sticks around to receive guests.

A pang settles against your chest as he comes to lean beside you on the counter, a little closer than normal. He must read your expression as he looks around for them as well and his face settles into disdain when he can’t spot them either, looking back at you. “You know, you never told me your name.”

You chuckle and take another drink, finishing it and placing it next to his original empty one. “You first.”

“Okay,” He turns and offers you his hand. “Sam. Friends call me Falcon.”

“Quite the nickname you have there, Sam.” You take his hand and shake it, feeling the buzz shoot through your arm at the contact and try to ignore how your skin heats up.

He doesn’t respond for a minute, just looking at you. “Your turn,” He manages after a while, a miniature smirk taking his face, much different from his usual open grins.

“(Name),” You breathe back, trying to act confident. “But people call me Coffee Girl, sometimes.”

“Oh?” He grins fully this time, unconsciously holding your hand still. “Your good friends?”

“Maybe.” You coyly offer and his eyes light up with challenge.

He laughs to himself as he finally lets your hand go, searching through the crowd again. “I saw you admiring that woven work on the wall over there.” He nods his head in the direction of the tapestry.

“Yeah.” You sigh. “It’s got great hand work. One of the finest I’ve seen.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Not really. Just a fan, I guess.” Your tone drops at the end. Sam looks at your dismal expression, eyes wondering. He searches a second more and then drops the topic. You stand close to each other, the heat wafting from your thin shirt meeting the warmth coming from the collar of his jacket and you take it all in.

The noise of the party seeming far away from the space that you and Sam have created. It’s peaceful and comforting. It feels like the coffee shop.

Guilt rises at the way you left, at the plans to avoid him completely. Because of Bucky. Because of a man that is overly jealous over the slightest things.

You clear your throat. “Um, Sam. I want to apologize to you.”

“Why, (name)?” Warmth crackles down your midsection at the use of your name and wonder if your usage affected him similarly.

“When I left at the cafe, I wasn’t the kindest and know I made you feel terrible for approaching me.” You watch as he grins and lose your nerve and silence yourself.

“If I felt terrible, do you think I would have come over? Even when you hid from me?” You cringe and he laughs harder.

“I’m sorry.” You peak out of the corner of your eye and watch him laugh even harder. Your laughs mix for a couple of a seconds, a beautiful symphony, comfortable and happy. “I just…” You hold onto the counter, propping yourself up a little. “I’m just not used to that kind of attention.”

“Your boyfriend doesn’t look at you with pure adoration in his eyes?” He takes a sip and then frowns when you stay silent. “(Name)?” You can’t look at him as you play with your fingers. “Oh.”

“Yeah...” You weave your left fingers around your right pinky, trying to calm your heart down after your confession and the feeling of intense shame about ready to spill over.

“I’m sorry, if I made you feel uncomfortable.” He carries his words with a look of sincerity and you feel awful for making him feel as though he needs to apologize.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just out of practice, that’s all.” You look down. “I’m not good with that sort of thing, you know?” You glance over to see his eyes are already on you, electricity threatening to shoot between you.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean.” But he doesn’t look away, just moves a little closer. “If you’re comfortable with it, would you reconsider that number thing? I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything, I’m just showing my interest.”

You can tell.

And something in you tells you that he’s definitely trustworthy, someone worth giving your number to. He just has this draw and for a moment, you forget about Bucky completely as you watch Sam. You nod, slipping out your phone and placing it in his palm, turning the back of his hand over.

His skin burns.

He smiles softly and enters his number in your contacts. He then slips his phone out of his pocket, furiously typing on it. Your phone lights up in your hand a second later, a text flashing across the screen: This is Falcon, paging Coffee Girl.

You laugh at the nickname. His name reads Falcon in your contacts, his real name hidden to your message app as it rests in the nickname section, which is turned off on your display.

You text him back.

Coffee Girl on stand-by.

He laughs at your response and you loosely smile as you're distracted by his light, by the beauty in his smile. He doesn’t notice and you duck your head to keep it that way.

Your stomach drops as you look up to see Bucky paving a stumbling path through the party to you, eyes ablaze and slightly unfocused. Sam stands to his full height, putting some distance between the two of you. “(Name). Where have you been, doll.” Alcohol slides over your cheek as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, glaring past you and into Sam.

“Here.” You draw his attention back to you as you take in his swollen lips and disheveled hair. Your shadows start to creep back into your skin, originally chased away by Sam, his light burning them away. Bucky’s eyes, despite how intense they look, are unfocused. He’s not in his right mind.

He pulls you closer as he looks down at you. “Who’s this?” He smiles at you but frowns as he spares a glance back at Sam.

“A friend.”

He looks Sam up and down a couple of times before he looks back to you, a goofy smile coating his face. “Okay.”

You turn around and at Sam’s face distorted in anger, all traces of his original kindness obliterated. It startles you, but when he glances over at you, his face softens. “I’m going to take him home.”

“Nice seeing you.” He bids you goodbye with such subtle hints at his awareness of the situation. You get the feeling that he’s not mad at you or the situation, just at Bucky. You silently thank him for his understanding.

He imperceptibly nods his head at you and you turn back to Bucky, slipping his arm over your shoulder.

You feel a buzzing in your pocket but ignore it as you drag a half-functional Bucky out of the house and into your car.

…

After hours of dragging him around his apartment and laying him down for bed, you leave him with one glass of water and a few pills for the massive headache he’s going to have tomorrow.

He mumbles for you to stay, but you push his arms off of you as if they’re disgusting chains, attempting to keep you sedated in one place.

When you break free from his place and safely make it back to yours, you collapse on your bed, crawling under the covers, not caring that makeup still lingers on your face. The fact of your phone buzzing dawns on you and you pull your phone out of your pocket, clicking the screen to life to see Falcon appearing on your screen.

See you around, Coffee Girl.

Your heart warms and you send a quick text back before turning out the light, plugging your phone in, and placing it on silent as you drift off.

Goodnight, Falcon.

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haruatori · 3 years

Text

Common list of misconceptions

Had great fun learning about these, maybe now I will remember it better:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_common_misconceptions

Fortune cookies, despite being associated with Chinese cuisine in the United States, were invented in Japan and introduced to the US by the Japanese.[11] The cookies are extremely rare in China, where they are seen as symbols of American cuisine.[12]

The United States does not require police officers to identify themselves as police in the case of a sting or other undercover work, and police officers may lie when engaged in such work.[25] Claiming entrapment as a defense instead focuses on whether the defendant was induced by undue pressure (such as threats) or deception from law enforcement to commit crimes they would not have otherwise committed.[26]

Parody singer "Weird Al" Yankovic did not write or perform most of the songs and comedy sketches attributed to him or "Weird Al Yankovich" on the Internet.[48]

The forbidden fruit mentioned in the Book of Genesis is never identified as an apple,[51] a misconception widely depicted in Western art.The original Hebrew texts mention only tree and fruit. Early Latin translations use the word mali, which can mean either "evil" or "apple" depending on if the A is short or long respectively, although the difference in vowel length had already vanished from speech in Latin at the time. In early Germanic languages the word "apple" and its cognates usually simply meant "fruit". German and French artists commonly depict the fruit as an apple from the 12th century onwards, and John Milton's Areopagitica from 1644 explicitly mentions the fruit as an apple.[52] Jewish scholars have suggested that the fruit could have been a grape, a fig, an apricot, or an etrog.[53]

The Bible does not say that exactly three magi came to visit the baby Jesus, nor that they were kings, or rode on camels, or that their names were Casper, Melchior, and Balthazar, nor what color their skin was. Three magi are inferred because three gifts are described, but we only know that they were plural (at least 2); there could have been many more and probably an entourage accompanied them on their journey. The artistic depictions of the nativity have almost always depicted three magi since the 3rd century.[57] The Bible only specifies an upper limit of 2 years for the interval between the birth and the visit (Matthew 2:16), and artistic depictions and the closeness of the traditional dates of December 25 and January 6 encourage the popular assumption that the visit took place in the same season as the birth, but later traditions varied, with the visit taken as occurring up to two years later. The association of magi with kings comes from efforts to tie the visit to prophecies in the Book of Isaiah.[58]

No Biblical or historical evidence supports Mary Magdalene having been a prostitute.[59]

The idea that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute before she met Jesus is not found in the Bible or in any of the other earliest Christian writings. The misconception likely arose due to a conflation between Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany (who anoints Jesus's feet in John 11:1–12), and the unnamed "sinful woman" who anoints Jesus's feet in Luke 7:36–50.[59]

The Quran does not promise martyrs 72 virgins in heaven. It does mention companions, houri, to all people—martyr or not—in heaven, but no number is specified. The source for the 72 virgins is a hadith in Sunan al-Tirmidhi by Imam Tirmidhi.[74][75] Hadiths are sayings and acts of the prophet Muhammad as reported by others, and as such they are not part of the Quran itself. Muslims are not meant to necessarily believe all hadiths, and that applies particularly to those hadiths that are weakly sourced, such as this one.[76] Furthermore, the correct translation of this particular hadith is a matter of debate.[74] In the same collection of Sunni hadiths, however, the following is judged strong (hasan sahih): "There are six things with Allah for the martyr. He is forgiven with the first flow of blood (he suffers), he is shown his place in Paradise, he is protected from punishment in the grave, secured from the greatest terror, the crown of dignity is placed upon his head—and its gems are better than the world and what is in it—he is married to seventy two wives among wide-eyed houris (Al-Huril-'Ayn) of Paradise, and he may intercede for seventy of his close relatives."[77]

Ancient Greek and Roman sculptures were originally painted bright colors; they only appear white today because the original pigments have deteriorated. Some well-preserved statues still bear traces of their original coloration.[127][128]

The accused at the Salem witch trials in North America were not burned at the stake; about 15 died in prison, 19 were hanged and one was pressed to death.[172]

Marie Antoinette did not say "let them eat cake" when she heard that the French peasantry were starving due to a shortage of bread. The phrase was first published in Rousseau's Confessions when Marie was only nine years old and most scholars believe that Rousseau coined it himself, or that it was said by Maria Theresa, the wife of Louis XIV. Even Rousseau (or Maria Theresa) did not use the exact words but actually Qu'ils mangent de la brioche, meaning "Let them eat brioche" (a rich type of bread). Marie Antoinette was a target of attacks from radical jacobins; therefore, political activists attributed the phrase "let them eat cake" to her, to promulgate an image of her as disconnected from her subjects.[173]

Napoleon Bonaparte was not short. He was actually slightly taller than the average Frenchman of his time.[180] After his death in 1821, the French emperor's height was recorded as 5 feet 2 inches in French feet, which in English measurements is 5 feet 7 inches (1.70 m).[181] He was actually nicknamed le Petit Caporal (The Little Corporal) as a term of endearment.[182] Napoleon was often accompanied by his imperial guard, who were selected for their height[183]—this may have contributed to a perception that he was comparatively short.

There was no widespread outbreak of panic across the United States in response to Orson Welles's 1938 radio adaptation of H.G. Wells's The War of the Worlds. Only a very small share of the radio audience was even listening to it, and isolated reports of scattered incidents and increased call volume to emergency services were played up the next day by newspapers, eager to discredit radio as a competitor for advertising. Both Welles and CBS, which had initially reacted apologetically, later came to realize that the myth benefited them and actively embraced it in later years.[200]

Rosa Parks was not sitting in the front ("white") section of the bus during the event that made her famous and incited the Montgomery bus boycott. Rather, she was sitting in the front of the back ("colored") section of the bus, where African Americans were expected to sit, but refused to give up her seat to a white man who asked for it (which was also the expected action of African Americans at the time).

Although popularly known as the "red telephone", the Moscow–Washington hotline was never a telephone line, nor were red phones used. The first implementation of the hotline used teletype equipment, which was replaced by facsimile (fax) machines in 1988. Since 2008, the hotline has been a secure computer link over which the two countries exchange emails.[220] Moreover, the hotline links the Kremlin to the Pentagon, not the White House.[221]

Bulls are not enraged by the color red, used in capes by professional matadors. Cattle are dichromats, so red does not stand out as a bright color. It is not the color of the cape, but the perceived threat by the matador that incites it to charge.[238]

Dogs do not sweat by salivating[239] Dogs actually do have sweat glands and not only on their tongues; they sweat mainly through their footpads. However, dogs do primarily regulate their body temperature through panting.[240] (See also: Dog anatomy).

Bats are not blind. While about 70 percent of bat species, mainly in the microbat family, use echolocation to navigate, all bat species have eyes and are capable of sight. In addition, almost all bats in the megabat or fruit bat family cannot echolocate and have excellent night vision.[244]

The notion that goldfish have a memory span of just a few seconds is false.[250][251] It is much longer, counted in months.

There is no such thing as an "alpha" in a wolf pack. An early study that coined the term "alpha wolf" had only observed unrelated adult wolves living in captivity. In the wild, wolf packs operate more like human families: there is no defined sense of rank, parents are in charge until the young grow up and start their own families, younger wolves do not overthrow an "alpha" to become the new leader, and social dominance fights are situational.[254][255]

Mice do not have a special appetite for cheese, and will eat it only for lack of better options. Mice actually favor sweet, sugary foods. It is unclear where the myth came from.[260]

Sunflowers do not always point to the sun. Flowering sunflowers face a fixed direction (often east) all day long, but not necessarily the sun.[287] However, in an earlier developmental stage, before the appearance of flower heads, the immature buds do track the sun (a phenomenon called phototropism) and the fixed alignment of the mature flowers toward a certain direction is often the result.[288]

Petroleum does not originate from dinosaurs but rather bacteria and algae.[308]

No human genome (nor any mammalian genome for that matter) has ever been completely sequenced. As of 2017, by some estimates, between 4% to 9% of the human genome had not been sequenced.[311]

Trickle-down theory of economics does not work.[325]

Waking sleepwalkers does not harm them. While it is true that a person may be confused or disoriented for a short time after awakening, this does not cause them further harm. In contrast, sleepwalkers may injure themselves if they trip over objects or lose their balance while sleepwalking.[332]

Stretching before or after exercise does not reduce muscle soreness.[338]

Exercise-induced muscle soreness is not caused by lactic acid buildup.[339] Muscular lactic acid levels during and after exercise do not correlate with soreness;[340] exercise-induced muscle soreness is thought to be due to microtrauma from an unaccustomed or strenuous exercise, against which the body adapts with repeated bouts of the same exercise.[341]

Shaving does not cause terminal hair to grow back thicker (more dense) or darker. This belief is due to hair that has never been cut having a tapered end, whereas, after cutting, the edge is blunt and therefore thicker than the tapered ends; the sharper, unworn edges make the cut hair appear thicker and feel coarser. That short hairs are less flexible than longer hairs also contributes to this effect.[355]

A person's hair and fingernails do not continue to grow after death. Rather, the skin dries and shrinks away from the bases of hairs and nails, giving the appearance of growth.[356]

Acne is mostly caused by genetics, rather than lack of hygiene, eating fatty food, or other personal habits.[360]

The order in which different types of alcoholic beverages are consumed ("Grape or grain but never the twain" and "Beer before liquor never sicker; liquor before beer in the clear") does not affect intoxication or create adverse side effects.[381]

Hand size does not predict human penis size,[385] but finger length ratio may.[386]

There is no physiological basis for the belief that having sex in the days leading up to a sporting event or contest is detrimental to performance.[390] In fact it has been suggested that sex prior to sports activity can elevate male testosterone level, which could potentially enhance performance.[391]

Glass does not flow at room temperature as a high-viscosity liquid.[442] Although glass shares some molecular properties found in liquids, glass at room temperature is an amorphous solid that only begins to flow above the glass transition temperature,[443] though the exact nature of the glass transition is not considered settled among scientists.[444] Panes of stained glass windows are often thicker at the bottom than at the top, and this has been cited as an example of the slow flow of glass over centuries. However, this unevenness is due to the window manufacturing processes used at the time.[443][444] No such distortion is observed in other glass objects, such as sculptures or optical instruments, that are of similar or even greater age.[443][444][445]

Most diamonds are not formed from highly compressed coal. More than 99 percent of diamonds ever mined have formed in the conditions of extreme heat and pressure about 140 kilometers (87 mi) below the earth's surface. Coal is formed from prehistoric plants buried much closer to the surface, and is unlikely to migrate below 3.2 kilometers (2.0 mi) through common geological processes. Most diamonds that have been dated are older than the first land plants, and are therefore older than coal. It is possible that diamonds can form from coal in subduction zones and in meteoroid impacts, but diamonds formed in this way are rare and the carbon source is more likely carbonate rocks and organic carbon in sediments, rather than coal.[446]

Although the Greek philosopher Pythagoras is most famous today for his alleged mathematical discoveries,[452][453] classical historians dispute whether he himself ever actually made any significant contributions to the field.[450][451] He cannot have been the first to discover his famous theorem, because it was known and used by the Babylonians and Indians centuries before Pythagoras,[454][455][456][457] but it is possible that he may have been the first one to introduce it to the Greeks.[458][456]

There is no scientific evidence for the existence of "photographic" memory in adults (the ability to remember images with so high a precision as to mimic a camera),[478] but some young children have eidetic memory.[479] Many people have claimed to have a photographic memory, but those people have been shown to have good memories as a result of mnemonic devices rather than a natural capacity for detailed memory encoding.[480] There are rare cases of individuals with exceptional memory, but none of them has a memory that mimics that of a camera.

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galleryofunknowns · 4 years

Photo

Unknown Artist, 'Portrait of a Man', oil on canvas, late 1700s, American?, currently in the collection of the Museo Nacional Thyssen Bornemisza, Madrid, Spain.

The portrait, formerly attributed to Gilbert Stuart (b.1755 - d.1828), was previously thought to be of Hercules Posey (b.1748 - d.1812), an enslaved cook in the employ of George Washington. Below the cut is an edited version of of a Philadelphia Inquirer article written March, 2019, on the life of Hercules and the research undertaken in the portrait.

“This is very different from how Stuart would have done it,” said Dorinda Evans, a Gilbert Stuart scholar and professor emerita at Emory University, who was certain that both the painter and subject had been misidentified.

The other scholars, curators, and conservators appeared unanimous. But there was one more blockbuster twist. The hat, perceived to be a chef’s toque for as long as the painting has been known to modern viewers, was in fact not a cook’s hat at all, Evans said, but a Caribbean headdress similar to one worn by free Dominicans in the West Indies depicted in paintings by the Italian artist Agostino Brunias.

The experts’ verdict: The painting is genuine to the late 1700s, and the unknown subject was a person of noble importance. But it wasn’t painted by Stuart. And the subject wasn’t even a chef — definitively ruling out Hercules and setting in motion a cascade of implications for historians at a moment when interest in him and others enslaved by the Washingtons remains high.

In fact, the conclusions of this meeting of experts, conducted in private two years ago but made public only now, helped spur a researcher last month to discover what might in fact be a record of the elusive chef’s burial place.

That chef just wasn’t the man in this painting.

“No American cook in the colonies dressed like that,” said Evans, noting that the now-familiar chef’s toque did not appear until the 1820s. “It’s a fantasized image of what people want, because people want to have an image of Hercules. And people see the things they want to see.”

The painting, long held as a potential key to the chef’s story, turned out to be a false clue, another myth in a Washington universe full of them, “like the cherry tree and the wooden teeth,” said Mount Vernon senior curator Susan P. Schoelwer, who coordinated the study day along with associate curator Jessie MacLeod.

“There is a real possibility of a sense of loss there. It’s such a powerful portrait,” she said. “There is a real hunger for a dignified portrait of an enslaved person we can identify with as an individual. But when I weigh that against something that … really isn’t what it was supposed to be, I’m always going to opt for being a seeker after truth.”

Hercules the man was very real. He was sold to George Washington as a teenage “ferryman” in 1767 by a neighbor, John Posey, as payment for a debt. And his labors for the Washingtons were well-documented at Mount Vernon and in Philadelphia, where he was renowned for the feasts he cooked at the President’s House between 1790 and 1796. He escaped from Mount Vernon in 1797 — on George Washington’s birthday — and was never captured.

These facts, drawn from house accounts, farm logs, letters, and reminiscences, have fashioned the chef as a hero whose culinary talents earned him special privileges from the Washingtons and an income from selling kitchen scraps that afforded him a notable sartorial style. He was recalled by Washington’s stepgrandson, George Washington Parke Custis, as a “great master-spirit” in the kitchen who, after the meal, would don fine black silks and a gold-headed cane for evening promenades down High Street.

Though he was dressed stylishly, walking the streets of an abolitionist-minded city known as a haven for free blacks, Hercules was still an enslaved man — and he was eventually left in Virginia and set to hard plantation labor.

What became of Hercules after his dash for freedom has long remained a mystery. This painting, now owned by the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza in Madrid, was long thought to be a clue.

But fundamental questions about the painting’s relationship to Hercules persisted. They were definitively dispelled in the ultraviolet light of the private study day two years ago when the painting was removed from the walls of Mount Vernon after an exhibition in preparation to be returned to Spain. Paloma Alarcó, the Thyssen-Bornemisza curator who attended, agreed to the examination (and my attendance) under the condition its results not be made public until the museum could conduct its own follow-up studies.

She said that time has now come; the museum has hit a dead end: “We are blind, we must confess. … Maybe we will never know who this guy is.”

This is hardly the first old painting to be misidentified in the often shadowy world of art collecting. Its identification as Washington’s cook was likely added in the mid-20th century to increase the value on a work already misidentified earlier in the century as by Stuart, who famously painted the president in 1796. It remained in private hands and largely unstudied by scholars until it was sold in 1983 to Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza, whose massive collection became the museum, which simply cataloged its previously ascribed provenance as the painting arrived.

But Hercules, as one of the most visible individuals enslaved during that era, in part due to this image, carries extra cultural significance because of the growing dialogue about the founding fathers and their troubling involvement with slavery. And as I shared news of the painting’s removal from the record, it brought a mix of disappointment and resignation.

“Although we always questioned it, it’s kind of devastating to find out it’s not him,” said Erica Armstrong Dunbar, a professor of history at Rutgers University whose book, Never Caught (Atria, 2017), documents the escape of Ona Judge from the President’s House in Philadelphia, where she was enslaved alongside Hercules and seven others. “We don’t have any other such portraits of the enslaved who lived at Mount Vernon.”

On Dec. 15, 1801, Martha Washington wrote to Richard Varick, the mayor of New York City, to thank him for looking into the whereabouts of “my Old Cook Hercules. … I have been so fortunate as to engage a white cook who answers very well. I have thought about it therefore better to decline taking Hercules back.”

What Martha Washington did not mention was that she had already freed her husband’s slaves in January of that year, acting early upon a wish from George’s will with an emancipation that also applied to Hercules.

That New York correspondence has long been the last known clue to Hercules’ fate. And it’s a thread that Ganeshram and Sara Krasne, a colleague at the Westport Historical Society where the novelist is executive director, began to pursue in February with a startling new discovery — a New York City death notice that just might be him.

They looked back to John Posey, Hercules’ previous owner, for more clues. They found one. Krasne uncovered the burial record for Hercules Posey, a Virginia native born in 1748 who was listed in the 1812 city directory as a laborer who lived at 33 Orange St. and who died of consumption on May 15, 1812. He was buried at the Second African Burying Ground in Lower Manhattan — a grave that Ganeshram believes is still under the Christie Street sidewalk on the Lower East Side.

“What are the odds with all these factors — being named Hercules and Posey, being black from Virginia and more or less the same age — of it not being him?” Ganeshram said. “People chose to believe the painting was him [despite all the doubts]. I think this evidence is much stronger.”

A pair of historians agreed.

“She may really be onto something,” said Mary V. Thompson, the Mount Vernon research historian who is soon set to publish her own book on slavery at Mount Vernon. “The name, age, and birthplace information are really compelling.”

“[They] may have found the needle in the haystack,” Dunbar, the Rutgers professor and author, concurred. “I would feel totally comfortable speculating that it was him.”

And so, 222 years after Hercules’ daring escape, the great chef may have been found.

“The portrait was not Hercules, but look what popped up instead,” Dunbar said. “He’s totally not trying to go away — he wants you to know.”

“To think he was right there, and may still be, gives me chills,” Ganeshram said. “Hercules is bigger than the painting, and he always has been.”

LaBan, Craig (2019, March 1). 'George Washington's enslaved chef, who cooked in Philadelphia, disappears from painting, but may have reappeared in New York', Philadelphia Inquirer. Retrieved from https://www.inquirer.com/food/craig-laban/george-washington-slave-chef-cook-hercules-gilbert-stuart-painting-wrong-20190301.html.

#unknown artist #unknown sitter #hercules posey #george washington #martha washington #museo nacional thyssen bornemisza #oil on canvas #1700s #american #gilbert stuart #madrid #black artistry

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