#but like first was a toothpick of a man trapped in a metal box

[pocketramblr]

yes soft duo holders canon But Also

First: Hey, you extended a hand of help to me even though i’m the brother of your archenemy, that showed a lot of brave faith and optimism

Second: yeah um babe you were literally locked in a vault in his lair tho it was not hard to see you wanted nothing to do with him so i dont think that really reflects on me so much as your brother and he’s my archenemy for a reason

#first: see ur a hero and u can help this spunky boy save that guy my brother's growing out of #second: ok u need to know not even the most hardened pessimistic solider would have seen u as a threat in the vault i rly was not special #kjhghjk its just so funny to me #i know the comparison of extending and taking the hand was of Second To First and Izuku To Shigaraki #and about not judging and condeming based off mere connection to afo #but like first was a toothpick of a man trapped in a metal box #and tomura *is* actively decaying cities and trying to murder basically the entire population of japan so #i feel like second probably could have tried harder to shoot first down #of course he didn't bc hes soft for the love of his life but yeah #bnha manga leaks #bnha manga spoilers

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Haven

Breach Masterlist

Warnings: non/dubcon sex (series), general angst

This is dark!Winter Soldier/Bucky and explicit. 18+ only.

Note: This was already posted on ao3 last week so I’m just putting it here too.

A few familiar characters show up and as for the timeline, as mentioned we're right after it was announced the Berlin Wall would come down, so we're in about 1990 atm. That means certain events in the MCU timeline have changed or haven't even happened!

I won’t demand but do ask for feedback; likes, reblogs, replies, comments, asks, especially on this series, but again, enjoy in your own way! <3 Love you!

Steve asked James, rather this man he called ‘Bucky, if he had a car. You thought it odd since James had sought the man out for help but you trusted that he was cautious enough for the both of you.

You’d left the car a few streets over. You sat in the back with Luka as he began to nod off and James drove as Steve gave directions. You hugged your son anxiously and inhaled the scent of his unwashed hair. You hoped you would have a bed for the night, if you were fortunate, a shower.

The street lights cast shadows on the men in the front as the New York streets passed by. Even a soviet-born Russian like yourself marveled at the infamous city. Never in all your life had you expected to end up there.

“You don’t live in Brooklyn?” James asked as his gripped the steering wheel.

“I do. Bought mom’s old place,” Steve answered, “But I can’t take you there, Buck.”

James was silent. He sighed as you pondered this friend’s name for him. ‘Bucky’. It sounded odd and didn’t seem to fit the man you knew. And yet, like much of his character, it confounded you. Perhaps it suited him after all.

“Not because of you, but to protect you,” Steve intoned. “Same reason we didn’t take my car.”

“Protect me?” James peeked in the rear view mirror as you stared at his silhouette.

“I’ll explain when we’re standing still,” Steve said curtly as he brushed back his hair with his fingers.

“Right,” James said grimly. “How ya doin’ back there?”

“Fine,” You answered in Russian without thinking. He nodded and continued on.

Silence pervaded the cramped space of the Chrysler as Steve pointed James down the next street. Luka’s soft snores floated around you and warmed your chest as he leaned against you. You dared to hope that you might sleep that night.

James pulled into an underground garage next to a high rise. The two men climbed out of the front seat and James opened the door for you and took Luka gently into his arms. The boy didn’t stir as he was cradled against his father. You stepped out into the smelly garage and Steve waved you onward.

He led you up a staircase and past several business housed in the building above. He stopped at an unmarked metal door one would assume was a utility closet and shoved a key in the slot. He opened it carefully and ushered you inside. The door closed heavily behind him as he flipped the lights on.

Within was a small living space that surprised you. There was a sofa, chair, a single bed in the corner, and a smaller door just beside the narrow counter along the wall. There was a square table at the far end with a boxy computer and an old telephone. James’s eyes scanned the room as if searching for some trap.

“A safehouse for now,” Steve explained. “This is my Plan B but haven’t had to use it so far.”

“Plan B for what?” James hissed.

“Just in case,” Steve shrugged. “It’s safe here, besides.” He strode past the couch and turned back. “This folds out.”

James nodded and crossed to the small bed in the corner. He sat as he laid Luka down and slipped him beneath the quilt. He touched his cheek before he parted and stood to face his old friend. Steve looked between the two of you.

“So, I take it you two met in Russia?” Steve chuckled. “You know, that’s a long way to go for a wife, Buck.”

James said nothing as he tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. The phone rang and Steve flinched as he grabbed it before the second chime. He put it to his ear and listened. He replied with two short words; “Eagle. Demo.”

The line clicked loudly from the mouthpiece and Steve replaced the phone in its cradle.

“We have tonight,” Steve stated as he leaned against the table and crossed his arms. “You can rest. Get clean up in the shower,” He nodded towards the other door, “There’s food in the cupboard. Basic rations but we’ll get better tomorrow.”

“Then what?” James asked sharply. “We go to S.H.I.E.L.D.? That’s who you’re with, right?”

“I am and I’m not,” Steve answered. “But the important thing is I know people who can keep you safe.”

“Safe? Do you even know what we’re running from?” Bucky sneered.

“Not hard to guess,,” Steve tilted his head and sniffed. “Buck, do you have any idea how unbelievable this is? That you’re still alive? How much of a relief it is?” He dropped his arms and pushed himself away from the table. He crossed to James and clapped his shoulder, “Bucky.”

The other man winced and grabbed Steve’s hand. He pushed it away and held up his own. He slowly rolled his glove up his palm and slid free his fingers. He turned his metal hand in show and lowered it in shame.

“Can’t say they never gave me any gifts,” James uttered, “Though I would say I paid for it.”

Steve frowned as he watched James’ hand then looked him in the eye.

“Well, good thing I didn’t say anything about finding you in one piece,” Steve scoffed.

“Ha,” James snorted and shook his head. “You promise your friends are gonna play nice?”

“You trust me?” Steve challenged.

“Always,” James avowed.

“They’ll play nice.” Steve assured him, “But you know it’s not that simple.”

“I know,” James grumbled as Steve brushed by him and went to the door, “But I’m not worried about me.” He paused and looked at you, then Luka, “You understand?”

“I do. You know we’ve always been as good as family, Buck.”

“That was a long time ago,” James insisted. “A different life.”

“Yeah,” Steve rested his hand on the door handle. “But we’re not so different.” Steve smiled and peered past James, “It was nice to meet you.” He opened the door slowly as he spoke. “You two have a good night. Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

Steve shut the door behind him as he stepped out into the hallway. The door locked from the other side and James stared at the metal barrier. You stood behind him, still, silent, watching as he hung his head. You neared the couch and sat.

“James,” You said gently, “You are going to sit and tell me who Bucky is and how he knows Steve Rogers.”

James turned and swallowed as he looked at you. He approached reluctantly and sat beside you. He leaned back and gripped his thighs as if to brace himself. His fingers danced on his knee anxiously and he nodded.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Rogers is my best friend. We served together in Europe. We grew up together in Brooklyn. He was this kid, used to wear newspapers in his shoes, built like a toothpick. His mother, Sarah, was his only family besides me. But that was before I died in the war; before I was the Soldat…”

✰

James let you have the foldout couch to yourself. You were unused to the emptiness beside you but you hadn’t the heart to move Luka as he dozed soundly. James took his usual spot on the floor.  He slept with his back against the door though you doubted he actually got much rest. You woke often and looked at him, sometimes his head slumped down, and others he seemed to stare endlessly into the dark.

James roused first and you sat up as you heard him open the cupboard. You grumbled and stripped the thin mattress before folding it away. You left the thin blankets in the chair as James turned on the single burner on the counter. He set the kettle atop it and turned to face you.

“Tea?” He asked. You nodded as he leaned against the counter.

Luka slept on and you let him until a knock came at the door and woke him. As James set out two mugs of steaming tea, three short raps came and had him frozen. He motioned for you to stay back as he neared the door and you went to Luka as he rubbed his eyes and sat up in confusion.

James unlocked the door and inched it open. His shoulders dropped and he stepped back to let Steve in. Another man followed him and James quickly stiffened. The man strode haughtily inside, his silver hair combed back neatly, as he wore a tailored suit that bespoke of money.

“Howard,” James greeted the strange man with a grimace. The door closed heavily and pierced the tension between them. “Why’s he here?”

“He’s a friend. A real friend.” Steve said.

You helped Luka out of bed and sat him at the table with the box of tea biscuits you found in the cupboard.

“Don’t be rude, James,” You managed in your best English, “You ask if they want tea.”

“James,” The man he called Howard chuckled.

James sighed. “Do you want tea?” He asked tersely.

“We’re good,” Howard answered with a smirk. “So, I think my first question is where they came from?” He pointed at you and Luka. “Lucky the kid looks like his mom.”

“Really, Steve? This jackass.”

“Buck, you don’t understand. S.H.I.E.L.D., it’s not… not safe. There're approximately three people you can trust in this country and we’re two of them.” Steve insisted.

“Three? Who’s the third?”

“Peggy,” Steve replied curtly. “Everyone else, well, we’ve figured there hand-in-hand with the bastards who chased you here.”

“Hydra?” James asked, Steve nodded. “They’re here? Where?”

“Calm down,” Howard strolled around the room as he felt around in his jacket. “We’ll fill you in once you do the same for us.” The man stopped beside Luka and pulled out a bill. “Here, kid, maybe later you’re mother can take you out to buy some candy.”

Luka’s eyes rounded at the money and you nodded to him. “What do you say, mishka?”

“Thank you, sir,” He smiled and accepted the money.

“You didn’t have to--” You said as Howard grinned.

“Got a boy myself. Bit older but I miss when he was smaller. Easier to handle.” He said. “And I’m fairly sure those cookies are well past stale.”

“So it’s just the three of you? Against Hydra?” James interjected. “You really think you can help me?”

“We have safeguards,” Howard turned back. “And it’s better to keep enemies close.”

“Not Hydra,” James’ hands balled into fists. “You don’t understand--”

“No, but we want to try.” Howard neared him. “Look, I’d say that kid is what? Four? Five? And there was a certain Soviet assassin that just up and disappeared as many years ago. A certain experiment abandoned after its perpetrators were slaughtered… think maybe you can fill in the details?”

James paled and looked to you. His eyes fell to Luka and he blinked. “Not in front of the kid.” He glanced at Steve pleadingly. “I’ll talk,” James snarled, “Just… the boy. He can’t--” He took a breath. “Come on, Howard. You said you had a son, too. Please.”

“It’s early, we don’t have to get into it right now,” He raised his hand defensively. “I just needed to know that I was right.”

“And I need to know that you’re gonna keep them safe. I don’t care about me, but they didn’t do anything.” James stepped closer to the man until they were chest to chest. “You swear to me that they’re safe and I will tell you everything.”

“Mother knows something too, she must,” Howard said.

“I tell you,” You stood and squeezed Luka’s shoulder before you left him. “But as James say, not in front of boy.”

Howard considered you then turned back to James. “We’ll move you tonight. Bigger place, much nicer too. Then, we’ll have a long debriefing.” He turned to Steve and checked his watch. “You keep them here until I can get it sorted out. You know the rules.”

“Got it,” Steve said. “And Peggy?”

“One thing at a time,” Howard said as he went to the door, “As far as she’s concerned, you took the day off.”

#bucky barnes #Winter Soldier #dark winter soldier #dark!wintersoldier #bucky barnes x reader #fic #series #breach #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #Steve Rogers

[kellbellsparkles]

Chapter 1 of my new Ratchet and Clank fanfic I call "Family". Clank and Rivet have built in mini Dimensionators so they can travel freely only between the two dimensions.

In the present day, Ratchet and Clank hopped over to Rivet and Kit's dimension to explore their version of Veldin. The night was bright with bustling buildings and night goers looking for a good time.

"This is seriously Veldin?" Ratchet remarked in awe. "I mean, I haven't been back to mine in a long time, but it's always had this open, dusty frontier field; the kind of dusty where kids could stand by tumbleweeds and look cool with their toothpicks and cowboy hats."

"You can thank my Nefarious for that," Rivet said. "It's the one thing that everybody can't just let go of."

"It makes sense if it is all they have ever known," Clank said.

"Along with being able to document history as he saw fit," Kit added.

"Do you know who will be in charge of the new era, Rivet?" Clank asked.

"I haven't bothered paying attention to all that," she replied while shrugging. "I'm all about the here and now." She beamed suddenly. "And here we are now!"

They arrived at a tent in between two buildings with purple neon lights. On the flaps was a sign decorated with a martini glass and four rectangles resembling cards.

"Pretty ironic to be coming to a fortune telling booth with bar," Ratchet said.

"Hey," Rivet said defensively. "Jarmin has never given a fortune that didn't come true. You want to know if you're gonna win the lottery too, right?"

"Now that I think about it," Clank said. "Receiving a fortune is much like playing the lottery. We pick any card from the fortune teller's hand or from the top of their deck depending on their dealing preference--"

"The door isn't opening itself, Bolts," Rivet cut in. She swung the flaps open. "Come on!"

The crew entered the tent. Inside was space to have a fully functioning bar. At the center were four place mats and a deck of cards. The owner, Jarmin, was a fongoid.

"Party of four today?" He asked.

"Yup," Rivet said. As she reached for her wallet, Jarmin raised his hand.

"It's on the house for your great service for ending the now former emperor Nefarious," he said.

"Really??" Rivet squealed. "I love you, man! I'll take a kick some sass with a drop of smash gin!"

"How about the rest of you?" Jarmin offered.

"Nah," Ratchet said, shaking his head. "I'm still new to this world."

"I do not drink," Clank added.

"Obviously," Rivet retorted.

"That is actually not correct," Kit said. "Robots can enjoy variants and equivalents of food and drink."

"But it's not like you NEED it. You and Clank don't use the bathroom."

Clank blinked curiously.

"I was not aware I needed to," he said.

"You don't," Ratchet assured. Clank tilted his head.

"Do I want to?"

"No." He patted his head gently, his eyes showing concern. He turned to Rivet, desperate to change the subject.

"So who gets the first card?"

Rivet put her hand behind Kit and ushered her forward.

"It's all you, Kitty," she said with confidence.

"Me?" Kit croaked. "But why? And why Kitty?"

"You'll get used to it. Now draw a card."

Kit shakily reached for the deck. Hesitating, she drew her arm back and looked down at the floor.

"What if it's a bad fortune?" she said with a frightened tone.

"Kitty, Kitty," Rivet said in a consoling tone. "If you get a bad fortune, all you gotta do is get it done and over with and then you'll have good things in life immediately after. Isn't that right, Jarmin?"

"It's what brings people back," he cheered as he brought Rivet her drink. "Here you are, honey." Rivet gave him a wink, a smile, and a pointed finger snap in response. Kit took a deep breath.

"Okay," she said. "I am going to do it." Her legs trembled as she took small steps towards the card deck.

"We're right behind you, Kit," Ratchet said gently.

Hearing her friend's belief in her, she stood firmly and nodded. She stood directly in front of the deck and placed her hand on the top card.

"Please do not be death or causing death," she whispered as she closed her eyes. With all her courage, she grabbed a card and held it in the air in a dramatic fashion. She stayed in the pose for a good few seconds.

"What does it say?" Clank asked.

"Oh no," Kit moaned. "Is it blank?"

"We can't see," Ratchet said. "You need to turn it around and show us."

Kit turned her whole body around with her eyes still closed.

"You need to see it yourself, too, silly goose," Rivet chuckled.

"Oh," Kit said, embarrassed. She opened her eyes and brought the card down to her level. She turned it over to see what it showed.

"Do you like what you see?" Rivet asked with a smooth grin.

"I think so," Kit responded. "It's a heart."

"The heart card means you'll be unconditionally loved for all time," Jarmin chimed.

"Awwww," Ratchet cooed. "You see, Kit?"

Kit's metal lips quivered. She burst into sobs and ran into Ratchet's arms.

"What did I do to deserve iiiiiiiiit?" she wailed.

"Of course you deserve it," Ratchet said happily, patting her back. "You're wonderful."

"My turn!" Rivet shouted, scrambling towards the deck with her drink in her hand. "Let's keep the good vibes going!" She drew the card swiftly as she took a sip. Once she took a look, her eyes gaped in horror. She spat the contents of her drink onto the card.

"Aw no!" she hollered. "No, no, NO!! Absolutely not!" She made an attempt to draw another card.

"Ah, ah, ah," Jarmin said sternly. "Only one card per customer, and you'll have to pay for the next visit."

"Dammit, Jarmin!" Rivet cried. "You can't do this to me!!"

"What's wrong, Rivet?" Ratchet asked with worried. Rivet slammed the card in front of her crew; they leaned in for a closer look.

"It looks like a stork carrying something in a white cloth," Kit said.

"I have heard of this phenomenon," Clank said. He clapped his hands cheerfully. "How exciting. You are being given a baby."

"There's nothing exciting about it!!" Rivet exclaimed angrily. "Babies are the leeches of society: they get in the way of a good night's sleep, having fun, and they poop something extraterrestrial!! And when they get older, they destroy everything they set their sights on and speak their own babbly language we only nod and pretend to understand!!"

"On the contrary," Jarmin interjected. "The stork card doesn't mean you'll have a baby. At least not right away. It mostly means that you'll make a great mother one day."

"But I don't want to be a mom," Rivet whined. "Why do women have to be engineered to be birth machines?"

"What is a birth machine?" Clank asked innocently. The room grew silent; Rivet stared at Clank, completely dumbfounded.

"Are you serious?" she snapped light. Kit stood in front of her, desperately waving her arms in the air to gesture silence.

"I-It's where the stork picks up the baby to be delivered," Ratchet stammered nervously.

"Oh my," Clank gasped. "So babies do come from genetic modifying pods. The little kids from the playground were right!"

"Yup!" Ratchet squeaked. "Kids sure are smarter than we give them credit for!" Rivet rolled her eyes.

"Overprotective much?" she said under her breath.

"I guess it's my turn now!" Ratchet exclaimed, desperate to draw the focus back to the cards again. He drew his card; he looked it over from top to bottom.

"Huh," he said, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What's this mean?" On his card was a lock box with something inside writing to get out.

"That's the trap card," Jarmin responded. "It means something is trapping you or you will be trapped by something." Ratchet's face fell.

"Oh," he said softly, his ears drooping slightly. "I feel a little attacked there."

"It will be alright, Ratchet," Clank said suddenly, coming to his rescue with a hand hold. "These cards do not have a time limit, and ultimately, we will have good fortune. We will all be here for one another." Ratchet sighed and gave a soft smile.

"Thanks, pal," he said.

"As always, Ratchet," Clank replied. He lightly skipped to the deck of cards. "Now, let us see what my fortune is." He drew a card from the deck. He turned it over and glanced with great intrigue.

"Oooooo," he said, eyes wide with wonder. However, Kit's eyes were filled with great fear as she held her hands over her mouth to conceal a yell. Rivet froze mid sip of her drink. Jarmin shuddered and bowed his head, doing a prayer motion with his hands. Ratchet was unaware of his surroundings and continued to be drawn by his friend's curiosity.

"It's blank," he said.

"It appears so," Clank replied. "This must mean there are an infinite amount of possibilities for me; so many unknowns."

"Wow, pal!" Ratchet beamed. "I think you and Kit are the big lottery winners tonight!" He stood up and stretched. "I'm ready to head back if you are." Clank trotted to Ratchet and hopped onto his back.

"Thank you again, Rivet and Kit," Clank said. I never could have imagined us acting as conduits for transporting between our dimensions without your suggestion."

As they left the tent, all Rivet, Kit, and Jarmin could do was watch them with sinking feelings in their stomachs.

"Are we really just going to let them be?" Kit shakily questioned.

"It could be what Clank said about being left up to interpretation," Rivet nervously suggested. "Right, Jarmin?"

"The fortunes depicted in the cards have always come true," he said grimly. "Orvus, have mercy." Rivet and Kit looked at each other with great uncertainty and dread.

#ratchet and clank #ratchet and clank rift apart

[elwenyere]

Deck the Halls

(Steve/Tony fluff, in which the Avengers make their own holiday decorations, and it goes about as well as you would expect)

Also on AO3

“Okay,” Tony said, “I am willing to admit that putting repulsors on the Iron Man ornaments was not my best idea.”

He paused to duck as a pillow, half a molasses crinkle, and what looked suspiciously like a tranquilizer dart flew at him from three different locations in the Avengers common room.

“But I maintain,” he continued from behind the couch, “that the underlying principle of the design is both technologically sound and aesthetically adorable. Also, refs, can I get a rule check on ‘no using knock-out techniques on your teammates’?”

“If I wanted you knocked out, you’d be dreaming of sugar plums right now,” Natasha called out from somewhere behind a makeshift barricade of packages and wrapping-paper rolls. One of the tiny Iron Men buzzed over her head, sending a barrage of dime-sized repulsor blasts at a Rudolph gift bag, and Natasha shot the ornament out of the air with her Widow’s Bites.

“Also, calling in the refs is a pretty bold move,” Bruce added, “considering that the miniature murder bots guarding our Christmas tree are in flagrant violation of rules ten through fifteen.”

Bruce’s voice was slightly distorted by the walls of his blanket fort, which Steve had suggested building as an anti-Hulking measure when the first wave of ornaments flew off their branches and into attack formation. So far the strategy had proved successful, with only one close call after Thor almost collided with the fort during an enthusiastic mid-air tackle.

“Remind me never to do holiday dinners with you guys again,” Rhodey groaned. He was crouched next to Tony behind the couch opposite Steve’s, and Steve could hear the faint whir of the War Machine gauntlet as he scanned the room. “I could be falling asleep on my couch to the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and instead I’m hiding from an army of weaponized Christmas figurines.”

“When you’re subpoenaed for the inevitable senate hearing about this, just remember: it was all Steve’s fault,” Tony advised.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Steve replied, adding an eye roll that he knew Tony would hear in his voice.

It was true that Steve had been the one to suggest that they make their own decorations for the Tower this year. But it was also true that Steve’s contribution (a hand-drawn series of family holiday cards to hang on the fridge) had been the only one that hadn’t tended to produce chaos. Thor and Natasha’s idea to braid garlands had started out innocently enough. But then they’d decided to add “motivational mead” to the creative process. Ten hours later, they’d produced so many strings of spruce, holly, and taffeta that the garlands had to be looped around every available surface, twisting around lamps and chair legs until the common room looked like it was being slowly strangled to death by a festive boa constrictor. Bruce – in a complete failure to learn from the previous Halloween’s Saltwater Taffy Incident – had concocted a spiced eggnog so addictively good that each new batch he made disappeared almost immediately – setting off a cycle of recrimination and dairy-based hoarding. And Clint had stayed true to form by making an extremely explicit, themed pin-up calendar of himself, which had been quickly banned from all common areas by a 4-2 vote (“I think these poses are courageous,” Thor had explained, “considering your very small human sizes”).

“Blame is assigned by the survivors, Stark,” Natasha said evenly. Her face darted into view at one end of her barricade, next to a box wrapped in “Hulk Smash!” paper. “And if we don’t get these ornaments contained before Bruce’s chocolate pecan pie has to come out of the oven, I can’t guarantee that anyone in this room will qualify.”

“How many left, JARVIS?” Tony asked.

“Just three, sir,” the crisp voice replied. “And my sensors indicate they are all locked in a standoff with the large stuffed hedgehog on the lower floor.”

“Do I have to ask?” Rhodey muttered.

“It’s for Pepper,” Tony explained, “a running gag: she thinks it’s hilarious.”

“We should set a trap to draw out the remaining ornaments,” Steve decided. “I want eyes on the perimeter – where the hell is Clint anyway?”

As if on cue, a grappling arrow shot across the room and latched onto the side of a container of eggnog. The metal wire attached to the hook pulled taut and then retracted with a sharp twang, yanking the eggnog over their heads and back into the air vent.

“You have a problem, man!” Rhodey yelled after Clint’s feet as they slithered away from the opening in the ducts. “Get help!”

“Ah that gives me an idea!” Thor exclaimed. He popped his head up from behind the kitchen counter, where he had apparently been braiding one of the garlands into his hair. “The tiny Iron Soldiers seem determined to guard the spirit of the holidays. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage.”

“Right,” Tony agreed, “cover me.”

He stood up and strode toward the Christmas tree, gauntlet charging.

“Come out, my tiny, murderous robot sons,” Tony called, “or I’m going to turn your favorite tree into a pile of toothpicks.”

“Did you actually equip them with audio sensors? Or are you just grandstanding?” Rhodey asked.

“Kind of stepping on my moment here, Gumdrop,” Tony replied.

And whether it was because the ornaments had somehow sensed a threat to the tree or because they had successfully subdued all the stuffed animals in the vicinity, Steve’s ears suddenly picked up the low whine that meant hostile décor was incoming. As Tony held his position, Steve saw Natasha, Rhodey, and Thor leap out from cover and take aim at the three diminutive Iron Men that were shooting toward their creator’s head.

“Tony!” Steve yelled, and Tony let out a small yelp of surprise as Steve tackled him sideways onto the couch. Steve curled his body protectively around Tony’s, and he threw up his shield just in time to shelter them from the disintegrated ornaments, which fell like a shower of harmless glitter into a halo around their heads.

Steve cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks flush slightly as a chunk of armor the size of a pea pattered onto the couch next to them with a barely audible fizzle.

“My hero,” Tony smirked.

“A bit overdramatic, Rogers,” Thor observed.

“Ooooooh, Captain America!” Clint called in a high-pitched voice from a nearby vent. “You’re so dreamy. Will you sign my chest?”

A chorus of boos and a smattering of tossed cookies followed Clint’s laughing retreat back through the ducts.

“So I’m thinking the Mark II ornaments should come with a fail-safe button,” Tony mused, looking up at Steve with his head still resting in the crook of Steve’s arm.

“Tony,” Steve sighed.

“What?” Tony asked with exaggerated innocence. “I have models for the whole team. There’s even a little Cap ornament with magnets for the hug and fly.”

Steve chewed his bottom lip.

“Are you trying not to smile?” Tony asked.

“I’m trying to contain my disapproval,” Steve replied.

“You’re trying not to smile,” Tony confirmed. “Let it out, Steve. I’m objectively delightful.”

“You’re objectively a threat to national security,” Steve retorted.

“Yeah, and you love it,” Tony nodded. “That’s like…your number one turn on.”

Steve finally allowed a smile to spread across his face. In the part of his mind that was always scanning his periphery, he was aware of Natasha helping Bruce out of his blanket fort and picking a piece of lint out of his hair – her hand lingering a little longer than necessary as Bruce assured her he had a backup pie in the fridge. Rhodey and Thor were loudly concocting plans to smoke Clint out (and pointedly ignoring Clint’s own contributions from the vent above them). And in the center, as always, was Tony, who was grinning victoriously as he took in Steve’s expression.

“You’re right,” Steve told him. “I do love you.”

Tony's smile froze in momentary surprise and then softened.

“This is how you want to say that for the first time?” he asked teasingly, his hands coming up to brush at Steve’s sides just above the hem of his jeans. “On the couch, surrounded by our catcalling friends and the scorched remains of the homicidal holiday ornaments I created?”

“Yep,” Steve answered, leaning down to kiss Tony’s forehead. “I love that you make messes,” a kiss on the right cheek, “I love that you invite messes to move in,” a kiss on the left cheek, “I love that since I met you, you’ve made every mess of mine your mess too,” a final kiss – as gentle as Steve could make it – on Tony’s lips. “I love you, Tony.”

He pulled back so he could look into Tony’s eyes and watch the rapid play of emotion across his face – always too fast to track.

“I love you too, you big sap,” Tony replied, and as the team whooped and set off a round of Christmas crackers, he pulled Steve back down by the front of his Iron Man sweater.

#stony #stevetony #stony fanfiction #festive ficlet #avengers as family #domestic avengers #avengers tower #this got a little cracky #they're human disasters your honor #happy holidays #thank you for reading

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Worthless, 8: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.

A box of odd beads that bear no resemblance to eyes, yet always seem to watch the nearest creature.

A wanted poster that bears the face of a terrified elf. The reward is not listed.

A bright orange, ceramic throwing star that will always miss its target.

A small pair of scissors that only cut eyebrow hair.

A glass bottle filled with multiple layers of differently-colored sand.

A dried leaf that is entirely unaffected by any sort of natural wind or breeze.

A shirt button that changes shape every day.

A map with vague directions to an abandoned gnome's house.

A small wooden box that contains a single, worn thimble.

A 1’ x 2’ sheet of white canvas upon which the words “SUFFERING IS NOT ART!” are written and underlined in blood.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A box of odd beads that bear no resemblance to eyes, yet always seem to watch the nearest creature.

A wanted poster that bears the face of a terrified elf. The reward is not listed.

A bright orange, ceramic throwing star that will always miss its target.

A small pair of scissors that only cut eyebrow hair.

A glass bottle filled with multiple layers of differently-colored sand.

A dried leaf that is entirely unaffected by any sort of natural wind or breeze.

A shirt button that changes shape every day.

A map with vague directions to an abandoned gnome's house.

A small wooden box that contains a single, worn thimble.

A 1’ x 2’ sheet of white canvas upon which the words “SUFFERING IS NOT ART!” are written and underlined in blood.

A mouthpiece for an unknown musical instrument.

A single newt's eye in a glass jar.

A small jar of nails that can only be driven by a glass hammerhead.

A small jar of glass nails that can only be driven by a cold iron hammerhead.

A sword scabbard that's filled to the brim with tiny wooden swords.

A fine, leather pouch that contains exactly 248 smooth stone pebbles.

A thin sheet of cooking paper that's been folded into a swan.

A decaying wooden knife inscribed by a child that reads "The Ultimate Blade of Destruction".

An old doll wooden doll in rotting knit clothing. The doll's eyes seem to follow the creature closest to it and people who sleep near it regularly suffer from nightmares

A sickly green humanoid bone.

An odd metal cog that spins on its own every so often.

A small wooden carving that depicts a naked goblin scratching his hindquarters.

A small dull dagger that refuses to sharpen.

A rusted coin that slowly absorbs oil it comes into contact with.

A long letter of complaint addressed to a school teacher criticizing his methods and general personality.

A glass jar containing a dozen folded paper frogs.

A small jar of hard candies that taste of sour apples and never seems to go bad.

A small doll with a cloak and toy dagger attached. On the back of the doll, the letters "TDG" are written.

A drinking horn with an odd rune carved on it.

A tiny pink bottle that smells of roses when it is empty.

A wooden carving of an orc doing a handstand.

A small twig that doubles as the perfect toothpick, no matter who uses it.

A gnome's hair brush.

A small painting of a horse's rear end.

A cork for an old wine bottle that won't fit in any other bottle.

A small pot of horse glue that says “NOT FOOD, SERIOUSLY” on the side.

A bamboo scroll tube containing a legal and notarized deed for a house whose address doesn't exist.

A dagger made of folded parchment, that could at best give someone a paper cut.

A wooden box containing twelve matching pieces of broccoli that have somehow remained fresh.

A bar of soap that smells like rotten meat.

A key that breaks the first time it’s used in a lock. To add insult to injury, it doesn't open the lock.

A tin of makeup that's just the most absurd shade of orange.

A magically preserved apple that tastes like an orange.

A letter from an unknown sender that simply reads, “I told you so!”. The return address is plainly labeled “Feywild”.

An undersized wooden backscratcher, for use by gnomes.

A tattered blacksmith cap full of red dwarf hair.

A small roll of leather that's been cured with giant urine.

The hollowed-out shell of a large hermit crab.

A crudely made treasure map that leads to a beggar's dandelion garden.

A small blue stone that feels like silk to the touch.

A pocket multitool with only one tool remaining in it. The remaining tool is a magnifying glass that has the words "Find the rest of me." inscribed on it.

A wooden scroll case filled with fine ash. The top of the lid sports a tiny iron spike that may have triggered some sort of combustable trap.

A fist sized bar of harsh lye soap

A homemade pan flute consisting of a dozen reeds of gradually increasing length held together by vines and dried grasses. Despite its crude origins it plays quite nicely

A dog muzzle made out of leather and steel with adjustable straps that allow it to fit most medium and large canines.

A brown leather hawk's hood that's used to keep the birds docile during periods when they are not hunting or resting.

A ceremonial headdress of similar make to one of the local barbarian tribes, with the exception that it is made entirely out of steel wiring and tin spoons. You’re not sure if this is some sort of artistic interpretation, strange inside joke or weird form of insult.

A preserved, hollowed out corpse of a Flumphling stuffed with sage.

A metal flask containing a thick concoction that smells dark and musty, like a forest after heavy rains.

An unremarkable spoon fashioned from horn.

A thick, heavily padded leather and burlap sleeve made to fit over the bearer's arm and serves as a target for animals being trained to attack.

A sealed one gallon cask of Bufo, a favorite drink of goblins, boggards, and other primitive humanoids. It is made by soaking a poisonous toad or frog (Or its eggs) in weak beer or by “milking” these animals for their poison and mixing it with the beer (Allows the animal to be used repeatedly). Some tribes use wide-mouthed jugs and leave the dead animal inside as a crunchy treat for eating once the drink is gone.

A sealed one gallon cask of luglurch ale. This pale frothy beer is found by most races to be too salty to swallow, with the exception of halfings who find it an acquired taste

A clockwork blue bird that emits a horrendous screeching sound when it is wound up.

A musty smelling, threadbare, grey towel that never completely dries. If someone attempts to dry themselves with it, they will develop a mildewy smell exactly like the towel until the creature takes bathes and dries off with a proper towel. 

A purple ring box that croaks like a frog when opened. It is lined with lime green satin on the inside and smells of a swamp.

An old black cord with three matching light blue buttons, strung on it, all about the size of a gold piece.

A large piece of parchment with a tea stain in the shape of a kitten.

A rolled up parchment with a sketching of the ugliest Dwarven baby the bearer has ever laid eyes on. 

A beat up, wooden compass that always points towards the bearer, never north.

A plain, wooden footstool about six inches high, with a round top about 18 inches across.

A crude, 500 piece puzzle that appears to be a treasure map, but 100 of pieces in the middle that show the specific coordinates and details of the treasure are missing

A thick braided cord made of dark leather, hanging from which is a giant's toenail reeking of cheese.

A voodoo doll of a young man that's missing it's head.

A small jar of chocolate cookies that cannot be opened or broken.

A set of crooked and yellowed dentures with teeth missing.

A dictionary with over half of the words spelled wrong and out of alphabetical order.

A brass chamber pot that was not thoroughly cleaned since its last use.

A wooden scroll tube containing the blueprints of a church that has long since collapsed.

A faux-distressed piece of parchment that is a crude map of the local area, with red circles and arcane gibberish scrawled on it. Intentionally made to look old and worn, it’s actually a simple piece of parchment that’s been singed, crumpled, and rolled in the dirt. It's obviously meant as bait to lure creatures into an ambush it appears that whatever dimwitted humanoid authored this had a very poor knowledge of spelling and grammar. Any literate creature who so much as glances at it can identify the map as a fake.

A plain thimble, with absolutely nothing particularly interesting about it.

A crude earring made from a tiny tooth, wrapped in thin twine.

A formal letter that is badly seared and charred. It’s impossible to decipher because of the damage.

A small blue candle that smells of fruit. It’s fragrance is weak and barely noticeable.

An assortment of pieces from cracked eggshells. Most are a pale creamy color, like the egg of a chicken. Some larger pieces are a deep purple.

A porcelain doll about the length of a human’s index finger. The face is chipped away.

A black flask with a gaping hole in its side. It’s covered in punctures that look like bite marks.

A silky cloth fraying quite badly around its edges. It’s almost reflective in its lustrous sheen.

A smooth, round stone about the size of a human fist. It feels oddly heavy.

A set of three clay dice, painted with black pips.

A chunk of rusted metal covered in dents.

A somewhat oval-shaped… thing. You think it might be really, really, really stale bread.

A pair of glasses whose frames look as good as new, but the lenses are stained, cloudy, and cracked.

A trio of matching bracelets, made from knotted thread. You’re almost certain there’s supposed to be four of them.

A hollow reed that creates a low, soft whistle when blown.

A hand sized figurine of a cat, perpetually coated in a layer of dust.

A waterskin filled with a slick, greasy oil. Patterns of snakes cover its sides.

A single tile that appears like it was from some type of mosaic mural. It’s a dull green in color.

A pouch of bitter tea leaves. Their aftertaste is unsatisfying and almost sour.

A jagged arrowhead, cracked into a shape reminiscent of a fox’s head.

#d&d #dnd #d&d 3.5 #d&d 4e #d&d 5e #d&d homebrew #d&d 5e homebrew #loot #custom loot #loot generator #random loot table #pathfinder #trinkets #roleplaying #rpg #dungeons and dragons #dungeon master #dm #d&d ideas #treasure #treasure table #d&d resources #tabletop homebrew #junk loot #vendor trash

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Folklore Friday

I’m in a more humorous mood, and this particular prompt still amuses me, so we’re back to revisit the adventures of the giant Thunderboots, his darling wife Peony, and their very unexpected house guest Jack. Apologies to mobile users since mobile doesn't keep the read more for some reason

____________________________________________

Now, there are several very good reasons not to antagonize a giant.

You might get stepped on and flattened, for one.

It’s also not particularly neighborly to go rifling through someone else’s belongings.

Or hiding in their cheese.

But Jack was a somewhat impulsive boy.

He was also not named Jack.

It hadn’t seemed particularly wise to give a giant his name, and he’d just gone for the most common boys’ name in the village where he’d grown up. Every fourth kid was named Jack, regardless of gender, thanks to the village being founded by some giant-killing tailor who bore the name. And anyway, it was better than Runt, which was what most people called him.

While the giant and his wife had been discussing what to do with him, Jack had decided that he had no intention of sticking around to see if he was going to get his bones ground up to make flour. Which, frankly, sounded disgusting.

He’d grabbed a gigantic toothpick from the table for balance, and eased over the edge. It was far enough of a drop that landing would almost certainly have broken some bones. Luckily, the table legs were carved with enough edges and ledges that he could climb down with little difficulty. So long as he didn’t look over his shoulder, he was fine.

Jack ran off in the opposite direction of the giants’ feet, and it was a testament to their distraction that they didn’t see which way he went, considering the distance he had to cover just to get to the hallway. In fact, by the time he was out of the dining room, the boy was completely out of breath and sorely regretting his life choices. That was when the giants seemed to notice his absence, and there was a noisy clatter as they left their chairs and utensils behind.

“Oh bother,” said the giant man, “Now where’s he got to?”

Jack dove for a wide crack under a door some twelve feet away. It was only just large enough for him to roll under, but not without the accompanying fear of getting stuck. He waited next to the door for a moment, listening, but it sounded as though the giants were searching the dining room first. Jack quickly decided that he didn’t want to get smashed by a door opening, and scurried into the center of the room.

It looked like a mess. Stacks of things like pretty baskets and odd looking mirrors littered one corner, and another held four chests of drawers stacked precariously on top of each other. There were multiple chests as tall as oak trees, holding unknown contents, and large sacks containing who-knew-what. It looked, Jack thought, like the storeroom in the castle of the baron whose cook had hired him for a night or two to clean dishes. Perhaps it was a storeroom. Unfortunately, nothing there looked small enough for him to carry out. But fortunately, there were a great many places to hide.

“Come on out, little one,” the giant woman called from nearer to the door, “It’s no good running of like that, you’re bound to get hurt in a place like this!”

Jack was pretty sure having his bones ground into bread would hurt more.

So he drew his ragged vest a little tighter around him and eased his way into the pile of baskets. Choosing one that had been woven with large openings shaped like stars, he squirmed through the holes and huddled back into the shadows. Of course, there was always the risk that if the other baskets tipped over, he would be crushed. That seemed to be an issue with the majority of the things in this castle. But Jack was expecting that, seeing as it was a giant’s castle.

He held his breath when the door swung open with a low boom.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman,” Thunderboots muttered under his breath -- which was quite loud enough for Jack to hear.

“Oh can you now?” Peony chuckled, passing behind him to examine the cracks in the wall.

“Well, no, I expect that’s just copper deposits in the walls,” Thunderboots amended, “But I’m certain I still smell cheese.”

Jack shut his eyes and listened to the giant rattling around the storeroom, looking over and under things.

“Well I hope the little thief hasn’t come in here,” Thunderboots sighed, “We’d never find him.”

“The library would be worse,” Peony observed. “Lucky for us that’s too far away for someone his size to have gotten to by now.”

She leaned into the room behind her husband. “If you’re in here, little fellow, give a holler, won’t you? Too easy to get trapped in a mess like this.”

Jack, of course, stayed silent.

After a minute or two of fruitless searching, Tom and Peony gave up and went to move on to the next room. “Well, if you change your mind, wherever you are, you can always make some noise,” Tom suggested.

They didn’t shut the door. While that made getting in and out easier, it also made it easier for Jack to be spotted. He didn’t exactly appreciate that. So when he squeezed out of the basket, he kept to the piles of junk, staying out of the open places on the floor. He was halfway around the circumference of the chamber when he heard the music.

It was a harp, sad and sweet and coming from somewhere high over his head. Perhaps it was the stolen golden harp! Jack looked around until he spotted a shelf somewhere above the precarious stack of drawers. Well, there was no harm in looking, was there?

Climbing up the drawers was a nerve-wracking experience. Tiny though he was, even Jack’s weight was enough to rattle the drawers if he moved too quickly. So he took his time, stopping on the ledges jutting out here and there from uneven stacking. At this point, Jack was regretting not having eaten anything other than cheese. He was very tired now, and he didn’t feel especially well. He had a vague idea that if he’d had a mother still, she’d have cautioned him to lie down and wait it out. Perhaps she’d have stroked his hair and said “there there, you’re alright”, too. Someone used to say that to him, he was certain.

Jack waited a while before continuing his climb. It had taken him nearly thirty minutes just to get halfway up, and he curled up on a broad drawer handle for another twenty. Then, when his stomach was not making so many interesting noises, he began to climb again. This time, it was harder. His little arms shook, and his hands were sweaty. His back and shoulders were screaming at him, protesting all the climbing he’d done that day in no uncertain terms. He had to take several more breaks as he neared the top, but after about forty minutes, he dragged himself over the edge and lay on the top of the highest chest, out of breath.

He fought to hoist himself up onto the shelf from there, and it was an arduous task. But at last he’d discovered the source of the music! The golden shape of a faerie girl, a bit older than him by looks, knelt on the shelf. What would have been wings coming out of her back served as the frame of the harp, and the strings were seemingly being plucked and strummed by an invisible hand. Just a little ways down the shelf was a box serving as a nest for the largest goose Jack had ever laid eyes on. It seemed to be about the size of a bear, dozing fitfully as the harp played. Strangely, the goose’s feathers looked metallic and golden.

“Well hello there,” Jack whispered. The harp had to be the one that had been stolen from the prince! He crawled towards the instrument, wondering how heavy it was.

Suddenly, the carved faerie girl’s head rose, and she stared at Jack in shock. “Oh!” she cried out, and the strings struck a sour note.

“Eeh!” Jack squeaked in return, having not anticipated that the harp might be alive.

And that, unfortunately, woke the goose.

Now, some geese are sweet birds, and some geese like to think that they are dragons reborn, here to impose order and terror on the world. The golden goose on the shelf was one of the latter. It rose from its nest, revealing a golden egg underneath it, and hissed menacingly.

“Ohhhh nononono go back to sleep, go to sleep,” the faerie harp sang nervously, clasping her hands together.

The goose bent its head back, then took a step forward. It bobbed its head up and down and then commenced with the most awful racket Jack had ever heard. He covered his ears and winced, which the goose evidently did not like. It flapped its wings with a sound like thunder and began to waddle very aggressively down the shelf towards Jack and the harp.

The goose was so loud that it drowned out most of the other noises nearby. So when there was an exclamation of surprise from down the hall, Jack didn’t hear it.

He squeaked and tried to get out of the way of the angry goose, but there really wasn’t much room on the shelf. His main options were falling off the edge or probably getting all his bones broken by an enraged bear-sized waterfowl.

A shadow fell over him and before he had time to react, Jack was snatched off the shelf and dropped into what felt like some kind of sack. It was rough cloth, and dark, save for the opening at the top he’d been dropped through. Something huge and heavy pressed against one side of his prison, making it difficult to move. On the other side of him, there was a deep drumbeat just loud enough to hear.

Wait. Was that a heartbeat? Was he in a pocket?

Thunderboots kept a hand over his shirt pocket, shielding it, and with his other hand he pinned the goose in place. “Settle down! Settle down, you! Near caused a disaster again, didn’t you? Peony’s right, we’ve got to find a place to put you where you can get some exercise.”

He shook his head and muttered, “Squawking menace, more trouble than ye should be…”

Then he peered down into his pocket. “Alright in there, my boy? That was close, wasn’t it?”

He strolled out of the storeroom, considerably less tense than before. “Found our little cheese-thief, darling!” he called, “Lucy near ate him, but he’s alright!”

Jack couldn’t tell where in the castle they were, or how far away from the entrance it was, but after a few minutes the hand came away from the pocket and he could move again. Jack tried to climb out, only for Thunderboots to catch him at the edge.

“Whoops, watch it,” he warned gruffly, “Don’t want to fall from here, wee man. That’d be a nasty way to go.”

He was in a bedchamber, slightly dusty, next to an ornate dollhouse as big as a regular-sized house to Jack. Jack glared suspiciously at the giant, who offered a smile that would’ve been disarming if not for all the teeth.

“We can’t very well have you running about like this, can we my boy? No, don’t think so. Broken bones, eaten by Lucy, eaten by the cat, oh that’d be much worse -- or stepped on! No, I really don’t think I like the idea of walking about my own house knowing I could accidentally step on a tiny person trying to steal my cheese.” Thunderboots undid a latch and opened the front of the dollhouse. “Peony and me, we’ve been keeping this in case we ever have children. You aren’t exactly the kind of “children” we were thinking of, though, tell you true.”

“Lemme go!” Jack pushed at the giant’s fingers and scowled. “You’re not gonna eat me!”

“I daresay I’m not!” Thunderboots sounded a little offended. “That would be disgusting. Like eating a mouse, probably. Anyway-” he reached in and deposited Jack in one of the dollhouse’s fancy little bedrooms, “Pardon the dust, I’m not especially good at tidying. Peony keeps this little place in pretty good order though. You just sleep off your little adventure, my boy, and tomorrow we’ll decide what we ought to do with you.”

He swung the front of the dollhouse closed again before Jack could make for the edge, and the boy heard the latch click shut.

“There you go, gave you a bit of privacy. You don’t need a lamp on or aught, do you?”

“Why are you so weird?!” Jack burst out. He was fairly certain this was all a trap.

“I dunno,” Tom Thunderboots shrugged. “I’m just me, lad. G’night!”

Well. This was a predicament, wasn’t it?

#thunderboots: hey honey remember when we talked about having kids? #peony: omg tom no put him back #folklore friday #jack and the beanstalk #jack no that is a gigantic goose do not agitate it #fairytales #thunderboots is 97% sure he knows what he's doing #spoilers: thunderboots does not know what he's doing #local giant attempts to dad small trespasser. small trespasser is not pleased #fic prompts #writing prompts #but to be fair: the dollhouse is a decent place to keep him where he can't go break bones by falling for a little while

[pengychan]

[Coco] Heaven and Earth - Niño

Title: Niño.   Summary: As the few years between them seemed to suddenly turn into a lifetime, Héctor wished Ernesto would stop treating him like a child... and that Imelda would glance his way at least once. [He found he really, really wanted to see more of that smile.] Characters: Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Óscar, Felipe

Other fics from the series can be found here.

A/N: Took a while for me to get back to this series - sorry about that! The next parts should come more quickly now. Also, this oneshot references to the events in Revolution, but it's not strictly necessary to read that one.

***

For a time after his first brush with the Revolution, Héctor was unable to sleep at night.

The men he, Ernesto and Imelda had left behind in the hills – dead or dying or stranded – had never returned for revenge. Héctor had dreaded they would for a time and then, when no one had come, the nightmares had: the groans of the wounded, pleas for help gone unanswered, and then bones bleaching under the sun.

He’d woken up screaming a few times, causing his parents to rush in his room, ask if everything was all right, what that had been about. But he couldn’t tell them. He could never tell. He had promised with Ernesto and Imelda they would bring what had happened that night to their graves, and he wouldn’t go back on that promise.

But he so, so wished he could at least talk about it.

Imelda had hardly spoken to either of them in the couple of months since, taken as she was helping her mother raise her younger brothers and provide for them – and maybe, Héctor dared to think, she didn’t want to think about what they’d done, had to do. He would spot her from time to time, in church or at the plaza. Sometimes she’d smile at him; if he was playing, she would hum along as she passed him by… and that was it.

In a way, it was almost a relief. They were bound by something still too raw and terrible for them to talk about, almost strangers as they were; small talk would would feel forced, and Héctor knew that the question - “Do you have nightmares, too?” - would stay stuck in his throat all along. So he would keep playing, smile back, and say nothing.

Talking to Ernesto should be easier, because he had always been there, and yet it was not. Ernesto behaved like nothing had ever happened, as though that night had left no mark on him at all other than the annoyance of having to rebuild his house without counting on any aid from a lame father who now also had a maimed shoulder.

It made Héctor feel as though the few years between them, those years that had made Ernesto the older brother he’d never had, had turned into the chasm of a lifetime. He was still a boy who had yet to turn fourteen, calling out for his parents to help him against night terrors while Ernesto, at seventeen, seemed more and more like a grown man.

“Don’t you ever have nightmares?” Héctor asked once, during a quiet moment, after he’d helped Ernesto rebuild part of the porch. They were sitting in the shade of a tree, and Ernesto had taken off his shirt - he did that a lot, now; he’d been a chubby boy, but now he was built like a bull and liked to show it - to wipe some sweat off his brow with it.

At Héctor’s words he paused, his hand in mid-air. “Nightmares?” he repeated, frowning. A hand had reached up to rub his forehead as though by its own accord, as if to get rid of a headache. It was a familiar gesture, and Héctor realized he hadn’t been specific at all.

“No, not those ones,” he said. When they were kids Ernesto tended to have a recurring nightmare about being trapped beneath something, after an accident in the old mine shaft that had almost killed them. “About… you know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely towards the hills. Ernesto turned to look, and said nothing for a few moments, his expression suddenly blank, a distant cast to his gaze. Then, finally, the blankness turned into something harsher.

“They’re fading,” he said. “We had no choice.”

“No,” Héctor agreed, and let out a small sigh of relief. If even Ernesto had nightmares, then it was all right if he did, too. “No choice.”

Ernesto glanced at him, and seemed thoughtful for a moment before grinning. “Sometimes I forget you’re still a niño,” he said, and ruffled his hair. It usually annoyed Héctor a lot, but now it felt reassuring. “You did good that day. They’re not here, but you are, and life goes on. Don’t look back,” he added, and for a time it was all the reassurance he needed.

***

“You know what would be great now?”

“A bath in the stream?”

“No, a-- actually, yes. A bath would also be nice,” Ernesto conceded, sitting back on an empty crate and putting down the guitar. They’d been playing in the plaza for a while and got quite a few people humming along and dancing, and tips as well, but they’d also been sweating like animals in the process. It was an especially hot day, and the sun kept beating down on them. Ernesto looked down at his damp shirt, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“If you take it off here, la señora Martinez is going to yell at you again,” Héctor warned, and Ernesto rolled his eyes, letting go of the hem of his shirt.

“Right, right. The old widow. She wishes she could have a piece of this,” Ernesto muttered, and Héctor chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. It was one of the comments and jokes that Ernesto had begun muttering only recently, after getting old enough to be allowed in the cantina to drink with the men despite his mother’s disapproval - a milestone he just wouldn’t shut up about. Maybe Héctor would find those jokes funnier once he was older, too. For now, he just laughed when expected to. He didn’t want Ernesto to call him a niño again.

“So what would be great?” he asked, turning the conversation back to its starting point, and Ernesto eyed the fruit stall nearby.

“Oh, good idea!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to grab a few pesos. He really wouldn’t mind some fruit himself. “I want a peach! How much is--”

“Put the money away, chamaco. I got this.”

“Oh, no, please. Last time we got caught stealing peaches my mother wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, and--” Héctor began, rolling his eyes, only to trail off when Ernesto shrugged.

“We’re not going to steal anything, hermanito. We’ll have it added to the tab.”

“We don’t have a tab.”

Ernesto grinned. “I do. Watch and learn,” he said, and reached up to fix his hair some. Héctor glanced back at the fruit stall to realize that old Pedro wasn’t the one manning it. He must have gone home - he complained a lot about the heat those days - and had left his daughter María del Carmen to look after the stall.

She’d always been tall and thin, and as children they had often called her Palilla. She was still thin as a toothpick, but now almost everyone just called her Maricarmen - except for Ernesto, who was standing and walking up to the stall, guitar in hand.

“Hola, Mariquita! Nice day, huh? I was just thinking that the only thing that could make it better would be--”

“An apple down your throat if you so much reach for the fruit without giving me money first.”

Ernesto’s smile widened as though she hadn’t just threatened to choke him. “I was thinking of a peach or two, really. Or some papaya,” he added, causing Héctor to faintly wonder what that was about; Ernesto had never liked papayas.

Maricarmen, on the other hand, just raised an eyebrow. “Wonderful. Keep dreaming,” she said drily. “And most of all, hands off.”

Ernesto’s smile didn’t fade, and he held up his guitar. “Perhaps we can reach an agreement for a different form of payment?”

“It better be some song.”

“You pick the one, Mariquita, and I play it for you only,” he said, strumming the guitar. Héctor could have sworn Maricarmen’s mouth had twitched in a faint smile for just a moment before she crossed her arms.

“I pick two, and if I like how you play you’ll get the peaches.”

“No papaya?”

“Don’t push your luck, pendejo.”

Héctor would have wondered again since when Ernesto liked papayas so much, but he didn’t get to: just as Maricarmen started picking the songs she wanted, he heard someone calling out his name.

Well. Sort of.

“Oh, there he is!”

“Héctor!”

“It is Héctor, right?”

“I think so? I’m about… eighty-five percent sure.”

“Maybe it was Alberto.”

“No, no, Imelda said it was Héctor…”

Imelda!

The mention of her name had Héctor’s heart leaping in his throat, or at least so it felt like. He turned so fast he almost fell off the box he’d been sitting on, and nearly dropped the guitar on his knees, to find himself staring at two identical faces - Imelda’s brothers. They were only a few years younger than him, and they were… well, just children. Was that how Ernesto saw him now? No wonder he didn’t seem to take him that seriously anymore and called him niño all the time - something that was beginning to grate his nerves.

“You,” one of the boys said, tilting his head on one side. “You’re Héctor, right?”

“Sí. And you’re Óscar and… Felipe, right?” Hector asked. He’d only seen them around from time to time, usually carrying what looked like scrap metal they planned to build some contraption with, and never talked to them - but Imelda had mentioned them on their way back to Santa Cecilia, when… when they had done what they had to do in order to return home alive.

“Yes!”

“I’m Felipe and he’s Óscar.”

“Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

“Even mamá is not that sure.”

Héctor laughed. “You do look identical,” he conceded. “You, er… you mentioned Imelda,” he added, hoping he’d managed to keep his voice firm.

You said she mentioned me, he thought. He felt like his face had caught fire and for a moment he feared it would show - he blushed way too easily - but thankfully, the kids didn’t seem to notice anything.

“We did!”

“She’s our sister.”

“The one who went with you to get back, uh… Egidio?” one of them asked, and Héctor couldn’t hold back a snicker. Imelda had made a point to keep getting Ernesto’s name wrong on their way back to Santa Cecilia, to get back to him for stepping on her foot.

“Ernesto,” he said, giving a quick glance to the fruit stall over his shoulder. Ernesto was playing and singing as promised - Héctor immediately recognized Cielito Lindo - while Maricarmen served a client, smiling despite her clear effort not to. “And, uh… of course I remember Imelda,” he added, hoping that wouldn’t sound too weird. “How is she?”

The two boys looked up at him with identical grins.

“She’ll turn fifteen in two weeks!”

“And we’re preparing her fiesta de quince años!”

“Well, it’s actually mostly mamá, and Álvaro is…”

“... gonna pay for all the food, he’s her padrino de banquete and…”

“... he’ll let us hold the party outside the cantina if the weather is good, or…”

“... inside, if it isn’t, but--”

“Oya, do you always do that?” Héctor laughed, holding up his hands. The boys kept finishing each other’s sentences, talking fast, and were getting hard to follow. “One at time, please!”

Two pairs of eyes rolled in almost perfect synchronization before one of the two - Felipe? - spoke up. “Fine. Imelda is going to have her fiesta at the cantina in two weeks. Álvaro is going to pay for the food and mamá for almost everything else, and we promised we’re going to take care of the music.”

“Can’t have a fiesta without music.”

“So we need to get musicians.”

“And you are a musician.”

“Your friend, too, we see you at the plaza all the time.”

“So, will you play for our sister’s fiesta de quince años?”

Héctor blinked down at them, his brain coming to a standstill for a few moments. “You… want me to play for her?” he asked, his voice just a little shaky. His mind went back to the first and only time he’d played for her, watched her dance with Ernesto but smile at him. It was a performance they had been forced to put up to save their lives, and for the most part the memory of that night gave him a sense of dread, but there had also been moments like that - when he focused on the music, on her voice, and he’d known everything would be fine.

Unaware of his thoughts - he doubted Imelda had told them what had gone down that night; she had been adamant they should tell no one - the boys were nodding. “For her party, yes.”

“You and your friend.”

“We can pay you!”

“We have, uh, some coins…”

“A lot of good metal!”

“Also a very interesting rock, it’s all sparkly inside.”

“We built a moving miniature cart, too! You just need to load the spring. Would you like that?”

“... Héctor?”

“Are you listening?”

Héctor recoiled, snapped out of the memory of the sharp smile on Imelda’s face that morning as they rode back towards Santa Cecilia, from the thought of what she would look like as Quinceañera, wearing her best dress and maybe with flowers in her hair, smiling at him again as she danced to his music.

“Uh? Oh! Yes! Of course!” he exclaimed. “I mean, no! You don’t have to pay me! I mean, us! I’ll do it! We’ll do it!”

The twins blinked up at him again, and slowly turned to look at each other. “Maybe we should have asked the other one,” one of them muttered.

“Asked me - here’s your peach, you’re welcome - asked me what, muchachos?”

Héctor winced when Ernesto spoke up suddenly, dropping a peach in his hands, that he almost dropped. He’d already bitten into his own, and was looking down at Óscar and Felipe with his head tilted on one side. Héctor spoke up before they could.

“They’re Imelda’s brothers,” he said, jumping on his feet on the crate and throwing an arm around Ernesto’s shoulders. Until not too long ago, he would have been able to do so without having to stand on a crate: he’d been about as tall as him, despite the four years between them. But now Ernesto had hit a growth spurt and Héctor hadn’t yet, and he could only hope he would catch up eventually; if he had to go his entire life being shorter than Ernesto, he’d be pretty annoyed. “You remember Imelda, right?”

Ernesto laughed, biting on his peach. “Hard not to,” he muttered through the mouthful. “Heard she’s turning fifteen soon.”

That caused Héctor - who’d already begun thinking up arguments, pleas and maybe a little bit of blackmail material to convince Ernesto they should play for free - to frown. “You didn’t tell me,” he muttered somewhat accusingly, and Ernesto blinked, taken aback, just as Héctor fully realized what he’d just said. He bit his tongue, but it was too late.

“I just found out because Mariquita is going, what’s the issue? I didn’t think it was--” Ernesto began, then he paused, staring at him, and his frown turned into a grin. A very, very wide grin. “Oh,” he said. “Oooh, I see how it is!”

“Ernest--”

“Mi hermanito, starting to grow up and--” Ernesto trailed off with a yelp when Héctor dug his fingers into his shoulder with all off his strength and turned to Óscar and Felipe, talking fast.

“They asked if we can to play for her fiesta, I said yes and also we’re doing it for free, now I really gotta go so discuss the details with them!” he blurted out in one breath, and pushed Ernesto towards the boys before he jumped off the crate, grabbed his guitar, and ran.

He realized only at home that he still had the peach, clenched so tightly in his fist that his fingers were all sticky with juice.

*** 

“Sooo, how long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. You’re all red now!”

“Because we’ve been under the sun all day!”

“Ay, have you become a gringo who burns under a little sun, niño?”

Héctor opened his mouth to retort, but he could feel his face burning even hotter. He knew that he had to look like a tomato now, and that would belie his words. Ernesto knew that, too, and laughed, reaching to ruffle his hair. “Hah, look at you, you’re growing up! Mi hermanito está enamorado de-- ouch!” he yelped when Héctor kicked his shin, but it clearly hadn’t hurt, because he was still snickering when he pulled back his hand. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it,” Héctor huffed, and busied himself tuning his guitar. They were sitting on a small bench outside Héctor’s home, where they had been talking about the songs they had been asked to play and sing during Imelda’s fiesta - or at least, that was what they were supposed to be doing. Ernesto had spent more time teasing him than anything else.

“And here I was about to give you advice--”

“Don’t.”

“It’s good advice!”

“So good Camila slapped you in the middle of the plaza.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was last week.”

“I’ve refined my technique a lot since, chamaco. I got us peaches today, didn’t I? Still working on the papaya, but I’ll get there.”

“What does that even--” Héctor began, only to trail off when the door of his house opened and his mamá’s head poked out. She blinked at them.

“Oh, here you are! Didn’t have to go far. Are you all right, mijo? You’re all red.”

Héctor tried to think of an excuse, but Ernesto got there first. “Caught a lot of sun today,” he said, patting Héctor’s shoulder. “I’m giving him tips on how to avoid sunstroke.”

Héctor refrained from rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, mamá,” he muttered, and his mother smiled.

“Good. I made such delicious pozole, it would be a shame if you were too sick to eat it. Is your mother back from Arrazola, Ernesto?”

Ernesto made a face. “Not yet. She’ll be back on Sunday, most likely. Her tía or whatever it is insisted for her to stay another week.”

“I see. Then perhaps you’d like to stay for dinner?”

The offer never failed to make Ernesto’s face light up. By now Héctor knew it wasn’t about the food as much as getting to be somewhere else other than his own home; he’d often also sleep on their couch or in Héctor’s room for the night. “I’d love to, señora. Gracias.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. Maybe you should let your father know you’ll be here, so he doesn’t worry?” she suggested, as she always did. Like every time, Ernesto shook his head.

“Hah! He wouldn’t notice if I were gone for a year,” he laughed. It sounded genuine, but Héctor knew it was not and he really wished his mamá would stop asking. It was like rubbing salt on a raw wound Ernesto refused to acknowledge. “He’ll live without me for one evening.”

As his mother nodded and walked back in, Héctor fiddled with his guitar, giving it an absent-minded strum and glancing up at Ernesto. He was sitting a bit more stiffly than before and kept his gaze fixed ahead, fingers still on on the strings of his own guitar.

“You know, I would notice if you were gone for a year,” Héctor spoke up, and grinned when Ernesto blinked down at him. “I would notice if you were gone for a hour. I’d find myself wondering how come my headache is gone and realize that oh, right, Ernestito isn’t here to make himself a complete pain in the butt.”

Ernesto laughed, and this time was a real laugh, the kind that made everyone laugh along with him. He put an arm around Héctor’s shoulders. “Ay, what would I do without you?” he exclaimed, throwing his head back with dramatic flair and holding his other hand to his heart.

Héctor had to laugh. “You’d manage.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m so moved, I’ll even pretend I didn’t hear you calling me that.”

“Ernestito?”

“Oye, don’t push your luck,” Ernesto warned, still snickering, and Héctor grinned again.

“I was thinking I could write a song about you. Ernestito, Tito, Mi Amigo. How about that?”

“You really want me to break that guitar over your head, huh?”

“Didn’t you just say you don’t know what you’d do without me?”

“And you said I’d manage. I can still find out who was right,” Ernesto muttered, poking Héctor’s side and causing him to yelp, trying to squirm away and slap his hand off him.

They were still squabbling like children when his mamá announced dinner was ready. Héctor went in feeling much lighter partly because he knew things between him and Ernesto hadn’t changed, no matter how much his  friend acted like a grownup, and partly because he didn’t bring up his crush for Imelda - he barely dared to call it what even in his own head - again. Well, almost.

“Try not to freeze like a rabbit when you see her, chamaco,” he mocked him, and that was it. When they talked about songs to perform for her fiesta - Ernesto complained about his promise of doing it for free, but not too much - Héctor told himself it would be all right.

He’d played in front of her before, played for her as she sang and danced, and under the worst possible pressure. Compared to that, playing for her fiesta de quince años would be a piece of cake. He just needed to focus on music and nothing else, and he could do anything.

***

Oh God I can’t do this.

If not for Ernesto’s hand on his shoulder - he was clenching on it a bit too hard, really - Héctor might have actually stepped back when Imelda appeared before the cantina, where the tables and music stand had been set up for the party. She had come there directly from the church and was accompanied by her mother, brothers and court of honor - some of whom Héctor might have recognized if he focused, but he didn’t: he only had eyes for Imelda.

She was wearing her best Sunday dress with flowers in her hair, which was tied in a thick braid and pinned up, and a pendant of the Virgin of Guadalupe around her neck. It was really pretty, Héctor supposed, glimmering in the sun, but it seemed to pale next to her smile. It was so wide and openly happy, nothing like the sharp smiles he’d seen from her that evening in the hills or the thoughtful frown he would see on her face as she passed him by in the plaza, her arms full of groceries. He found he really, really wanted to see more of that smile.

“I told you not to freeze, niño,” Ernesto’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. He sounded amused as he gave him a small shove. “Come on, get playing. The show must go on.”

He did, his fingers frozen stiff at first, but quickly gaining pace. He’d played that song so many times he couldn’t forget how to even if he tried, and that gave him something to focus on… and even so, he almost messed it up when Imelda’s gaze finally found him.

For a moment that smile faded, replaced by a surprised expression, and Héctor’s heart seemed to skip a beat even though his fingers did not. Next to him, Ernesto was playing as well, entirely unaware of the fact his best friend was forgetting how to breathe. He held his breath as Imelda glanced down at one of her brothers - no idea which one - questioningly, as said brother muttered something, as Imelda nodded… and then let it all out when she looked back at him and smiled again.

She was happy to see him.

Finger still moving on the strings, Héctor returned it with what was probably a dumb-looking grin, inwardly thankful for the fact Ernesto’s voice was powerful enough to be heard by everyone, because there was no way he could sing right now without his voice failing him. But he could play and play he did, song after song, as people ate and drank and danced. He watched Imelda dance with her brothers and the rest of her court of honor as she had watched her dance with Ernesto to his music, only three months ago.

Even then, despite the danger, he’d been able to focus on nothing but her and music, and he’d known everything would be all right. Now he felt exactly the same, so full of energy he felt close to bursting, and played and sang with all his heart. There were so many people all around, dancing to their music, and there was such a raw power in it all, in how their voices and words and the strings of their guitars could bring people together like that, and make Imelda smile in a way that put even the sun to shame.

Ernesto had been right: those soldiers were not there anymore, but they were, and life went on. His fears and nightmares had never felt more far away, more unimportant, more childish. He played and played, losing track of time, and would have played some more if not for the fact Ernesto’s hand was suddenly on his guitar in the few moments of pause between one song and the next.

Héctor glanced up, taken aback, to see him grinning. He looked like he was having the time of his life, playing for so many people. “Take a break, chamaco. Put the guitar down and go steal a dance. You’ve got your good clothes on and all.”

Dancing with Imelda? The thought alone would have made him turn bright red only a hour earlier but now, elated as he was - feeling almost drunk, like the times he’d drank in secret with Ernesto but without the sense of nausea - it seemed… yes, it was a good idea, really. And yet… “I’ve got to play. I promised,” Héctor said.

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Ah, por Dios, just go,” he muttered, getting the guitar off him. “I’ve got this. This is the right moment to go and get this dance, hermanito!”

What came next came without much thought. Héctor walked among dancing people - pairs and groups, and people dancing on their own - just as Ernesto’s voice rose again. He headed for Imelda, whose braid was coming undone as she danced, moving from one partner to the other. He heard the song Ernesto was singing through his own rushing blood.

De piedra ha de ser la cama, de piedra la cabecera; la mujer que a mi me quiera, me ha de querer de a de veras. Ay, ay, corazón por qué no amas!

Imelda twirled, and suddenly they were face to face. She paused, taken aback, and Héctor suddenly wished a lot of things - that he hadn’t listened to Ernesto, that his ears weren’t so big and his nose so long and his limbs so thin, that he were handsome and confident and graceful like Ernesto - in the space of a second.

Then that second passed, Imelda smiled again, and suddenly none of it mattered at all because she danced and so did he, they danced together, laughing and twirling around each other as though their feet weren’t even touching the ground.

Subí a la sala del crimen le pregunté al presidente: que si es delito el quererte, que me sentencien a muerte. Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!

“Thanks for playing,” Imelda called out, barely audible through the music and Ernesto’s voice. “My brothers told me - you should at least take something for your trouble!”

Héctor grinned. “No trouble at all!” he exclaimed, and they spun again, more people joining the dance. Given the circumstances of their meeting all of that felt so wonderfully, perfectly normal. That terrible secret binding them, keeping them quiet around each other, no longer mattered… not that evening, at least. For now, there was only music. When Ernesto sang again he joined in, and so did Imelda.

El día en que a mi me maten, que sea de cinco balazos y estar cerquita de ti, para morir en tus brazos. Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!

Por caja quiero un sarape, por cruz mis dobles cananas y escriban sobre mi tumba mi último adiós con mil balas. Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!

Héctor - who wouldn’t be killed by five bullets, would not get to die in his beloved’s arms and would never be buried in a sarape - danced through the song, and the next and the next, trying to catch more glimpses of that smile as feeling as though nothing else in the world mattered.

***

The party finished at dusk, and Héctor stayed for a little bit afterwards - accepting some of the food left over as a thank you, repeating over and over that it had been a pleasure and yes, he would extend their thanks to Ernesto as well, since the pendejo seemed to have disappeared in thin air, who knew where to.

The twins slipped something in his pocket as a thank you, a small contraption that would move once a spring was wound up, and Imelda had smiled again, telling him she’d see him around. When he’d finally headed home in the darkening streets, Héctor still felt almost inebriated despite drinking nothing but water and walked as though on a cloud

I’ll see you around, she’d said. They seemed the most beautiful words ever uttered to him. Maybe he should write a song about it, about that smile and the way the braid came undone, flowers falling down her shoulders. Héctor’s face felt hot, but something warm sat in his chest, too, and he didn’t mind that. It was a nice feeling, and if he could hold onto it a little while longer, enough to sit down and put it into words…

“HÉCTOR! MI HERMANO!”

“Gah!” Hector let out a yelp when Ernesto’s voice suddenly boomed somewhere on his left, and he had no time to turn: the next moment Ernesto’s arm was around his shoulders and he was holding him to his side, laughing, seemingly absolutely delighted. Héctor laughed, too.

“Ernesto! Where did you go? You have no idea, it was so… she was so… we danced and she said--” he began, only to trail off when Ernesto waved his hand dismissively.

“Yes, yes, cute, you’ll tell me later,” he said, and grinned broadly. “Guess who got papaya?”

Wait, what? Héctor blinked up at him, some confusion beginning to replace the warm, fuzzy feeling. “What is it with you and papayas? You never even liked--” he began, only to be cut off by a sudden, uproarious laugh.

“Hah! You really are still a niño, Héctor. I’ve become a man now!”

The confusion was replaced by something closer to dread. Héctor had vague ideas of what that meant - he wasn’t a little kid, thank you so much - but he suddenly found he didn’t really want to know anything more than what he already did… and Ernesto had never been one to hold back when bragging. “That’s, uh. Great! Hey, I was thinking of writing a new song--” he tried, but to no avail. Ernesto just went on as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Let me tell you everything!” he exclaimed, clearly elated. “So, I was there playing and singing, right? I knew Mariquita had been invited, and there she was, right? So after we were done playing I went and offered to walk her home...”

*** 

“Didn’t Héctor say he would be back a hour ago?”

“Well, perhaps the fiesta lasted longer than expected. And he’s out with Ernesto, you know how those two are. Probably up to mischief.”

“Hah, true! I hope he doesn’t don’t return too late, we need to rise early tomorrow and--”

The sound of a door opening caused Ricardo to trail off. Both him and his wife looked up to see their son standing in the doorway, guitar on his shoulder… and looking oddly pale.

“Héctor?” Emillia called out, a worried frown on her face, and stood. “Is everything all right?”

Héctor looked up, his eyes moving back and forth between them a few times, then his face twisted in a disgusted expression, like he’d just bitten into something rotten. “Eeeugh,” he groaned, and walked - almost stomped - past them and up the stairs, muttering something that sounded much like ‘never’. Ricardo blinked, and turned to his wife.

“What was that about?” he asked, causing Emilia to sigh and shrug.

“Only God knows,” she muttered. “Sometimes I wonder about that niño.”

***

A quick note - the song, La cama de piedra, was suggested to me by @lloronadeazulceleste (who was super patient answering my questions on what Imelda's party would be like at the time!). It was written after this story's setting, but it fit so well I couldn't resist taking a little creative liberty and using it anyway.

#pixar coco #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #coco #oscar rivera #felipe rivera #heaven and earth

[msannemills]

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How can I even begin to describe my time in Ethiopia? Every time I think about it, my heart overflows with nostalgia and I long to be there again.

Click here for a playlist of the music I listened to on the plane if you would like to feel as though you were there with me!

Also if you would like to see all of the pictures I took you can view them *here*.

It all started when one of my friends told me she was going to Africa in the next six months, and I immediately responded with, “You know I’m going with you, right?” I have made it a sort of personal commitment of mine to take every and any chance I get to experience new places and people.

So a bit of an introduction here: Her uncle had founded a non-profit organization back in 2007 called Crisis Aid International that provides safe houses for women both in the USA and Ethiopia who are victims of sex trafficking. This is the main goal of the organization, but in Ethiopia they also provide aid through food distributions in rural villages, have established an all girls orphanage, and have set up a girl’s home for those rescued from the red light district with nowhere else to go. There is also a vocational school where these women can learn trades such as weaving, typing, hairdressing, and entrepreneurship in order to support themselves in a productive, healthy and fulfilling way. While in Ethiopia, the founder of the non-profit was also with us, and was able to show us the future sites of a medical clinic, another girls home with a storefront they can invent and operate themselves, and a possible coffee plantation/organic farm.

“Ameseginalew” pronounced ah ma saht genalo, means thank you in Amharic.  This is the main language Ethiopians speak, but of course there are many variations and dialects depending on region. A couple of other phrases I picked up: Salamnew (salamno)- “Hello”   Endatnesh (inditnish)- “How are you?”  Dena negn (ning) – I’m fine

Betam ameseginalew- “Thank you very much” Chikuryelem- “no problem!” Ciao of course means goodbye  Odeshalew – “i love you”

As with any life-changing experience, my outlook and priorities progressed and fluxed during that week in Ethiopia. I kept a journal while there and I will share the entirety of my entries here along with some recent additions:

Friday, Nov 13th 2015

Being on a plane to Ethiopia right now is surreal. I keep getting these waves of excitement thinking, “wow, is this really happening?”

Going through security I thought I had removed everything that was not permissible, but I had yet again left my mini swiss army knife, one of my grandfather’s, in my bag. Of course they had to confiscate it, but for some reason it made me so upset. The way the man had no empathy or understanding of my position. Yes it was my fault that I left it in there and part of my frustration was with myself because I did not remember to take it out. Nevertheless, that little knife was a reminder to me of

  him, that’s why I kept it with me all the time. If he could be embodied in one single object it would be that. He carried them with him everywhere, using the toothpick religiously, or using the little scissors to cut open our toys we had just gotten from the Bass Pro shop or WalMart or wherever else he took us that day. I just felt like I was wronged somehow. How could that man take away something so precious to me and not care at all what happens to it or me? Not care that its just going to get smashed up and thrown away. It conjured up feelings I haven’t felt since he died. It was almost like it was happening all over again, hearing that shocking news. And there I am standing in the airport crying over a tiny pocket knife. How could I be so stupid? Why didn’t I just leave it at home?

∗        ∗        ∗

    Saturday Nov 14th                                                                             LONG. DAY.

Today was a lot to take in. When we first arrived I was excited to be in a new country and experience the people & places in this part of the world. I simply sat in the van silently observing, listening. The first thing I noticed was how quiet everything was. Almost eerily quiet. I think it’s incredible how accustomed we get to noise, it is constantly surrounding us and we are bombarded day in day out with it. I cannot tell you how calming it was to be in the absence of that raucousness. Something I value about Ethiopia is its pace of life.  No one is in too much of a hurry to forget what is right in front of them. Time is almost non-existent and life is simplified. Driving through Addis, the city was bigger than I expected it to be, but as far as economic development goes I had an idea of what it would be like. There is so much to describe, however, I am completely and utterly exhausted. I want to be able to accurately recall and document my experience…

This day seemed like it was two whole days packed into one. We started out in D.C., got on the plane there, after what seemed like an overnight eternity, stepped off into Addis and started the day all over again. When we were driving through the city I kept waiting to drive through a nicer part, like we were just in the especially poverty stricken areas. But then I realized that it doesn’t get nicer. Even in the marketplaces, shopping malls, and “5 star hotels”, there are beggars and children desperately trying to sell anything they can, following you and coming up to the bus. Their desperation operates every fiber of their being. The whole time we have been here, even back in D.C., we have been the ones receiving the assistance. The men who handle our luggage, the men who drive us around, the children and younger men who make sure we have our amenities and that our utilities are working. You know, its like, I came here to serve these people, not the other way around. And it just makes me feel guilty almost. I wish I wasn’t American. I wish my skin was not white. I wish that I could speak the language and truly connect with these people instead of communicating through smiles and waves. And I wish that I could fix it. All of it. The poverty, the sickness, slavery, oppression, and sadness. It’s just shitty.

I honestly wanted to go home. I felt like I had made a terrible decision. Who am I to pay thousands of dollars to see the every day lives these people live?! We drove to the red light district and walked through a couple of streets. It didn’t feel real. It was like some sort of sick tour. These girls are trapped. They have no way out. And here I am walking down the street with a bunch of other white people, seeing this sight. It’s awful. Some of them let us shake their hands, or give them hugs. I shook one girls hand, but mostly walked the rest of the way. I didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t process what was going on. How could I be there, really there? It seemed like a bad dream or a scene out of a movie. I had never felt more surrounded by hopelessness. It just made me realize that these people live in this shit, day in and day out. Every. Day. And when I go back home, while I sleep in a bed, use running water, drive a car, live in a durable mess of objects I call home, go to a building to gain knowledge, they will continue to live here in these conditions. It doesn’t end just because I am not witnessing it.

Then you have the question, “Well how do you help?” Progress is a slow moving, stubborn creature. Especially when there are multi-faceted, complicated problems needing to be solved. It must be chipped away, time after time. It all starts with rescuing one girl from slavery, feeding one child, building one home. Just because the task is hefty does not mean nothing should be done. On a large scale, fixing the problems Ethiopia has is next to impossible, but on a small scale, lives and hearts can be fulfilled.

Sunday Nov 15th

There are no “indoors” in Ethiopia. At least not like there is in the States, where each store you walk into is its own little sectioned off, air conditioned box. Here everything is more fluid. The air moves throughout open space, homes, and stores alike.

The streets in the city are lined with corrugated sheet metal shantytowns and large concrete buildings, most of which stand unfinished, the wooden scaffolding abandoned as well. Some of the shanties are inhabited, others are used for selling various goods such as clothing, beverages, fruit, cell phones, and souvenirs. Some are cafés and some are photo centers. There are also a lot of hardware businesses along the street, selling house materials including large, elaborate metal gates, lumber, concrete, ceramic tiles, wooden furniture and mattresses.

The whole city is one big contradiction. There’s people living on the streets in makeshift homes, some of which are merely umbrellas or wooden poles with tarp stretched over them. Yet there is ongoing construction everywhere, landscaping in the middle of the roundabouts, trench digging on the side of the road for drainage, concrete skeletons, and railway construction. The paradox lies in this: the majority of Ethiopia’s population does not have enough money to use these facilities or to be consumers of these products. People don’t have the homes to put the tile in. They don’t have the room for furniture. The current system is clearly not working, at least not in favor of all Ethiopians. When I look at the city as we drive by, I think to myself with dismay and incredulity, “people LIVE here”

*Excuse my wobbly writing, I am currently on a long bus ride to a rural village.

Being in this country is the most surreal experience I have ever had. When I go to sleep, I am no longer in Ethiopia, but when I wake my brain must be retrained. I do not want to liken the situation here to the extremes of war, but there is a similarity in that sleep is a luxury: the simplest things can have profound meaning and value when great suffering is experienced up close and personal. There are moments where you forget all the pain and suffering in your midst, and in that moment you feel at home. I guess you could call it the intersection of truth and grace.

The party at Mercy Chapel was a happier note than last night in the RLD. Seeing all those girls raise their hands saying they want to dream, to have a better life. Hearing the stories of what these girls have been through and how their lives have changed for the better is just incredible. I am  so grateful to have the chance to talk with them, love them, and just be with them. They made me feel so welcome.   They hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. We took pictures together. They did my makeup, and it was a blast. As some of you may know, I have Alopecia and wear a head wrap as an alternative to wigs and other cosmetic “solutions”. The girls here in Ethiopia loved my head covering, and one of them specifically called me over to tell me that I reminded her of her grandmother because she used to wear something similar.  This girl’s name was Betty, her English was very advanced, which allowed us to make a connection that would otherwise be a bit more difficult. She was an extremely kind and upbeat person, fully accepting me for me and not questioning why I look the way I do. It was freeing to be received that way by not only her, but everyone. In Ethiopia, I was not constantly reminded of my disease with people asking what’s wrong with me or if I had cancer, but rather uplifted in my spirit and made comfortable in my own skin.

I knew that the girls who had just graduated were or had been in the RLD, but until after the party I was not aware that all the rest of them, the ones who were invited to celebrate were currently in the RLD. That just completely broke my heart. These girls were normal teenage girls! Some of them younger. I just could not wrap my head around the tragedy that was normal life to them. It was just what they had to do. They were so sweet, its terrible that they are not free. They deserve a better life. They deserve to be treated as human beings, not objects. It makes me feel helpless and angry because, what can I do for them? Meet and spend one day with them, and then completely disappear out of their lives? What good does that do? I wanted to come to Ethiopia to have a realistic perception of this country, but at what cost? To say that I have been to Africa, that I know what it’s like? This is not a vacation. This is not just another country to cross off the list. There are real people who live here with unique character and raw emotion. They are full of personality and for the most part, kind hearted. Not at all like I expected. In fact, this whole trip has completely thrown my expectations out the window.

It seems to me that some people where I grew up still view Africa as it was during colonial times, like it never developed past them. Like it has just been trapped in a vacuum for centuries, existing in nothing but darkness. To be honest, I kind of bought into this for a portion of my life. But then I realized that no culture or people exists inside a vacuum, and I wanted to experience the real Africa, the real Ethiopia, not the vague, fabricated version that existed in my mind. The land only characterized by lions and starving children (of which I was promptly reminded every time I failed to finish eating my dinner as a child) : the place I have been told about my whole life by people who have never even set foot there. I wanted to create an accurate, dignified depiction of these people so that no one may be ignorant, including myself. Because ignorance is the root of all action upon stereotypes which is rooted in prejudice and racism which in turn is an implicit or even blatant lack of desire to understand the people who are different from you. 

∗        ∗        ∗

Monday November 16th

HAH. I don’t know why I thought I would be able to journal every day…….it is actually Friday night as I am writing this. I am just going to start from the beginning and explain what I did each day chronologically.

One thing I left out about the first day we arrived was that we went to a child sponsorship party, and that was really the first time/chance I got to spend time with the Ethiopians. I realized that some things are simply universal, and that no matter how much of a language barrier there is, hand gestures, hugs, kisses, and games-especially soccer-can be excellent forms of communication. There is something innate in all of us that surpasses all forms of lingual communication: the desire to be in communion. We are social beings, and these people long to be loved, to be treated as human, to be told and shown that they matter. Getting to spend time with these kids and speak their language through soccer was a very uplifting experience. I think at that point everything was still very surreal and I couldn’t put down my rose tinted glasses. Then when we went to the RLD I realized the gravity of the situation, and the lives, true lives of Ethiopians became real to me. I saw the suffering, the desperation, the corruption. It all finally materialized in my mind, just how incredibly grim the situation is. And then there we were, jumping at the very first chance of wi-fi & coffee….

I think, in the midst of all this poverty, it can be easy to feel guilty for the things I do have, and the privileges I enjoy because I was born in America and my skin is white. But feeling guilty about it gets you nowhere. I think that is one important thing I have learned, is that it’s about the experience, that is what will lead to action. Use your anger and frustration in a productive way. “It’s ok to have fun”, is what Pat says, the founder of Crisis Aid. But at the same time, I think about these people, and I say to myself “they didn’t choose to live this way”. They were born into it. Just as I was born into my life without having any say in the matter. So why wasn’t I born into their life, or they into mine? Does anything really separate us? There is no reason we could not have just as easily been born into different lives. There is a common denominator here; we all consist of the same cosmic ingredients. What really breaks my heart is that it’s not their fault. They do all they can to provide for themselves and their family, which includes selling their bodies. Men will promise young women a job and a nice place to live, yet little do they know that these men are lying. These women do not choose to sell themselves; they are forced into it.

Whew ok kinda got off track there. I think I pretty much covered what we did Sunday. Monday we basically drove all day, so it was a good day to process. I did not journal much because the bus was bumping around a lot and my handwriting was becoming illegible. Anyway, the drive was beautiful, and that’s an understatement. We drove through lowland plains, mountainous hill country, arid desert stretches, and lush green forests. Ethiopia is the most geographically diverse place I have ever laid eyes on. It is simply breathtaking. (Also, side note: the crescent moon is “upside down” in the night sky of Ethiopia, which I appreciate as a challenge to conventional ways of thinking regarding the way we orient the world). As we were getting further from the city, I realized something about Ethiopians. The people in the villages will drop everything they are doing just to wave at you. Kids will come running, shouting “you! you! you!”and whistling at the bus. One thing I have noticed about Ethiopians is that they all have this hidden joy about them. Any time I would smile and wave at someone, they almost always smiled and waved back. They could have the most serious, sullen countenance, and then the next minute there is this brilliant smile on their kind face. It really made me think about my perceptions of strangers, especially back home. That if these people, whose living conditions are ten times worse than mine, can have that much joy towards a stranger, then I should be able to as well. Ethiopians will quite literally drop whatever they are doing to wave. I waved to one little boy, and as soon as he realized I was waving at him, it was like he put every ounce of his being into waving back, both arms outstretched, fingers spread wide, lunging forward. It was extremely humbling.

Another thing I noticed about Ethiopians, especially in the city, is their lack of censorship. Men will walk over to a tree or bush or wall and start urinating. You’re lucky if they even choose that route. There are also meat markets with slaughtered animals hanging right behind the counters. When we were driving to one of the villages, we actually saw a group of people dressing a cow they had just slaughtered. Everything is just out in the open. There are no taboos, no shame. Mothers breast feed their children without a cover. One little boy was peeing as he was waving to us. Some little boys only wear a shirt, or their pants have so many holes that everything hangs out anyway. People will bathe in rivers completely nude. But they don’t care. It is not something that is considered to be private or shameful I guess. This rugged, raw attitude is also seen with the way people drive. There are very few traffic lights, if any. Most of them are in downtown Addis. For the most part, driving is pure chaos. They use their horns to communicate. There are roundabouts everywhere. Little tiny three wheeled blue and white taxis maneuver in and out of traffic. Yet even in disorder there is order. It seems ridiculous, but they make it work.

WARNING: There is sensitive content in the following paragraphs that may be upsetting to some.

Monday night after a long bus ride we finally got to the place we were staying for the night. It was a college campus that was small, but beautiful. Just being able to sit outside the next morning and let the sun warm my skin was food for the soul. Tuesday then was probably the most difficult day of the trip. We drove to a stabilization clinic which housed the worst cases of starvation and other potentially life threatening health problems in assisting them to recovery. The bags of flour that were to be taken to the food distribution center were stored here. So we proceeded to take these bags and load them onto a truck. Once we got to the food distribution center, it really started to hit me. These people’s lives are mainly characterized by hunger, illness, and filth. Their living conditions are horrid, yet every single one of them can still smile. I find that incredibly humbling. There were hundreds of women and children waiting for us when we got there. The first couple things I noticed about them physically was that they were all barefoot, their clothes were tattered and dirty (probably the only clothes they owned), and a lot of them barely had toenails anymore. I specifically remember seeing one girl’s shirt that said “Don’t cry just say fuck you and smile”. This girl was probably six or seven years old, and there is no way she had any idea what it said. Most of the clothes I saw seemed like they came out of a Goodwill donation box. One man I saw had a D.A.R.E. t-shirt on, and another young man had a bright pink Victoria’s Secret jacket on. Again, the stark irony of affluent Western society superimposed onto the rest of the (starving) world.

As I am walking into the food distribution center, I greet as many mothers and children as I can; saying “salam” to each one, hugging them and shaking their hands. Pretty soon I am surrounded by a sea of faces. It was quite a sight to see that many people gathered together in this beautiful green courtyard. We had to make our way to the room they were keeping the children and mothers whose malnutrition needed to be measured and documented, photographed, etc. We went around the room and hugged each mother, greeting them with “salam”.

It’s funny how some kids just stick to you, they pick you out and never leave your side. One little boy kept grabbing my arm and kissing my hand. I decided to reciprocate after the first couple of times, and I did so for all the other children who kissed my hand. When it was time to unload the flour, something beautifully communal happened. All of the children lined up on each side of the gate, and started to clap, singing songs of rejoice as we were bringing the bags out of the truck. Ethiopians are the most gracious, appreciative, selfless people I have experienced.

After we unloaded all the flour from the truck, it was time to document the mothers and their malnourished children. This was the most difficult part of the whole trip. I didn’t know what to do, I felt so helpless. Everyone else had a job to do. Aiyana was measuring the children’s arms, Cheryl was writing their information down while Dawit translated for her. Others were blocking entrances making sure no one came in who wasn’t supposed to. And there I was, just sitting there. I felt so useless amidst all this suffering. One mother was sitting on the ground with her five year old son who was extremely malnourished. She said he has been unresponsive, and she has to chew up food for him and put it in his mouth. Seeing her sob and sob and sob for her son broke something in me. When the presence of white people is known, the worst cases come out of the woodworks. There was a blind girl who made her way into the area we were in, desperately looking for someone to heal her. Another woman came in with her baby who had a severe infection on his foot and some other places as well. They are desperate for help, to be healed, to be full. They look at us in desperation, their eyes shouting. And to see these children, with distended bellies and skeletal limbs, some of them so bad that their feet and face have started to swell, starving so severely that their organs have begun to consume themselves in a last attempt to survive. It makes me think “How can the government allow this?!” To think that this village center was just one out of hundreds of thousands just like it makes my angry. And sad. And determined to do something about it.

SAFE TO CONTINUE READING BELOW.

That night we stayed in a much nicer hotel than the ones we had been staying in. We were on the fourth floor, so we had a great view of the town and the hills in the distance. At dinner, we got to eat “American” food for the first time. I got a Mexican burger with avocado & fries that I only ate half of because it was so massive. We had the privilege of eating dinner with Pat at our table, and I asked him what brought him to Ethiopia. He said, “I was reading a newspaper with a headline that said “14 million starving in Ethiopia” and I knew I had to do something  about it. Next thing I knew I was over here with just a phone number.”

Wednesday rolls around, and we didn’t do much except go to a house where some higher risk families were being taken care of. I started to feel sort of useless because we didn’t really have a specific reason for being there as we did for all the other locations. I started wondering what good we could do for the people by just hanging out and standing around. But then something Pat said really struck me that day. He said, “I know you may think you’re just sitting around with them here, but they will remember this for a lifetime: that someone took the time to sit with them and spend time with them. So don’t think that you’re not doing anything worthwhile here, because you are.” That moved me out of my stagnation and stand-offishness into action and allowed me to make a deep connection with them. There were two people there that day that I will never forget. This one little boy, no older than two, was severely malnourished to the point where even his face was swollen, seemed like nothing in the world fazed him. I held him tight for a long while, and I think that was the closest thing to motherhood I could feel without having a child of my own. This boy was so quiet and calm, it made me sad to think that he might not survive much longer. I held him in such a way that all my hopes for him were channeled through my arms. In the same way, I compiled every ounce of empathy I had into the hand I placed on the skeletal shoulder of one young woman. I brought as much of my love I possibly could into my eyes to look at her with, so maybe she could carry it with her.

  The region we were in for the majority of the week is about eight hours south of Addis called Sidama. It is close to Yirga Chefe which may sound familiar to any of you who are coffee connoisseurs, and is where most of the world’s Ethiopian coffee comes from. In fact, it happened to be coffee harvesting season when we were there and I had the pleasure of walking through many gardens filled with coffee trees. Every time I drink Ethiopian coffee, I am grateful to have been to the source of those beans and to have met people who ensure the quality and safety of each one before its journey across the Atlantic. Because coffee trees grow like weeds in this region, it is not abnormal for people to grow their own coffee and use the harvest from one or two trees in the yard. I had the great pleasure of experiencing the most genuine cup of Ethiopian coffee through a traditional ceremony. Some friends of Pat’s who owned the house we were at had already harvested their beans and laid them out to dry in the sun. We all gathered around as the woman of the house made popcorn for a communal snack before roasting the beans in the same cast iron skillet over hot coals. When they were browned to her liking, she took them out and ground them up in a mortar and pestle. She then put the grounds directly into the jebena with water to boil. After the coffee was brewed, she got out about a dozen tiny ceramic cups and put a teaspoon’s worth of salt into each one before she poured the coffee in. She then passed the tray of cups around for everyone to take part, and needless to say it was simply delicious. I think what is so compelling to me about Ethiopians is their generosity and hospitality. It does not come from a place of subservience, but rather of genuine selflessness and desire to be in communion with everyone. I have yet to experience such a welcoming feeling from complete strangers in any other group of people I have encountered.

Coffee trees

Harvested coffee cherries

Whether it was genuinely smiling and waving out the window, blowing a kiss, giving a thumbs up because I knew it would make their day, playing soccer with the kids, letting the girls do my makeup, speaking to them in their language, or even simply holding them close, I know it made all the difference. That is something that is difficult for me to remember even to this day. I am such a pessimist that it blinds me from what is plain to see. Meaningful, genuine human interaction does not operate on a solely linguistic plane. People just want to be loved, to feel like they belong. I think if everyone held this truth and intentionally acted on it, the world would be a much better place.

So Wednesday night we stayed in one of the most remote places I have ever set foot. It was this resort/hotel of sorts called the Aregash in a town called Yirgalem. It featured bungalows as the living quarters and the food was all organically grown in their gardens on site. The water came from a well, so it was good to drink and use. They had the best avocados I had ever eaten. In fact, the whole meal was soul stunningly good. We even had a glass of wine afterwards. One of the main attractions of this place is the hyenas that dwell in the surrounding forest. Every night they come up to the fence to consume whatever scraps the staff has for them. Late at night their cacklings and “laughter” can be heard from inside the bungalow; what an eerie experience that was! In the early morning, one of the groundskeepers was our guide on a hike in search of them. On which I had the luck—or lack thereof depending on your perspective—of peering at what looked like either an abnormally large dog or small bear from a (somewhat) safe distance. There were also some lively monkeys chatting away in the trees. This spot on the map was one I will reminisce about for the rest of my life.

  Thursday we made the drive back to Addis. But about halfway we stopped at Lake Ziway to eat lunch and take a break. Simply beautiful, this lake was. The birds there were iridescent in color and feisty in personality. There were also some ancient tortoises, cactus trees riddled with carved initials and notes, enormous trees perfect for climbing, a ping pong table, a life size chess board, swings, and a diving dock near the shore. The restaurant we ate in had an open building plan where the birds could fly freely in and out for visitors to observe. Oddly enough, this lake was in the middle of a dry, desert land. We saw dirt devils and camels on the way back to Addis. At that point, I wanted to stay in Ethiopia forever.

By Friday and Saturday however, I was ready to return home. My heart had witnessed and expressed a whole slew of emotions within that week and I doubt it could handle much more.  Those were the days we visited the girl’s home and the orphanage. I enjoyed the time we spent there and being able to connect with the girls and form friendships was part of the whole reason I decided to take this journey.  As a woman, I wanted to fight for the equality of my Ethiopian sisters and show them that they have value and should be able to live a life they want to live. I didn’t want to continue to be part of the problem, sitting back and acknowledging what a shame it is yet never really doing anything about it. I had to shed my ignorance and interact with the living, breathing people of Ethiopia, not just the far-off suffering, poverty stricken people I heard or read about.

THE DEBRIEFING

When I came home from Ethiopia, I experienced a horde of mixed emotions. I was happy to be home again, but I became very depressed. At that point in my life, even before leaving for Africa, I was not exactly living purposefully nor did I have any sort of stable mindset about my life. I was looking for something to drown out my discontent so as any good college student would do, I turned to alcohol to solve my problems. Of course, that only suppressed them and made everything worse, but who thinks about that when the world is crashing down on you? I didn’t know what to do. It seemed like my entire life was an existential crisis (and still does quite honestly). But what woke me up from all of that was that I had to do better, not for me, but for all of the people I had met and shared moments with in Ethiopia and the rest of my brothers and sisters around the world that share in their suffering. To be better. To take my life seriously and appreciate the life I have been born into. Who am I to take my education for granted and complain about the many privileges I enjoy? I owe it to the underprivileged and exploited world to do everything in my power to help. If I can do something to make even the slightest bit of impact, make even the slightest improvement in one person’s life, I must because the world needs more genuine care and concern for other human beings.

  Thank you for enduring my book of a blog post, and congratulations if you’ve gotten this far because this is it!

THE END

            East Africa: November 2015 How can I even begin to describe my time in Ethiopia? Every time I think about it, my heart overflows with nostalgia and I long to be there again.