#especially considering William is awake at night often

[phantom-does-a-thing]

William would have so many "childish" fears that he would rather eat his own shoe than tell the others.

He's scared of heights, scared of the dark, and he's claustrophobic and those are going to be kept so close to his chest until he literally cannot hide it anymore.

#him being claustrophobic is SO much worse on him #because he can go intangible #if hes ever trapped in a small space he can get out of it #so he knows how irrational that fear is but that doesn't make it any less terrifying #the others know he's afraid of heights and the dark because those have both bubbled over that he couldn't hide it #especially considering William is awake at night often #they now have like those motion activated lights in the base lol #anyway yeah #jrwi #jrwi pd #jrwi prime defenders #william wisp #jrwi william wisp #rambling #phever dreams with phantom

[luminnara]

It’s Been A Long, Long Time | Alpha!Bucky x Omega! reader Part 2

Summary: When HYDRA had their prized asset, the Winter Soldier, they did something no one ever thought was possible: they gave super soldier serum to an omega. With the sole purpose of tending to him during his ruts, she spends decades living in HYDRA facilities, denied her humanity and her life. Now, years later, Bucky Barnes has his mind and his own life back...and the last thing he ever expects is to see a familiar omega again. Bucky/OC, a little angsty but mostly smutty/fluffy/romantic!

Part one | Part two | Part three |

Warnings: NSFW, Knotting, ABO

Tags: @kyrah-williams @oceanmermaidwitch

The soldier’s rut seemed to come around on a perfect schedule. Like clockwork, every few months Amoretta would be pulled out of her usual living space and sent to the rutting cell to wait for him. Sometimes, he came in smelling fresh and clean, like they had just hosed him down. Other times, he was covered in dirt and blood, most of which didn’t seem to be his own. She didn’t care; her heart soared every time she heard his heavy boots stomping towards her, and she always faced him with a confident, even gaze. 

They would spend his rut together, the soldier knotting her over and over until it passed. He grew bolder with her, showing her affection she never thought he was capable of. He would carefully lay her down on her side so that he could curl around her, waiting for his knot to go down so that he could start all over again. His hands became increasingly gentle, calloused fingertips brushing over her folds carefully as he tried to pull those beautiful moans out of her throat. 

He often succeeded; Amoretta woke up to his touch more times than she could count, her thighs already trembling as he played with her clit. The soldier was good at getting her ready for him, though she was almost always prepared to take his cock anyways. Her body responded to him eagerly, slick always pooling between her legs whenever he was nearby. She couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like if HYDRA didn’t have her on so many heat suppressants. 

Even without her hormones raging, she was falling for him. He was big and strong and protective, always putting himself between her and the guards whenever they appeared in the doorway. If it weren’t for his trigger words, Amoretta was positive he would tear them apart before they even got close to her. Did that mean he felt the same way about her, too? Or was she just being a silly omega, stuck in a cold series of tunnels, latching onto the only alpha she was ever permitted contact with? 

She couldn’t tell. 

She didn’t really care.

All she knew was that she wanted him. She had begun looking forward to his ruts, and by the end of her first year in captivity, her body had begun being able to predict when they were coming without the use of a calendar. It was like waking up on Christmas Day, excitement flooding her while she waited for the guards to come let her out of her cell. It always put her in a good mood, knowing that she was about to see the one person who seemed to care about her in that godforsaken place.

And he did. 

He cared.

Whenever he saw her, the soldier felt his chest swelling with happiness. There were no bond marks on either of them, but she was his, and she knew it. His omega knew that he was there to keep her safe. He was driven by a simple urge to take care of her whenever he saw her, his need to protect her always taking over his mind. She was so much smaller than him, but she took him so well and fit so perfectly against his chest when they laid together. He never wanted it to end. 

“Alpha?” She asked one night, voice barely louder than a whisper. 

His knot had gone down a little while earlier, but he was too exhausted by a full day of fucking to go at it again yet. Instead, he was dozing, an arm draped over her protectively while she snuggled up against his chest. 

“Hm?” He grunted, cracking an eye open. 

“Do you…” she sighed. “Never mind.”

He was fully awake now, both eyes open as he looked at her. “Do I what?”

She bit her lip, feeling stupid. “Do you think we would be together outside of this place?”

He was silent as he thought about it. He didn’t know anything other than HYDRA. Shit, he had never stopped to wonder if there was anything other than HYDRA. Did he have a life besides killing? He had no memory of it, if he did. 

“I’m sorry, it’s dumb.” Amoretta said, burying her face against his chest. “Forget it.”

“‘Mega,” his chest rumbled with the word. “It’s not dumb.”

“Then why didn’t you answer?” She huffed. 

He snorted quietly. There it was again. That brazen attitude she always had. 

“Because...I don’t remember anything outside of this.” He finally said. 

Amoretta looked at him. “Nothing at all?”

“It’s always been HYDRA.” He didn’t sound too concerned.

She frowned. “Well...if it wasn’t. If we were just two normal people.”

“Normal?”

“You know.” She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Just...two people, living in a city—“

“New York.” He interrupted quietly.

She paused. “New York?”

“A city. To live in.” He said. “New York.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. Why would he choose New York? It was a large city, to be sure, but it seemed out of character for him to interrupt with something like that, especially considering that they were currently being kept somewhere under Eastern Europe. They were as far away from the States as they could get, and she had expected to be talking about someplace like Paris, or Moscow, or Berlin. 

She knew the soldier was someone HYDRA had captured a while ago, which meant he had to have had some sort of life before they pumped him full of the serum. Could this be part of it? Was he...remembering? If he was, she wanted to know more. All HYDRA used her for was getting their asset through his ruts, so she had plenty of time to think, and plenty more time to be curious. The most interesting thing in the compound with her was him, and she had spent hours just wondering about him. This could be her chance to actually get him talking about something other than rutting, and she wanted to encourage more.

“Okay, New York.” She said, a reassuring hand on his arm. “What part?”

He thought for a moment, trying to concentrate. “Brooklyn.”

“Why Brooklyn?”

The soldier shrugged. “Heard about it. I think.”

“Never been there?”

“...I don’t know.” 

“Hmph.” She played with a strand of his dark hair. “If we lived in Brooklyn, what kind of life would we have?”

“A house,” he said. 

“We’d have a house?” 

He nodded, his nose finding the scent gland on her neck and rubbing against it. “Filled with lots...and lots...of pups…”

Her heart skipped a beat and she immediately felt heat coiling around in her belly. She couldn’t help it; she was pre programmed to get excited at the concept of being bred. Even without her heats, the thought filled her chest with butterflies. 

“Wanna breed you…” his voice pulled her back to reality. 

Amoretta licked her lips, grinning. “Then breed me, Alpha.”

He let out a playful growl, somehow finding the strength to roll her onto her front and grab her hips. He held onto her tightly enough to leave little red marks, but he never had to worry; she was strong. She was made for him. He knew that she could take whatever he gave her.

“Want my knot?” The soldier asked, toying with her wet folds for a few moments before he shoved his cock inside of her. 

“Y-yes, Alpha!” She squealed, pussy immediately tightening around him. She had grown so used to his size by now, she hardly even needed any preparation to take him. Her body accepted his girth eagerly, wanting nothing more than to feel his knot catching on her.

He groaned appreciatively as he began thrusting in and out of her, setting a lazy pace for himself. “‘M gonna fill you up, Omega...gonna fill you up, get you nice and pupped…”

Her cheeks were flushed as she listened to him, skin burning as her alpha fucked her. She loved the sound of his voice. She loved everything about him. 

“Please,” she moaned, melting down against the sheets. 

“Yeah?” He let go of her hips, moving both hands to hold her ass. He gave it a squeeze, chest rumbling happily at the feeling of so much supple flesh in his grip. “Fuck, omega...my pretty ‘mega…”

She sighed happily, her pussy squeezing his cock as a little orgasm fluttered through her. He was good at that, and giving her those tiny little ones every so often with nothing but his words. 

He snarled at the feeling. He wanted more. 

A metal hand snaked around her front, finding her clit and rubbing it roughly. She immediately cried out, surprised by the sudden stimulation, and it wasn’t long before her thighs were shaking and she was a moaning, crying mess underneath her soldier. How did he know what to do? Why did he even care if she got off, when she was only there to please him? 

He had to be more than just a flesh and bone HYDRA machine. She knew he had to be.

As she tipped over the edge, he followed close behind, his breath hot on the back of her neck as he bit into her shoulder. The pain felt dull, despite his massive fangs tearing into her. It always did; Amoretta was never worried about it, often sporting bruises and bite marks after her soldier mounted her. With the quickened healing abilities her body now had, nothing lasted very long before fading anyways. 

She wished they would stick around, though. She wanted to feel claimed. 

She felt his knot swelling and she sighed happily, slumping down onto the cot as he pressed his chest against her back. He began lazily licking at her shoulder, swiping his tongue over the bloody wound to soothe it. 

“One day,” he grumbled, “One day, ‘m gonna mark you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. 

“Wh-what?” She asked, looking back at him. 

He nodded, sure of himself. “You’re my omega. An’ one day, I’m gonna make sure everybody knows.”

—

How many years did she spend there, in HYDRA’S compounds? After the first, it was easy to lose track. She was kept on a monotonous schedule that consisted of a few feedings a day, exercise sessions, and the occasional “doctor’s visit.” Those always just meant that her suppressants were being increased, as her body was growing steadily angrier about them. She was building up a tolerance, the doctor said, and they would simply have to keep ramping up her dosage. 

She dared to ask why they couldn’t just let her have heats like normal, and the answer was simply that they didn’t have the facilities ready to raise super soldier pups. The thought of being separated from her own offspring mortified her; it was bad enough that she was always so far away from her alpha, and she knew she couldn’t bear to give up her pups for some twisted HYDRA program. 

So she shut up, and learned to deal with the side effects of the suppressants. They made her constantly nauseous, not enough to make her vomit, but definitely enough that she was uncomfortable all day. As her dosage increased, so did her headaches, and there were moments she considered begging the doctors to take her off of them so that she could feel at least some relief. 

But she knew that would be a bad idea. She had to continue acting like she had absolutely no interest in returning to her normal heat cycle, or else risk HYDRA thinking about how quickly they could get things ready to start a new super soldier program. Amoretta wanted to keep their minds off of it for as long as she possibly could, and it seemed like she was successful; it never came up during her visits to the lab, the doctors seeming much more focused on how to keep her from getting pregnant at all. 

It was for the best. She knew that. But part of her whined and yearned to be allowed to start a little family with her alpha, even though he hadn’t given her a bond mark. With every rut she spent with him, she felt herself growing more and more comfortable at his side, wishing more and more that they were normal people. She wanted to live that life in Brooklyn with him, to smell fresh air again instead of the recycled oxygen they pumped through the compound. 

Sometimes, Amoretta was moved to different facilities. They were always underground, always just as gray and dingy as all the others. The guards always tranquilized her in order to transport her, and she would wake up in a similar, yet different cell from the last, groggy and even more nauseous than usual. She figured they were moving both her and the soldier around, depending on where they wanted to send him off on missions. She just wished that she could go outside once in a while, too. 

One night, she got her chance. 

She woke up early, her body fighting off the tranquilizer she had been given. She could tell that she was in a cramped, dark transport crate, moonlight filtering in through the air holes on the top of it. Fresh air was coming in, too, the scent of grass and pine filling her nose. It smelled so delicious that she was gulping in lungfulls, immediately shifting to press her face up against one of the holes. 

It was small, barely large enough for her to see out of it, but she could spot a few twinkling stars up above her. 

She wanted more. 

The crate was heavy, reinforced with metal bars meant to keep her in and the soldier out, but she was determined. She hadn’t seen the outdoors in...shit, decades? 

A few good kicks was all it took before she was scrambling out, bare toes digging into the dirt as she stood and looked around. She was in the middle of nowhere, it seemed, a few trucks idling nearby as HYDRA workers moved supplies into the compound. 

As soon as they noticed her, she ran, sprinting off into the trees. She could hear shouting behind her, but she didn’t stop, too excited by the feeling of the wind against her bare skin. The night air was cool and refreshing, and as she skidded to a stop at the edge of a field, she could hardly believe she was really outside.

Turning her eyes up to the sky, she let out a happy gasp. The moon was full and bright, an entire galaxy of stars twinkling in the inky blackness of space. Amoretta hadn’t realized how much she missed it. 

Heavy footsteps drew her attention away from the stars, but she didn’t turn to look. She could smell her alpha approaching, his scent seeming more curious than angry now that he had found her. He was alone, free of the entourage of guards she had expected to come after her. 

“Omega,” he growled, his low voice rumbling. 

“Look at them,” she sighed.

He stepped up next to her, his side brushing hers. “At what?” His blue eyes were scanning the treeline, searching for anything that could be threatening his omega. When he found nothing, he tilted his head to look down at her curiously. “What is it?”

“The stars,” she sighed again.

Stars? 

He watched her face for a moment, surprised to find her smiling up at the sky. When he finally followed her gaze, he paused to admire the stars. He never really did that, did he? Whenever HYDRA let him out, he was sent with strict orders. There was never any time for stargazing. Though...it was nice, and the look on his omega’s face was even nicer. 

“That’s Ursa Major,” she said, pointing up to a collection of stars. “See? It’s a bear.”

The soldier snorted. “I don’t see a bear.”

“Then look harder.”

She glanced over to see him actually squinting, the lower half of his face obscured by the black mask he wore on missions. The sight made her laugh, quiet giggles quickly turning into full, hearty laughter that had her gripping her sides. There he was, a huge, terrifying super soldier, the most dangerous assassin in the world, and he was trying to figure out constellations. 

“What?” his head whipped around to look down at her.

“N-nothing,” she giggled. 

He gave her an exasperated look. “Are you laughing at me?”

“I might be.” she nudged his side with her shoulder. “You’re just...cute. That’s all.”

She could see him raise an eyebrow. “Cute?”

“Mhm. You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you outside of a rut.” she leaned against him, looking up with big doe eyes. “I like it.”

His chest puffed up a little as he looked down at her. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” his throat rumbled with a low purr. “I have to take you back now.”

She deflated with a sigh. “Already?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Not safe out here.”

“There’s nothing out here scarier than you, Alpha.”

His purr grew louder, a little more smug. “You’re right. But I have orders.”

“Can we stay for just another minute?” she pleaded. “Then you can drag me back.”

The soldier considered her offer. He really did enjoy watching her gaze up at the stars, and he had no idea when he would get this chance again. “...Fine.”

Amoretta smiled. “Thank you, Alpha.”

His arm found its way around her waist, pulling her up against him. “You like stars, omega?”

“I used to sit outside and look at them every night back home,” she said. “Well, when it was clear.”

“Back home?”

She nodded. “I grew up in this quaint little village, tucked away in the mountains...at the foot of the alps.”

He cocked his head. Something about the alps...it felt like there was a memory nudging at the back of his mind, but he didn’t know why. Maybe he had gone there on a mission? HYDRA was good at always wiping his memory between outings. It was hard to tell where he had been. 

“Let’s go.” he said, suddenly uncomfortable. 

Amoretta didn’t resist as he scooped her up, instead resting her cheek against his chest and trying to surround herself with his scent while he walked. She could tell that something was bothering him, but with no idea what, and with him nearing the HYDRA base, there was little she could do to try and pry it out of him. 

She would just have to wait and try again during his next rut.

#alpha bucky #alpha bucky barnes #abo #omegaverse #it's been a long long time #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #avengers x reader #avengers x oc

[mr-humphries]

I am once again providing you with head canons because i am tired :)

- Alan sleep walks. Which would be fine if he didnt carry his scythe while it happened.

- Ronald is terrified of lightening and thunder and is only able to get through it if there is someone with him.

- Grell has a bed full of teddy bears. They're arent specific in aesthetic. but theres loads.

- alan sleeps in onesies with pyjamas underneath a lot. The thorns makes his body temperature drop when hes tired.

- Eric refused to sleep in pyjamas unless Alan makes him especially when hes ill or its winter.

- william just has multiple pairs of the striped pyjamas. That's it. Unless hes feeling spicy, then he'll have the plain blue pyjamas.

- Grell sleeps in a tank top and shorts with those cliche "I'm tired and want everyone to know about it" quotes.

- Ronald just sleep with pyjama bottoms, less restricting and it takes less time to put on, convenient considering hes always tired.

- Othello has the fluffiest pyjamas, he overheats all the time, but he doesnt care, he looks like a fucking teddy bear

- Sascha and Ludgar have matching pyjamas, even matching dinosaur onesies with hoods and tails :D Ludgar says he hates it, but deep down He loves it.

- Alan has Narcolepsy, meaning if he is overworked with minimal rest, his body will just shut down and make him fall asleep no matter what hes doing.

- Will has Insomnia, he never seems tired after only maybe getting a few minutes/hours of sleep, but hes always irritable before coffee.

- (I'm not sure if I've said this one before) Eric has a huGE fear of being alone, and cannot sleep unless someone is in the bed next to him.

- (!TW mentions of pills!) due to Ronald getting used to be awake late and drinking, he often has to take sleeping pills to keep him from doing anything stupid with alcohol and making him sleep earlier.

- Grell must have white noise or background noise playing in the background to be able to sleep (her personal favourites is rain and sounds of the ocean)

- Othello always cuddles a teddy bear a dear friend gave him, it made him feels safe and no longer alone.

-Ludgar often has to wait for Sascha to lose their energy before going to sleep, often resulting in late night walks by the lake. It's always the same time when they get back, much to Ludgar's addiction to order and routine. They cuddle too 🥺

- Alan constantly falls asleep ontop of Eric, which eric is fine with because it often stop him from sleep walking

- Eric is super cuddly when falling asleep- you cany change my mind, I'm sorry-

#alan humphries #black butler #1000 souls and the fallen shinigami #kuroshitsuji #the most beautiful death in the world #eric slingby #slingphries #black butler alan #black butler headcanons #black butler eric #black butler grell #black butler william #black butler othello #black butler sascha #shinigami headcanons #black butler ludgar #sascha #ludgar #othello #grell sutcliffe #william t spears #black butler ronald knox #ronald knox

[sjokoladekjeksen]

for the 40 questions

give meee 3, 7, 10, 22, 31, 40 for William pleaseee

and 5, 6, 17, 24, 38 for luka 💖💖✨

Your wish is my command, baby!

William Kayne

3: How easy is it to annoy him?

It’s incredibly easy to annoy William. He’s pretty emotional, despite not wanting to be... Some common pet-peeves are annoying people, or people who poke at his insecurities. And basically anything that could annoy anyone. If he gets annoyed enough, he will take aggressive measures to make it stop. 

7: How would I describe his voice?

Generally, he speaks in a pretty bold tone, and he enunciates clearly. His voice is decently masculine, but not overly rough. His partners tend to like it when he speaks in a lower voice in private.

His accent is best described as “vaguely american”. Purposefully a bit hard to place, but his vocabulary is more casual than formal. 

10: How is he about medical care?

William tends to be kinda practical about medical care. If he needs help, he might seek it out. But he prefers to keep it on the down-low if possible, and will treat what he can himself. For his knee, he met a physical therapist long enough to get instructions for how to care for it himself. He doesn’t like being at anyone’s mercy.

22: How long can he stay focused for?

... He can stay focused for less time than he’d like. He generally needs to at least temporarily switch activities decently often, unless he’s very focused or powered by haste when working on something. Once he does attain focus, though, he can stay consumed with a task long enough to forget his bodily needs.

If he’s enjoying himself, he can remain focused for longer. This is how he feels when conversing with others. Since he’s pretty extroverted, he enjoys that. Especially if he has an interest in the other person...

31: What time of day is he most awake?

William tries to stick to a sleep schedule, but he can be a bit of a night owl sometimes. Generally he’s most awake around midday and the afternoon, and in the evening if he’s doing something.

His alarm awakens a primal rage in him XD

40: Are there any habits he’s picked up from those around him?

No. Not at all. 

(He tends to pick up a lot of habits from partners... little things like nervous gestures, body language, fluffing pillows and making sure to check on if they’ve eaten. He’s social enough to notice small details)

Luka Silver

5: What would he make for an art exhibition?

.

Something terrible. He hates it and sets it on fire inside the art exhibit. 

6: How is his vocabulary and speech?

Luka’s got a decently large vocabulary. Obviously well-read, but also obviously around people who speak more “roughly”. Cussing and more refined words used interchangeably. He speaks pretty clearly, but he has an accent that makes it obvious he didn’t grow up in the city he lives in. 

17: How prepared is he?

Luka LOVES being prepared and having control of every situation. If possible, he brings both an umbrella, a medkit and a gun everywhere he goes. But he also has appearances to consider, so he tries to be practical and plan ahead for what’s necessary. 

24: What smells bring back memories for him?

Cigarette smoke; his youth

Vanilla; a girl dear to him

The smell of a city in summer, and people who’ve been in the sun all day; reminds him of every single summer he’s lived through, and the nostalgic memories within. 

He has other nostalgic smells too, but he refuses to think about THEM.

38: What signs tell he is nervous?

If he gets annoyed, brusque and aggressive in speech, it can be both a sign of normal annoyance and increased nervousness for him. He reacts by getting tense and ready to fight. He also rarely states his feelings outright... but you can tell. 

#OC: William #OC: William Kayne #OC: Luka #OC: Luka Silver #OC ask game

[darkmasterofcupcakes]

Ultimate ship meme for Glow?

General:

Rate the Ship -  Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last? - They would definitely last forever - like, if there is some kind of afterlife for them, they’ll be together there as well. 

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - I actually imagine that falling in love for them was a slow process, like it often can be with relationships like theirs, which start as friends and develop into a romance. They kind of had this thing where they knew they loved each other before they realized they were in love with each other. 

How was their first kiss? - It was actually a pretty simple moment. They were just...relaxing together, probably snuggling on the window seat in Glimmer’s room, when Bow just kind of...gave her a little peck on the lips. Glimmer was a little surprised at first, but she kissed him back shortly after, and they just...kept snuggling for a while longer.

Wedding:

Who proposed? - Bow, and to steal an idea from my friend  tolstoyevskywrites he technically proposed twice. Once with a fairly simple ring that he literally shot through Glimmer’s window with a note asking her to marry him, and once later on with a fancier ring he made himself. She said “Yes” the first time, but he wanted to do it again, properly. 

Who is the best man/men? - Most likely a couple of Bow’s brothers, along with maybe Sea Hawk….And Swift Wind would probably insist on being “best horse” because excluding him would just be discrimination and rude.

Who is the braid’s maid(s)? - Adora is probaly one of them, and one of Bow’s sisters probably takes up the other spot (I still headcanon him as having brothers and sisters)

Who did the most planning? - Probably Bow did a little bit more, but Glimmer definitely offered her input a fair amount. Though, honestly, Castaspella probably made about as many decisions as either of them once she found out about the wedding. 

Who stressed the most? - Glimmer, without a doubt. Bow did his best to calm her down whenever he could. 

How fancy was the ceremony? -Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - No one was specifically not invited, though Glimmer did try and avoid her aunt finding out for as long as possible, just to try and avoid her taking over the preparations. 

Sex:

Who is on top? - They switch sometimes, but usually Bow’s on top.

Who is the one to instigate things? - Glimmer is the one who instigates things the most, particularly because she likes to…get Bow worked up during times she really shouldn’t, like during meetings. 

How healthy is their sex life? -Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? -Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - They normally go at least two rounds a night, though sometimes three. How long the rounds last really does depend on the night, and how quick or slow they want to go.

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - They usually make an effort, and even if one of them “comes up short” one time, the other tries to make up for it the next time they have a chance to be intimate. 

How rough are they in bed? -Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? -No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - They’d probably plan either two or three. I think Bow liked growing up with siblings and Glimmer used to think that she would have liked having a brother or sister, so they’d probably want more than one, but not so many that they’d feel totally overwhelmed. 

How many children will they adopt? - Probably none, not because they would be against the idea, but just because I don’t think it’d ever really cross their minds. That being said, if they were asked to foster a child or two, they would happily accept the offer.

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - Bow, but he technically volunteers for diaper duty. He figures that since Glimmer has to feed the baby, the least he can do is let her get a little extra sleep while he changes the diapers. 

Who is the stricter parent? - Neither of them is exactly a pushover, but Glimmer tends to be a little more strict, taking influence from how her mom raised her growing up, even if she does try to give her own kids more freedom than she felt she had. 

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Bow is already Glimmer’s impulse control, so he’d just kind of automatically take that role for his children as well. 

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - They both remember and they take turns making the lunches. Glimmer is more likely to give them an extra snack, so the kids often ask her to make them more than they’ll ask Bow, but they each end up doing it about the same amount.  

Who is the more loved parent? - They’re both loved equally overall, but it depends on the specific child who they are closer to. And obviously neither of them is unloved by any of their children; they just have more in common with some of their kids than others. 

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? - They both definitely try their best to attend, but Glimmer often has to deal with court stuff, so sometimes Bow has to go alone.

Who cried the most at graduation? - Definitely Bow. Glimmer might get emotional, but she does her best to not cry in public, while he just flat out doesn’t care.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Probably Glimmer, if only because her rank basically means she can use her power to get them out of trouble without any real issue.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - Well, they have chefs to do most of the cooking, but between the two of them, if you’re talking specifically cooking and not baking, that’s Bow. 

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Neither is particularly picky in regards to food, but between the two of them, Glimmer might be slightly more picky.

Who does the grocery shopping? - They often go together, but Bow is the one who is more likely to do that particular chore on his own.

How often do they bake desserts? - Considering Glimmer has a sweet tooth, pretty much every other day, since they usually have leftovers from the previous night’s meal.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - They’ll eat either, but if they had to choose between the two, probably go a little more towards the meat dishes.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Bow would be the one to actually get away with doing the surprise, just because he’s a better cook. Plus, he can usually get a little more free time to make the meal.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - Glimmer, though Bow is pretty much never actually against the idea

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidentally while cooking? - Neither, though Glimmer is probably more likely to set off the smoke alarm

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - Glimmer will help, but Bow is the one who just sort of instinctively tidies up. It’s a habit he picked up after so many times of cleaning up Glimmer’s room while listening to her rant about her mom.

Who is really against chores? - Neither of them is against chores, though Glimmer is more likely to put off doing them until the last minute. 

Who cleans up after the pets? - Both of them. It was a joint decision to get pets, so they both take responsibility for them, including the messes they make.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - That is Glimmer, without a doubt. She usually cleans properly, but sometimes she puts it off for a little too long and just needs to hide everything until later.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Probably Bow, but Glimmer has been known to have her last minute stressing moments, especially if their guests are someone she wants to leave a good impression on.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Neither of them, because nobody who visits or lives there carries cash.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Probably Glimmer, but even then, not by much, and really only when she’s super stressed and needs a way to relax, since a hot bath reminds her a bit of the steam grotto at Mystacor.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - They take turns, but Bow does it more often, mostly because he likes to go out in the morning while Glimmer prefers to sleep in.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Every year unless they have something outside of their control that will keep them from doing so, and even then, they still try and do something, even if it’s not as big as they’d normally go for the holidays. But, whenever possible, they go all out. 

What are their goals for the relationship? - Nothing in particular, really. They just want to be together and grow and learn from each other for as long as they possibly can. But, ultimately, their main goal is just to be together and make each other as happy as they can.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - Neither of them really sleeps that late, honestly. Bow is definitely the one who gets up earlier, but Glimmer is usually awake by ten even without him waking her. 

Who plays the most pranks? - Glimmer, mostly because it’s easier to get away with a prank when you can just teleport away from the scene and pretend you had nothing to do with it.

#She Ra #Glimmer #Bow #Glow #Glimbow #OTP: I Always Trust You

[myhauntedsalem]

The Boogeyman of Baltimore 1951

The summer of 1951 was a weird time in the city of Baltimore. The city sweltered under a heat wave and only the wealthiest residents of the region could afford air conditioners at the time. And there were no air conditioners to be found in O’Donnell Heights, a housing project on the southwest side of the city. This was a place where steel mill and shipyard workers lived with their families. For those folks, though, the steamy heat was less of a worry than the specter that was stalking their streets.

At some point in July, a tall, thin figure, dressed all in black, began sprinting across the rooftops of O’Donnell Heights. It leaps on and off buildings, broke into houses, attacked people, enticed a young girl to crawl under a car and played music in the nearby graveyard. Groups of young men patrolled the streets, while others waited by their windows at night, keeping a sleepy watch for the “Phantom Prowler” that eluded his pursuers and vanished into the cemetery before he could be caught. By the end of the month, police were arresting people for disorderly conduct and carrying weapons, but the phantom had disappeared and was never seen again. What in the hell happened in O’Donnell Heights in the summer of 1951? To this day, no one knows.

O’Donnell Heights was only eight years old when the mysterious stranger began making his appearances. Built as a housing project for defense industry workers at Bethlehem Steel, Martin Aircraft and Edgewood Arsenal during World War II, it was never meant to be either durable or attractive. Tightly-spaced, two–story row houses went up on sixty-six acres of what used to be farmland, a brickyard that belonged to the Baltimore Brick Co. and part of St. Stanislaus Kostka Cemetery, one of several graveyards in the immediate area. The others included Evangelical Trinity Lutheran Congregational, Mount Carmel, St. Matthew’s and Oheb Shalom Congregation Cemetery, but the phantom would show an affinity for St. Stanislaus and often appeared nearby.

By the time that the local newspapers realized that something very strange was happening in the Heights, the panic was almost over. Most of the stories that remain today come from the back pages of the Baltimore Sun and Evening Sun, which printed a handful of articles between July 25 and July 27, when the sightings came to an end. Reporters approached it as a “tongue in cheek” story with cartoon illustrations. No one seemed to know when the events had started, but on July 24, Agnes Martin told a reporter that the phantom had been seen for “at least two or three weeks.”

The first definite date discovered by researcher Robert Damon Schneck was on July 19, although the figure had undoubtedly been seen a number of times prior to that. On this date, though, there was a full moon and nighttime temperatures were in the 70’s. It was around 1:00 a.m. when William Buskirk, 20, ran into the phantom. He reported, “I was walking along the 1100 block of Travers Way with several buddies when I saw him on a roof. He jumped off the roof and we chased him into the graveyard…”

One of the other boys interviewed with Buskirk stated that, “he sure is an athlete. You should have seen him go over that fence – just like a cat.” The fence that surrounded the cemetery was six feet in height and trimmed with barbed wire around the top. According to the witnesses, the figure in black had leapt over it with ease.

Hazel Jenkins claimed that the phantom grabbed her some time the same week. She saw it twice at close-range and may have been attacked when the figure tried to break into the Jenkins home but her brother, Randolph, saw it soon after. He told a reporter, “I saw him two nights after he tried to break into our house… He was just beginning to climb up on the roof of the Community Building. We chased him all the way to Graveyard Hell.”

The phantom next visited the family of Melvin Hensler, breaking into their house on July 20, but stealing nothing. After this unnerving experience, the family went to stay with Mr. Hensler’s brother, but Mrs. Hensler returned to the house the next day and found “a potato bag left on the ironing board,” which she was convinced belonged to the intruder. Mr. Hensler was so exhausted from staying awake that his eyes ached and he had started talking in his sleep.

Storms on July 23 lowered the temperatures, but had no effect on the phantom. In fact, on July 24, he was especially active. Newspapers reported, “At 11:30 p.m. officers Robert Clark and Edward Powell were called to the O’Donnell Heights area where they were greeted by some 200 people who said that had seen the oft-reported ‘phantom.’ Clark said that they pointed to the rooftops and someone yelled: ‘The phantom’s there!’” The police drove around and arrested a twenty-year-old sailor carrying a hammer. He was fined $5.

A reporter from the Sun found thirty of forty people waiting around the back stoop of a house on Gusryan Street, waiting for the sun to come up. One of them, Charles Pittinger, had armed himself with a shotgun. He interviewed several of them, who passed along rumors and told of their own experiences. Some of them claimed the phantom lived in the graveyard and a woman who lived on Wellsbach Way, adjacent to St.

Stanislaus, suggested that the phantom was doing more than jumping fences and breaking into houses: “One night I heard someone playing the organ in that chapel up there. It was about 1 o’clock.”

The phantom was also reportedly seen beckoning to Esther Martin from underneath an automobile, saying, “Come here, little girl.”

The consensus of the crowd was that the phantom easily leaped from two-story buildings, flew over fences and was a general nuisance in the neighborhood. A man named George Cook admitted having mixed feelings about what was happening. He did not deny the reports of the phantom, just the possibility that something extraordinary was involved. In the end, he blamed the media. “It’s ridiculous to believe that a man can jump from a height and not leave a mark on the ground. Yet this character does it all the time. It’s my idea that when this thing is cleared up… it’ll turn out to be one of these young hoodlums who has got the idea from the movies or the so-called funny papers, and is trying to act it out. This sort of thing appeals to detective story readers who are mainly looking for excitement.”

Meanwhile, the police were busy ignoring the phantom and rounding up the “usual suspects.” On the morning of July 25, they arrested four boys on disorderly conduct charges at an unidentified cemetery. Around 10:00 p.m. that same night, officers arrested three boys on an embankment near the cemetery. Their six companions, all on the lookout for the phantom, fled the scene. An hour later, the police responded to a call from a resident who heard footsteps on his roof, but nothing was found. At some point the next day, Mrs. Mildred Gaines heard the sound of someone trying to break into her house and ran outside barefoot screaming, “It’s the phantom!” It was actually the police breaking down the door to serve a search warrant on the premises. Mrs. Gaines and four male companions were arrested on bookmaking charges.

By this time, the newspaper coverage – which had started off with reporters as baffled as the residents of O’Donnell Heights – turned humorous. The stories poked fun at the sightings, reported pranks by neighbors pretending to be the phantom, and carried a story about a phantom sighting on a rooftop that turned out to be a ventilation pipe. On July 27, the Evening Sun announced there were no more reports and that, “Police think it might be a teenager.” The phantom was gone, but the heat was back, with high humidity and temperatures in the middle 90’s.

Like most bizarre “flaps” of this type, there was no satisfying resolution to the panic created by the Phantom of O’Donnell Heights. An unofficial version claimed that residents finally chased it into the cemetery, where the phantom jumped into a crypt and vanished for good.

No one can say who, or what, this figure may have been, although based on the sheer number of sightings, something weird was happening in the neighborhood. Descriptions of the phantom were fairly consistent, considering that that the encounters were brief, took place in the dark, and he was usually moving at a good clip. William Buskirk said, “He was a tall thin man dressed all in black. It looked like he had a cape around him.”

The only one who mentioned the phantom’s face was witness Myrtle Ellen, who said it was horrible. She also agreed about the dark costume. The newspapers described the phantom as “black robed,” suggesting long, loose-flowing clothes. Mrs. Melvin Hensler, discoverer of the discarded potato sack, saw the phantom three times and said that during one sighting, it looked as though he had a hump on his back.

Theories abound about the “Horror of the Heights.” Sociologists have described the events in O’Donnell Heights as an example of an “imaginary community threat,” suggesting that the 900 families living there experienced some type of mass hysteria, whipped up by rumors and the media. It’s true that misconceptions undoubtedly played a part in the events, but they don’t explain the relatively straightforward experiences described by William Buskirk and other witnesses. The police never denied that people were seeing something but, like George Cook, thought it would turn out to be a “young hoodlum.” But if it was, he was never caught, exposed or confessed.

It’s also hard to accept that the newspapers played a part in creating any hysteria. The two local papers ran only six articles on the phantom, two of them mere fillers, and they were printed as the sensation was coming to an end. The only one that might be called “sensationalistic” ran on July 25 and included the experiences of a number of witnesses. However, it ended on a sober note: “The question of the prowler of O’Donnell Heights continued to be not one of the phantoms, but of people reacting to (and possibly creating) the unknown with their imaginations.”

Some have taken the phantom’s affinity for St. Stanislaus as evidence that it was an actual ghost. Part of O’Donnell Heights was built on land that once belonged to the cemetery, which contains a great many unmarked graves from the influenza epidemic of 1918. Also, bodies were exhumed and reinterred when Boston Street was extended in the 1930s, but it’s hard to see how this would stir up a spirit in July 1951.

There has also been the suggestion that the phantom was some sort of mysterious entity like the “Mothman” of West Virginia or the “Mad Gasser of Mattoon,” which plagued a small town in Illinois in 1944.

Whatever it was, it remains a mystery and one that – like far too many others – will simply never be solved.

#The Boogeyman of Baltimore 1951 #unsolved mystery #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

[deathbyvalentine]

Hurt Prompts - Emotional

Working up to confessing feelings then finding out they can’t

It looked like any other evening. Diesel on his bunk, newsletter of the ship open though he wasn’t truly reading it. Petrol on his, disassembling their weapons and reassembling them until he could do it with his eyes closed. Diesel watched his hands, quick and clever. They always seemed to know what to do, never seemed uncertain. The exact opposite of how he usually felt. He wished he could be so sure. As it was, he never felt like he knew what step to take next.

For instance, this was the fourth time this week Diesel had considered telling Petrol he loved him. He pictured taking those hands in his own, pressing kisses to his knuckles and saying what he felt was something other than friendship, something different. About how he didn’t want another partner, even if it became more ideologically boosting to take another. About how far his morale plummeted when they were not together and how glad he was that was rare occurrence since the rest of the ship could see how good they were together. 

And then he glanced down at his newsletter, seeing the small, regular warning about idealogically unsound relationships. About how all comrades must be equal, even in love, even in feelings. He swallowed. He didn’t want to be  seditious or a rebel. He wished his feelings would disappear just as often as he wished he could tell Petrol. Often more so. The last thing he wanted to be was a traitor.

So for the fourth time that week, he shoved the words deep inside himself, where they would never be seen or heard or discovered. Instead, he pretended to read, Petrol none the wiser.

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Thinking about never having had confessed their feelings

Marjie thought the tombstone was a little tacky. There wasn’t a body underneath the earth or inside the coffin. The date of his death had to be debated, since time had gotten rather confusing. She felt something alarmingly close to anger, standing here next to an empty grave, trying to feel something that could ease her grief. It didn’t come. It wasn’t completely surprising but the small part of her that had hoped ached nonetheless. She lay the pansies on top of the soil and stood, waiting for something. When evening fell, she gave up. She went home, feeling nothing.

The picture of the four of them sat on her dressing table. The university days, that now more than ever seemed like a small section of heaven had come to earth. She found herself unable to enter the room without looking at it, sometimes holding it in her hands. Other times, she put it on her bedside table, so it was the last thing she saw before she tumbled into sleep.

Now he was gone (she still couldn’t say dead, it stuck in her throat every time -) Marjie found herself able to look her feelings in the eye in a way she hadn’t when his heart was still beating. It wasn’t certain. She still didn’t know if what she felt was love or if they could have had a fairytale together. But her mind kept flitting to the loss of him. Not just him. The potential, the life she had lost. They could have been happy. Andrew was already married, it was only a matter of time before Diana left her too. She would be alone, without her best friend, without the only man she could have borne as a lover. 

She was so lonely and that loneliness stretched out in front of her as a road, tracking through the rest of her life. The weight sat on her chest and made friends with her grief, striking at the oddest moments. Holding a baby, laminating pastry, finishing her embroidery. It would strike her silent and still, hands trembling, breath robbed.

Mostly, she wished she had told him something. Something real, something true, anything that meant something at all. He had died, perhaps thinking her indifferent. And that was something she most certainly wasn’t. She never could be.

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My hero has feet of clay

You’d think he would have gotten used to not only this feeling, but indeed this exact revelation. Hamish sat across from Jack the Ripper, only a polished wooden table between them. He had mistaken luck for cleverness, brutality for a trademark.  He was chaotic, he was messy, he was sadistic. Jack the Ripper was not clever, was not a kindred spirit. He was just a man who liked killing women and had quick feet. London had plenty of those. They were not unusual.

Once again, Hamish had thought he had found someone like him. Someone who was different. Who could be talked to, reasoned with and maybe even connected with. But no. Hamish was left alone on his ocean, no land in sight, no fellow castaway to swim with. Just him, surrounded by a culture he didn’t understand and never would.

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Insomnia

The house was different at night. Not bad different. Just different. In the day, sunlight poured in through the windows. It was empty (her brothers were still gone after all, no amount of morning could change that) and it was old but it was also beautiful, like a long forgotten sculpture. Dust motes danced on drafts and servant’s footsteps were muffled by thick carpets. There was life here, despite everything.

In the dark, she could feel the magic. The veil surrounding the whole house was thin, thin enough she was sure she could put her hand through it if she wanted to. Shadows obscured unseen forces in every corner, moonlight painted the world silver. She would wake from the touch of an unseen hand, no tiredness clinging to her sick body. She felt the electric shock of realisation - she was the only one awake in the whole house. A reverse sleeping beauty.

She explored, marvelling at everything that was mundane in the light. Her dollhouse seemed now a resting place for fae, the kitchen the home of a witch. She didn’t need to make believe. Her heart told her it was true.

When her fathers and brothers were alive, it was only magical sometimes. When her and her brothers had been playing at pirates or knights. When their nurse had told them stories that widened their eyes and straightened their curls. When she was sickest, blood mixing with her vomit and sweat clinging to her skin. But most nights, especially when her father was home, it was just a house.

Her night time wanderings lead her to sleep late. She would wake with the midmorning sun already blazing and her mother stroking her hair. It wasn’t too hard to take her medicine those days, just wanting her transgression to remain undiscovered. It wasn’t trouble she was afraid of. She had never asked so a rule had never been established. It was this small inch of freedom being taken away. Maeve was all too aware her bedroom door could always be locked, the room in her tower limited further.

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Reminders of the road not taken

Alexei burnt the cloak of feathers. The smoke smelt fetid and foul. He watched the flames hiss and fizzle, determinedly working their way through the mound. Alexei had never been a fire person. He had always preferred ice. So as the flames climbed higher, he let his heart freeze. He let magic dance around his fingers as he touched his neck and in a matter of moments, the silhouettes that had been tattooed there had changed back into the smooth expanse of white skin.

This felt something like a final nail in a coffin, the final flourish of a signature. The last soft part of him carved out, leaving nothing but marble. He had no softness left in him. No kindness, no compassion, only a shining marble of hate and hurt, so mixed together he could not tell one from the other.

An alternate future stretched in front of him. One where he was loved back. One where one by one, Roc stripped away all the wounds and hurts of a decade of confusion and healed them. Where there was a life together, one filled with laughter and joy. A house, together. Maybe children, definitely pets. An eternity of devotion. All ripped away. All lost.

How many times could he grieve for all the people he could have been? Just once more. Never again.

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Losing Side, Not Wrong Side

The church was empty. Not of objects of course, but of people. The objects were the most upsetting part. Board games left half-finished, pieces sitting expectantly on the chessboard. Beds unmade. Clothes left hanging in wardrobes or tossed carelessly over chairs, not to know what they would not be worn by their owners again. A thin layer of dust coated every surface. It reminded Tommy of a museum. Or more fittingly, a tomb.

Tommy wondered how long it would be before the council realised they weren’t paying their rent. If they would send bailiffs to clear out all the personal items, all these small totems sent to landfill. Some other group would move in here, fill the space with their chatter and nonsense. Their community, their family. It would be like the Church of Saint William was never here at all.

He wondered if in the US some had survived. Some vampires, too isolated or too outnumbered to be wiped out. He hoped so, that some fragment of the love and determination they had was still lodged in the world somewhere, but on another level, it didn’t matter. The vampires he knew and loved would still be dead, through no fault of their own.

It was such a waste. That’s what his grief kept boiling down to. These were good people, doing nothing but good things, fighting against their nature so the world was a little less brutal. They weren’t rewarded for it. Ultimately, they were punished. So what was the point of trying?

Tommy slipped a card inside his pocket, one of the ones left over from when he and Jones made a crown here, laughing and being watched by their friends. He needed something to keep. To remember the days that were once here. Memory was the only thing left of the Church now.

__________________________________________________________

Dressing up and being disappointed

Thomas knew how to make himself beautiful. It took very little. A hint of rouge across his high cheekbones, lip stain dabbed against his skin until his mouth was blood red. He did not brush his hair, instead letting the natural curls settle. The outfit of course, was another factor. Understated. A black waistcoat against a crisp white shirt, a small diamond pin sitting at his lapel. Sleeves rolled up to show immaculately clean hands. Where he grew up that was how you told a gentleman from a commoner. A gentleman never had any dirt under his nails.

He inspected himself in the mirror, straightening his shirt. He looked as good as he did in all the portraits painted of him. He looked like all the poems and stories and love letters written about him. He looked deserving of worship. He looked like temptation. Idly, he wondered, what did the serpent look like? Was it anything like him?

The court was waiting. It wasn’t the most luminous court but he could make it his, in time. He was the fledgling of queens after all. If anyone could persuade regality into the mundane, it was him. He took a breath into airless lungs. He set his shoulders into a straight line. His mother awaited, downstairs, preparing the room for his arrival.

The stairs were sweeping and carved with marble, probably with the blood money from the slave masters this city had housed not so long ago. It was beautiful and it was ugly, which is why Thomas liked it. The stairs opened out into an entrance hall where the court was mingling before the meeting officially began. The noise of the door opening was unexpected. Every set of eyes turned to watch him sweep down. 

All but one.

His mother continued her conversation, glass of blood firmly held in delicate fingers studded with rings. Her long hair, shining from the light of the candles cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of gold. She was flirting, one head tilted to the side, her lips painted the same shade of scarlet as his own. She did not look at him. Not even as other kindred came over to talk to him, desperate to curry favour or whisper salacious gossip. He knew she wasn’t ignoring him purposefully. She had just forgotten she had had a child at all.

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Hurting someone and not finding out

Juniper found it exceptionally easy to hurt people. She was not a sadist nor did she do it out of practical necessity. She did it out of sheer obliviousness. She had been raised without a mother and indeed, without any consistent nursemaid or governess. Instead, she had her father. Her father, while loving and kind in all things, was not a picture of societal expectations. He was eccentric, distracted and excitable. And so, Juniper became all these things too with one important addition. She also became beautiful. This was in some ways, the truly damning factor about her.

Once she was a woman, she was approached for courting, as any beautiful young woman is. Her wealth and father’s reputation for cleverness, only added to the appeal. However, very few men made it past the very first hurdle. The first hurdle was making her realise she was in fact, being courted. A young gentleman would hand her flowers and she would accept them joyfully before immediately informing them of the complexities of interspecies cross breeding. A caller would send her notes inviting her for tea and she would rebuff them all, telling him she was all too busy with reading the latest tome on insect casings. She criticised pretty dresses bought for her because of their impracticality on archaeological digs. Her father, slightly more canny than his brilliant daughter, found himself utterly delighted he had to do very little fatherly intervention at all.

The one wound she became aware of inflicting troubled her greatly. A clerk of her father’s, a young man named Francis had been endeavouring to talk to her every time she visited her father’s office. She found him rather agreeable and an eager audience, not squeamish like so many other gentleman. He would nod and ask questions about her travels, ask to see her samples and indeed, offer suggestions for additions to her library. She soon considered him a great friend. They spent a great deal of time together until in the middle of the Kensington Botanical Gardens, he dropped to a knee and confessed to his undying love for her, leaving her utterly baffled. The look on her face and her stuttering speech was enough to let young Francis know he had made more than one fundamental misunderstanding to the nature of their outings. He fled and requested a reference from her father so he could seek employment elsewhere.

For many months she would lay in bed, puzzled, turning over each interaction in her mind and inspecting it for clues. It seemed the rest of the world had learnt a language she was not privy to when she wasn’t looking, and now everything depended on her fluency. She mourned the loss of her friend and wished only to seek forgiveness - though what wrong she had committed she could not say. Her father soothed her as much as he could, seeing her distress, but even his most simple explanations of what Francis had assumed of their relationship had confused her. Juniper was a plain speaking young woman and did not fathom not everyone was as straightforward as she. Privately, he felt sorrowful for her. There would be more of these hurts in her life and she would be lonely until she wasn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it but love her wholeheartedly and convince her of her brilliance. He hoped she would not dull her light and the world not dull it for her. He hoped.

______________________________________________________________

Goodnight my little girl 

Amelia woke up early. She always did. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a lie in. She sat up and sat for a moment, looking around her room in the dawn light. Sunrise and sunset were her favourite times of day. It felt like peace stretched across them for as long as the light lasted, only to be broken when the demands of the day or darkness of the night insisted it did. It was the only time she had to breathe, to feel her body and know it was hers. To know she existed in the world, even alone. Even unseen. Then she got up and the illusion shattered.

First, it was making breakfast and waking up Jack. While he eat, still half asleep and drenched in teenage-boy-bleariness, she made his lunch. She held his backpack for him as he dashed out the door, calling warnings about what she would do to him if he dared skip class again. Then a cup of tea for herself, hands curled around the warm porcelain. She had a decision to make - work she enjoyed first, or later. Usually she would use it as an incentive to get through the first half of the day.

She would walk upstairs and into her mother’s room. Pull open the curtains to let some light in, open a window if it was spring. Anything to try and disturb the fugue of dark clouds in here. She would place a cup of sugary coffee by her bed, coax her into drinking it. Breakfast was usually a bust and only on her most optimistic days did she try. She didn’t have very many optimistic days. With the coffee was a selection of pills, looking like candy in their small bowl, carefully counted. She could rattle off drug names and effects in her sleep now, a hundred doctors appointments and a thousand articles embedded firmly into the large section of her mind devoted to dealing with Alice.

Running a bath next. Baths were easier to clean someone in than showers. She could just roll up her sleeves and use a water jug to clean her hair without needing to strip down herself. Alice was always fairly pliant when being guided into the tub. Amelia justified this in her mind by imagining that Alice had always loved baths. It might have even been true. Just because she didn’t remember it didn’t make it a lie. It was around this time she mused about her heritage. She did not look like her mother. Alice’s skin was clear when Amelia’s was freckled. Her eyes blue where Amelia’s were an odd green/grey. She had fine, straight blonde hair that made her look like a doll while Amelia’s wild red curls made her look like a forest fire. She imagined her father differently each time.

Maybe he was a rock star, her mother one of his devoted fans. She had his eyes but none of his musical talent. Or maybe he was an academic of English Literature or Art History and that’s why she loved paintings so much. A hundred theories boiling down to the essentials - he was not here, wherever he was. It was just her and her brother and the person that once may have been her mother.

After putting Alice back to bed, there were chores to do and errands to run. Shopping, cleaning, feeding the cat, planning the week ahead, gardening. It was only when they were done that she could have a few hours doing what she loved. She set up her desk in her room and began drawing, taking long sips of her tea in between strokes of her pencil. She drew scenes from fairytales, scenes from her dreams, scenes from things she wished would happen but didn’t. Some she would send to publishers, to illustrate children’s stories. More, she would simply slip them into her notebook pile, to be seen by nobody but herself. All too soon, she would hear Jack’s key in the lock, returning from school and it was time to drag herself away.

Dinner for Jack. Dinner for Alice. Something for herself, even though she had no appetite. Help Jack with his homework. Watch something with him, arms curled around him so he knew somebody loved him. So he didn’t spend his nights wondering if anyone had his back. When he went to bed, that was admin time and if she was lucky, reading time. She would sit in the glow of the television, legs curled under her as she turned the pages. She liked romances, historical pieces, anything where a girl ground through hardship before flourishing. She couldn’t stand anything that didn’t have a happy ending.

She put herself to bed after that. Kissed Jack, turned off the light in Alice’s room after drawing the curtains tight. Brushed her own hair, wrapped herself up in cotton blankets. She had nobody to say good night to her or switch the light off as they left the room. Her mother, in the room beside her, would not stir. She was not sure when she had inherited a family, inherited a maturity she didn’t want. But she had and there was nothing she could do about it. She could not return even the most painful of gifts. All that was left was sleep.

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Character being accidentally triggered

All it took was the Captain raising his voice, slamming his fist on the table, the poor officer in front of him cringing from his wrath. Cal watched, impassive, hands in a tight knot behind their back, shoulders straight. They knew how to be a statue, how to become invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking. Stillness was one of the only defences left to them. The meeting was brought to a close. They listened to their closing orders, nodded in assent and left the room.

They were aiming to get to their quarters. They walked with even steps, head tilted down in the usual show of deference and humility. They managed to get two decks down before the tightness in their chest threatened to overwhelm them. They spied a rope cupboard, pulled it open and ensconced themselves inside. There was a simple lock on the inside. They turned it.

As soon as they heard the click, they fell apart. They went to their knees, clamping their hands over their mouth to muffle the sudden keening sob. Their shoulders shook as they tried to suppress the panic, the release of fear that sent shudders through their entire frame. Logically, they knew the Captain was not angry at them. Barely knew they existed in fact. But the raised voice, the slam of flesh on wood - the instinct to hide was almost overwhelming. They wanted to cringe, to turn invisible, to do anything they could to avoid the inevitable punishment.

They were in the cupboard a long time. Slowly, bit by bit, their breathing returned to a normal pace and they could move their shaking hands to their knees, trying to get to a point where they could walk through the corridors without causing any undue anxiety. They rubbed at their face angrily with the edge of their sleeve, forgetting for a moment that tears didn’t stain their cheeks anymore. They stood up, wiping their skirts down and exhaling slowly. Now, to get to their room. Shouldn’t be too impossible as long as nobody else shouted.

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Addict Parents

Astrid’s first memory was not of her parents. It was of her sibling. In fact, Astrid couldn’t remember any facet of her early life that had featured them. It seemed as long as she had been alive, there had been the two of them in the living room of their tiny flat, smoking and shooting up. They were as present and as important as the wall paper. She barely noticed them as she breezed in and out, occasionally calling a goodbye without expecting so much as a mumbled reply. She only thought about them at all when Rei died.

They didn’t react to the news. They barely blinked. She was on the very edge of sober and she wanted to shake their shoulders, scream, force them to react to the fact that one of their children were dead. She wanted to rip the needles from their hands, shatter them under her heel. She wanted them to look at her, not through her. 

She did none of those things. She stood in the doorway, watching the two people who had brought her into the world carry on watching the vid screen. Apathy and disinterest hardened into a small hard marble of disgust in her chest. These people had made her, brought her into a place with not enough food and too much violence, where they couldn’t even walk outside without a respirator. And for what? Clearly not love. Clearly not anything meaningful. Through an accident and not having the wherewithal to stop the damn problem. 

She may be a junkie but she wasn’t like them. Nor would she ever be. She would go out into the world and experience things, and love people and never ever build a prison out of smoking and late night tv. Not ever.

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Money woes late at night

He didn’t keep regular hours. Between school and working at the garage, the only time he had left to write was night time. He sat with his typewriter, crammed into his tiny desk, coffee sitting beside him along with some scrawled notes. If anyone ever suspected Trick of murder, these notes would damn him. Such is the life of a horror writer. His aunt was generally the opposite. She went to bed early because she rose early, usually gone before he had gotten up for school. Ships in the night she called them, which is why when he padded downstairs in batman pj bottoms to retrieve some more coffee, he didn’t expect to see her in the kitchen.

Only the table light was on, casting a small pool of orange light onto a sea of paper. His aunt rested her forehead on her hand, pencil clasped in the other, scrawling numbers into a notebook. He didn’t have to read the letters to know they were bills. The red ink was clear enough, even in the low light. He hesitated, holding his mug and lingering in the doorway. She glanced up, started, then smiled at him tiredly. She did not tell him to go to bed as he expected and instead patted the empty chair beside her.

“When are we gonna win the lottery, ay kid?” She ruffled his hair, making him pull a face. “Not soon enough apparently.”  “We’ll be okay. Just... going to have a tight month is all.” Trick had been having tight months since he could remember, but he nodded.  “I could pick up another few shifts. Help out a bit.” “You shouldn’t have to.” Trick noticed that was not a no.  “Yeah well. You should be a queen and I should be an award winning author.” She gestured at him violently with the pencil. “You will be mister. Just you wait. Those stories are going to save us.” He stood up, smiling ruefully, filling his mug with water instead of coffee and heading back towards the stairs. “I better get on with writing then.” “You better.”She agreed. As he ascended, he could hear the scratching of her pencil restart. Soon the tapping of his keys would join the restless sounds of the night. _______________________________________________________________

What could have been

He would have been in another plane. Flying over another battlefield. Nikolai dying in some Russian prison. He would have earned promotions and plaudits from the blood of other men or he would have been shot out of the sky, falling to his death or to his capture. Samuel would find fresh horrors to pile on his old horrors until his mind was nothing but nightmares. Every time he got dragged into some war bigger than himself he was left with only pain.

He shifted in bed, looking over at the sleeping figure of Frankie. This is what he had instead. A clever magician who would never leave his side. A soldier devoted to his protection. A queen, beautiful and terrible. And magic. So much magic he could never have believed was possible. The world was more wonderful and more horrible than he had ever dreamed. He could twist reality in his fingers, make art, show love. Yes, he was different. But he wasn’t broken. Not like the Samuel who stumbled out of the first war, desperately looking for something to hold on to. 

He wrapped his arms around Frankie, breathing him in, face pressed gently to his neck. He made a soft sound, probably anticipating being awoken by a sharp bite or pleasurable caress. It was never easy to tell with Saimon. For the minute though, he just held him. Frankie was the embodiment of hard won freedom and a future that was only soaked in the blood he chose to soak it in.

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Almost

A hundred coincidences make up a war. If Achilles hadn’t leant Patroclus his coat. If Paris hadn’t been out alone, wandering aimlessly. If the goddesses had had something better to do that day. If Menelaus hadn’t been on a business trip. If any single one of the Olympians had considered the people below them to be people. It was infuriating. It made his usually cool blood heat and roil, his usually even temper threaten to snap.

He explored the ruins of the Trojan district. The entire place was painted in the grey of ash, like an old forgotten photograph. Every step left a footprint and every breeze washed that footprint away. Shop fronts were burnt out, the streets were empty. Shattered glass was strewn like confetti and Aeneas’s heart ached. How do you grieve for a culture? How do you grieve for not just a person, but a family?

He had almost died with them. But as always he was just a little more cool headed, a little more quick. He had hidden, not fled and he had not been found. Look what good it had done him. Look at his kingdom, the place that one day he and his siblings would have ruled together. Nowhere to go, nowhere to rebuild, constantly living in shadows for fear the light would draw too much attention. Nobody to love or to love him. God he was tired. The only reason he could continue was because he was steadfast. He only knew how to carry on. Other people could explode in grief or kill themselves with rage but that was not him. His punishment was always life and no escape.

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All that blood was just red

You had to keep getting up. That was the important thing. Every time you hit the ground, you had to get back up. No matter how much it hurt. No matter how broken you were. No matter how much you wanted to just lie there and rest.

It was easier when he believed there was a higher purpose. That each blow and each bit of pain was making him stronger, like armour being built and built up pieces by pieces. After several years of this grind, he knew that wasn’t the case. All the pain hadn’t made him stronger. It had made him older. Tireder. More cynical. More suspicious. Less himself and less happy. All he had now was his morals. He had managed to shield them, keep them away from the worst of the damage until they had become strong enough to support him. When he didn’t know what to do, when his better nature was nowhere to be found, he could look there and find a path.

He wasn’t a better person. That was the key thing. Not better or worse, just different. It would be a lie to say Tommy didn’t miss his old self though. There was no finding his way back to that, not after all that he had seen. And what for?

That, he still wasn’t sure of.

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Absence of real choice

Supposedly, nobody really chose to be a hero. Through circumstance or split second decisions, they became heroic. Adam would argue they still could have walked away. Could have done something differently, even if it marked them as a villain. None of these people had a prophecy following them around. When fate decided you were a hero, there was very little anyone could do about it, least of all you.

Adam couldn’t remember a time where he wasn’t aware of destiny. Where he didn’t have a regimented routine of learning skills that would make him everything a hero should be. Sword fighting, running, learning latin, learning first aid, learning not to be frightened of anything. He felt so full of these lessons that he wasn’t sure that somewhere along the line, his personality, wants and dreams hadn’t been pushed out to make room. He was a hollow person. A cut out in the shape of a saviour.

Not that it mattered. It didn’t bother him, most days. Kids got moulded into whatever their parents wanted all the time. So what if his parents were a commune of doomsday preachers? The principle still stood. He mattered. He would save the world. Who wouldn’t want that? Everybody wanted to be special and he was.

But.

The one thing that did trouble him, that he turned over again and again in his mind as he lay in bed at night. That he worried over like a tongue over a broken tooth, not stopping until he tasted blood. The thing was the inevitable reality of his death. He had read the stories, the epics, the myths. Heroes ended up dead, very almost universally. Happy ever afters were for fairytales and he most certainly was not in one of those. He would likely die and to ask any teenager to be okay with that was sort of a big ask. He tried to think of what he would like to do if he had a full life and only blankness reared up in front of him. How to imagine a future when you had never expected one?

The comfort was of course, that nothing he did mattered anyway. The prophecy would come true no matter what he did. It was nothing something you could run from. That made resigning yourself to what the path brought easier. Even if your steps along it were still heavy and reluctant.

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Something is wrong (AU)

The Chaser is quiet, sitting amongst the stars with only a quiet humming. Cal was outside their quarters, though they could not quite remember how or why. Perhaps they had just woken up or had a long shift. Whatever it was it seemed unimportant. Their armscrew was at their side and smiling. “Boss? We’re gonna be late.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. What for?” “Captain’s Special Dinner. You’re dressed up for it and everything.” Cal looked down and saw that indeed they were. A gold dress that swept down to the floor, shimmering and glinting like liquid in the bright overhead lights of the corridor. Their skin glistened too and they could not remember the last time they had had it on show. It reminded me of the sun on Olethra, fierce and beautiful, transforming all it touched. They had forgotten what it looked like. “Lead the way.” As they walked through the Chaser, nobody looked twice. Nobody winced away from looking at Cal’s face or quickly checked the armscrew was close enough in case they suddenly lost it. Quite a few even smiled. A sudden thought occured to Cal - they lifted their fingers to their eyelids. They were not burnt or coated with black blood. Their eyes were back. Come to think of it, none of their body hurt. Cal frowned. Why would it hurt? Something important, something on the edge of their memory - but look, they had arrived at the dining hall. Their armscrew winked and opened the door for them. When they entered, everyone stood.

Their breath caught in their throat. Everyone they loved was there. Baris, not a single augmetic on him, grinning wildly and standing tall. Magos Aleph nodding his approval. Gwyn, cassock spotless and their MIU shining. Choir, his eyes wide and brown and beautiful. Argento, without a mask, clothed in red. He was the only one that wasn’t smiling. The Finisterran lot, on their own table, paying no attention to the stiff formalities, chattering and occasionally whispering about other guests. Bridge, standing straight, looking well rested, a man Cal only recognised from dreams beside him, tall and with red hair. Sister Anya waved.

They knew who they would find at the last chair and their heart still jumped anyway. Nic. Suddenly, they wanted to cry and they had no idea why. They walked over, wrapping their arms around him tightly. He laughed, said something about nobody ever being this pleased to see him. A terror was wrapped around their heart, a conviction he would dissolve in their arms. A moment later, it passed, leaving them blinking and confused. They were sitting down. Had they always been?

In their mug was hot chocolate and they took a sip, breathing out and trying to relax. Trying to enjoy this. But something was scrabbling about in the back of their mind like a rat, claws drawing blood. The hot chocolate tasted wrong. It tasted like ash. It almost choked them with the flavour of smoke and they put the mug down, trying to be polite, trying to not let anyone see. Their eyes flickered around the room. Nobody had noticed. But Cal was starting to notice things.

A small river of blood flowered from Baris’s ear, though he was apparently oblivious to it. Argento’s burner was the centerpiece of his table and the flame was far too lively to be just from a candle. Bridge was sitting alone, apparently not taking a single bit of notice to the now empty chair beside him, thought it was covered with yellow and red flowers, spilling onto the floor. 

There was a movement towards the door. They excused themselves, walking towards it, though something made their steps slower and slower the closer they got. The small opaque window set in the door was suddenly pouring with golden light, hard to look at for too long. The observation slides on the walls too were showing nothing but gold, as if the Chaser had fallen into a jeweller’s cauldron. Silence fell across the hall and Cal realised all of the guests were watching them. They wanted to explain that they didn’t want to go, they didn’t want to leave them, but they needed to see what was on the other side of that door. One hand rested on it, hesitating. But even as they stood, agonised, they knew there was only one way this was going to go. There always had only been one way. The door was opening, whether they did it or not. One last look at the faces surrounding them. A deep breath. And a push.

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Right person, wrong time

The first time we fell in love, it was moments before I died. You had smiled at me and your teeth sunk deep into my neck. Love feels like a punctured jugular and the life seeping out of you bit by bit until the altar below you is coated in your blood. I didn’t know if you saved me or damned me but I knew you had appeared when my god hadn’t. I believed he had sent you, so I could serve him forever.

The second time we fell in love, I was a different person. This me had long long curls and wore armour into battle, screaming bloody murder. I only knew it was you when you parried my blow and grinned. You knocked the sword out of my hand and all of a sudden I remembered who I was. We fought until we were exhausted then retired together, the battle forgotten. 

There was a third time, in a court where they tried to make me lose my head. A fourth, while I was posing for a painting. A time where I swam naked in the sea. A time when you were throwing flaming bottles at a line of shielded men. I am not sure which time comes first or what order they came in. I change every time. You always find me though, no matter what life I have built for myself. You come and it gets muddled up. And I love it. I like being muddled. 

I worry one day I will be someone new and you won’t arrive and I’ll forget you like I’ve forgotten so many other things, like I forget myself. There won’t be you with my true name on your lips. You won’t stay. You won’t want me. It’s okay - these worries are soon lost to the wind as usual. I know you will collect them and bring them back to me, a bouquet of context, a bouquet of broken promises that reveal such delicious hurt.

I would rather remember and hurt than forget and feel nothing.

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Dealing with homophobia (Ash)

One word was all it took. One word. 

“Dykes.”

They had gotten two steps forward. Ash came to an abrupt stop. She very gently let go of the two women's’ hands she was holding and turned around. This was the point at which any sensible person would start to back pedal. Her expression was almost disinterested, polite even. She walked the short distance back to the three young men, leaning against the wall sniggering. One held a cigarette in nicotine stained fingers. Ash planted herself and looked them up and down, apparently not impressed by whatever it was she saw.

“What did you say to me?” “Nothing girl, it’s alright.” A small uneasy laugh from the one in the middle, his eyes flickering to the two beside him.  “No, go on big man. What did you say to me?” As expected, this got his neck up. “Fuck off, lesbo bitch.” That was the cue she needed. Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his hoodie, pulling it down with one swift movement. As he bent in surprise, she brought her knee up, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch. A howl of confused pain came from him, blood pouring from between his fingers. His friends looked from him to her, aghast. Ash put her hands on her hips. “Anything else? No. Didn’t think so. Fucking morons.” She brushed her gloves against her tights as though to wash the dirt from them. Then she turned and rejoined Bella and Alice, linking her arms through theirs and continuing on their merry way.

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Casual homophobia

Myrtle liked looking at girls the way she knew Teddy liked looking at boys. She wasn’t sure exactly how that was. She didn’t know what it meant. But she found men tiresome and often repulsive while she could gaze at women all day. She loved the illustrations of princesses in her fairy tale books, could spend hours studying the paintings from the Romantics. Her parents, thankfully, simply thought she had an interest in art. It was an illusion she did not do much to dissuade. Some part of her knew this was a secret, a shameful one at that. A secret she only knew the shape of, not what it actually was.

She knew Teddy had looked to the classics for some answers. She did too, put she found no Achilles. Instead she found Artemis, a goddess never married and surrounded by women. She found Sappho, a poet overcome with longing for a woman. Reading the words scorched her cheeks red and sometimes she had to shut the book and place it over her heart while she returned to herself. 

While she was creeping through the halls, long after she should have been in bed, she paused by the parlour door, listening to the chat and gossip of adults. That was when she heard of Elizabeth, the daughter of Margaret. Apparently she had been found in a state of disrepute with her lady’s maid. The room gasped as one and Myrtle held her breath. She had been sent away. The room seemed to know where but Myrtle did not. All she knew was a roiling feeling was at home in her stomach and it didn’t go away even as she crept back to bed. She was resolved. She would keep herself secret. Myrtle was adept at secrets. What was another one?

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Never good enough

“Maeve, elbows off the table.” “Maeve, a lady does not tap her pen when she’s thinking.” “Maeve, when a lady sits, she keeps both feet on the ground.” “Maeve, it is shockingly impolite to roll one’s eyes.” “Maeve, do not tell me you’ve been gallivanting around the moors like some wild horse.” Maeve wanted to scream. What exactly did a lady do, because it wasn’t anything interesting. They played piano, but well. They read, but only the right books. They didn’t interrupt or have a loud voice or contradict the men of the house. They didn’t get dirty or run until their lungs hurt. They didn’t investigate insects or go sleepwalking after dark. 

Maeve was not a lady. She wished never to be if this life of restraint is all that awaited her. More and more she missed her childhood, missed being a half wild thing that ran in a pack with her brothers. But now all her brothers were dead and she was too old to run with bare feet, mud splashing up her ankles. And even if she wasn’t, she was most definitely too ill. This frailty intertwined with womanhood was the bane of her life, when the bane of her life wasn’t currently occupied with being her mother.

She wanted to please her. Honestly she did. But there were so many rules to remember, so many behaviours that were undesirable, she never did it perfectly. She was loved best when she was sick and could remember to be quiet and still and beautiful. When she couldn’t fight with spitting and tantrums. She understood it. Sometimes she liked herself best then too. 

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Familial expectations

There were a number of things that you expected when you were the girlfriend of one of the kids of the most powerful family in the city. One, Zeus would hit on you. It would be gross and you better pray Hera never finds out about it. Two, Apollo would ruin at least one of your dates with complaints about his own love life tanking. Three, you would end up being drawn into some political bullshit way above your depth.

Calliope only wanted to be part of something. She had that in Artemis’s gang. She was loved, she was feared, she was embraced by sisters of every class, colour and creed. Eventually, she was even embraced by Artemis herself. That was something she’d never even allowed herself to dream of. Artemis was a special kind of untouchable. Who she chose was important. She did not fall in love easily.

Because of this she was now at a party where her muddy boots and blood stained jacket did not exactly fit the aesthetic.  There was an electricity in the air, barely perceptible, but there it was. Something was going to happen. And frankly, depending on the something, she wasn’t sure she wanted to help. Zeus could catch a bullet for all she cared. Would Artemis consider it treason if she only worked for her, not her family? She guessed she’d find out.

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The two of them without you (Ash)

There was a certain amount of irony in feeling like the third wheel in a triad. You would have thought that was at least partly impossible. But no, it was. Ash felt it every time she went to Bella’s place, the small nagging feeling in her chest that she was interrupting them. They never gave her the slightest indication that’s what they thought, but it didn’t matter. It’s what Ash thought.

They loved each other, that much was plain to see. And Ash was... newer. Not to mention pretty fucking hard to get along with at the best of times. She was not used to relationships in the slightest. Waking up in the morning, she had to fight her first instinct to creep out of the room without waking up either of the other women. She still found it hard to relax, to untense around them. She was getting better, bit by bit, but she still didn’t have the connection they did.

If she disappeared tomorrow, eaten by some creature from hell, they would be fine. Sad, maybe, but it wouldn’t destablise them. But Bella without Alice or Alice without Bella? She imagined there would be real heartbreak there, not nearly so easy to heal. It was only fair she supposed. She was numb to grief by now, loss an expected price to pay to keep existing in this world. It was likely everyone she loved would die, probably horribly. She had done her mourning. All she had left in her chest was a dark void that got bigger by the day.

And besides. She was already dead. Maybe they had done their mourning too.

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Made food ignored

It was muscle memory at this point. He hummed to himself as his fingers deftly manipulated the pastry, pressing the dumplings shut and flouring them a little more. They would never be as good as his grandmother’s of course, but they were still a damn sight better than anyone else’s. He liked to think it was in his blood just as much as his magic or his red hair. He waited until the fat was bubbling and he dropped the dumplings in, enjoying the satisfying sizzle.

Duty's work tended to be more unpredictable than his. She was generally more important, which meant meetings and dinners, sudden conferences and last minute plans. The Guard tended to have shifts he could plan around, city emergencies the only thing that knocked them off kilter. They focused on good and bad, not concerning themselves too deeply with the politics that brought these conditions around (unless, of course, there was a tyrant to be toppled, but unfortunately the Emperor seemed to be just a wanker rather than a dictator). Cherry, imitating the house husband he hoped one day to be, liked cooking on the days he expected her home at a reasonable time. Glancing outside at the evening colours painting the sky, she shouldn’t be too long.

He chopped the spring onions into fine slivers, pouring it into the soy sauce, followed by cubed ginger. He licked his fingers thoughtfully, appreciating the strong heat. He added too much spice to everything as a general rule, but ginger was a happy half way ground they had negotiated. He retrieved the dumplings, now crispy and golden brown. He rested them on a handkerchief to take some of the oil from them. In an unusual show of impulse control, he managed not to eat a single one as he transferred them to the pretty plate, the one with delicate flowers painted around the rim. 

Right on cue, he heard the front door swing open. Like a puppy, he stood up straighter. The best part of his day was when they were together. He stuck his head around the door, ready to announce dinner, and paused. Duty was tugging off her boots with an exhaustion he hadn’t anticipated. There was dust streaked through her blonde hair and a bruise against her cheek. His eyes flickered to her belt. Crucially, her dagger was dirty.

“Hey.” He said, softly. “You alright?” She nodded. “Yeah. Do you mind if I just go to bed? It’s been a long day.” He thought of the plate of food waiting in the kitchen. “No, of course not. I’ll be right in. Just give me a sec.”

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I slept with your sister (Astrid)

It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. The fact itself caused little pain. It ached perhaps. The thing that stung was the utter lack of surprise she felt. No shock. No horror. Just acceptance. She knew what she was meant to do now. She was meant to scream and cry and throw things, break up with Syn or at the very least make her plead for forgiveness. She discovered she didn’t have the energy to do any of those things. What would be the point? Syn wouldn’t feel guilty, she wouldn’t learn any lessons and she would look crazy. So she did none of it, drawing a simple line in the sand that if she cheated once more, they were done. It was the most authoritative thing she had ever said. 

A mystery she did keep turning over in her mind was why Rei did it. Were they drunk or they high? Did they think that Syn and her had really broken up this time? Either way, they had decided that Astrid’s feelings were less important than whatever was going through their head. And Astrid honestly couldn’t disagree.

Her feelings weren’t important. She always bounced back. She always drowned her emotions away, giving them a blasted impermanence. Why should anyone take them into account when all she did was throw them away? She turned the memory chip over in her fingers. She could become Rei, if she wanted. The gang would benefit. Her life would actually mean something.

The words from Miss Black tugged in the back of her head though. Maybe her life wasn’t just about how useful she was to other people. Again, she thought of the job she’d been offered, what it promised. It was the only flickering light she had and she kept it close. It felt a little like hope. Hope was dangerous. Which meant Astrid was bound to be addicted to it all the same.

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Hero worship failing

Cal blinked back tears from sightless eyes, retreating immediately into themselves, lips pressed together in a tight line. Their first instinct was always to nurse their wounds, privately and without announcement. And so they crept to the place they had set up their nest, wrapping their arms around their knees and willing themselves not to cry.

They kept telling themselves that he was under stress. That they weren’t in his crew and so owed them no courtesy or kindness, and indeed he had been far kinder than they had any right to expect. They told themselves a hundred things but none of them soothed the stinging. Part of it was their own embarrassment, the ridiculous fact that they, beloved by the Emperor and miracle worker could have their feelings so badly hurt by a slightly sharp word from a man who was trying to herd about fifty cats. 

That was what bore them through in the end. A fierce internal shaking of themselves, a brutal scolding. Callum Gearwright, pick yourself up. Stop looking for approval from anyone but your Love. Do what you know to be good and don’t bother asking for permission, particularly if that would halt your hand. They rubbed their hands across their eyes, sniffling once and then straightening their back. 

Another small thread snipped, another step taken forward. They put one hand on their chest, half-believing they could feel the warm glow of the Emperor’s light emanating from their heart. They could certainly feel it in their mind. They brushed down their night gown and stood, feeling fragile and refreshed and like they were going to be a hero. A little wiser, a little stronger. As they walked back to the chattering team, shadows flinched away.

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Painful Nostalgia

She loved the ones that were dying, dearly. She would sit beside them and stroke their hair, feeling all the desires that would never be fulfilled, all the wants that would die with them. She felt their sorrow as if it was her own, like an arrow through the chest. For all her faults, she could never be said to be unfeeling. Indeed, she felt entirely too much. There was scarcely a moment she was not near tears or rage, a moment she was not almost swept away with her depth of feeling. The goddess was like the sea, stormy and all encompassing. Worship of her was not for the faint of heart, and yet everyone did it in their own small way. Her altars were primarily human hearts and minds.

She loved the want for what could not be regained best. Golden childhoods, gilded by the distance of time and experience. A past lover, perfected by absence. Dead loved ones, forever out of reach, every unkind word either forgotten or agonised over. She would lie beside her follower and ask them to tell her all about it. To let the grief of loss pour out of them, so she could share within it, hand clutching mortal hand. It was lucky really, she had such a short memory. If she remembered all she was told, surely her back would break under the weight of it all. 

One of her curses was forgetfulness. She personally, did not ever see how letting go of what you loved could be a blessing. But curses and blessings often got all muddled in her head and she could not tell one from another. After all, getting exactly what you’ve always wanted was not always the best thing for you. Being denied something could often make you grow. So what was what? It didn’t matter, not really. She did what she thought was right, even if that was murky to every other observer. 

People often asked what she wanted and she answered truthfully. Her whims were fleeting, as easily lost as spring blossom. Nobody had ever asked what she had lost, which would have been the real answer of course. So she never remembered, so she never could ask. It is in this way that immortal tragedies are written.

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Divided family

It was interesting quite how much one could get done when your parents were all but divorced. Even more so when there was a war on occupying nearly all of your mother’s mind. She had no time for children at the best of times and this was very much not the best of times. His father (of course) had assumed Henry had taken after him and gave him the appropriate measure of privacy for all the drinking, fucking and training his son must have been partaking in. This all together meant that leaving for England without the notice of either of them was not a hard endeavour. He found it easy to pretend it didn’t sting at all because most of the time, it didn’t. He was a prince. His parents were never going to be the intimate family unit one might see among peasants. 

He was utterly shameless about the fact this entire plot was a plan to get approval from his various scattered family members. Prove to his uncle his knighthood had not been a folly. Prove to his father that he was a man full grown and could be trusted. Prove to his mother than not only had he taken in every single one of her lessons of how to rule, but that he supported her in a way more than mere words, unlike half of her so called allies in England. More than he wanted his mother’s love, he wanted her approval. Love was easily found, he had discovered, especially when you were him. He made friends easily and lovers even more so. Pride was harder to come by. You had to work for it.

Not even in his daydreams did he dream of a family where such things were unconditional. He was an optimist - he wasn’t a fantasist. 

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Mourning someone who never existed

Constance wondered what her mother was like. The idea of a father did not interest her. But her mother, now that was an altogether more interesting persona. All she knew of her was that she was a magician and she was dead. She did not know if she had big dark eyes like hers, or straight black hair, or pale skin. She had no pictures, no stories, no other relatives to tell her stories. No ancient lockets or books with a note tucked between yellowing pages. She just had that one word: mother.

It was odd how much a word could dominate and mould you. Constance was an orphan and a witch and odd. These were facts that seemed to be as obvious to others as the colour of her eyes or if she was right or left handed (left, if you were wondering). They could not be shaken off, no matter how much she might have wanted to. She envied other students who had such words pasted to them as popular, high achievers and pretty. She didn’t know how they all had gained them, but they knew a secret she clearly did not. Maybe that was a form of magic too.

On mother’s day, she was allowed to indulge. Usually she tried to forget about the past she could not reach. Such pondering did nothing but fill her head with confusion and she found that her head needed no additional help in that regard. But on this one day she would wake up, lie in bed and think of this mysterious mother and how she died. Perhaps it was a magic experiment gone wrong, shadows grasping at her or fire licking at her. Maybe it was a murder, poison in her tea, killed for her brilliant ideas. Or something more mundane - a slip down some stairs, a crack and splinter of bone and then nothing. 

She considering calling up her ghost. Constance’s first skill at magic was in the deathly arts after all. But a ghost could look nothing like her, could not care for her, could be an entirely unremarkable woman who died pointlessly. An imaginary mother, of which there were hundreds to chose from were entirely more satisfying when she needed comfort, when she needed something to cling to. Reality was not usually kind to girls like Constance. She had learnt that maintaining her own fantasy usually satisfied her much more than something as mundane as the truth.

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Anger you cannot act on

Half of being a woman in this damn country was swallowing your anger. Swallowing your pride. Swallowing down everything you want to say. It was only due to the magic that enveloped them all that they didn’t choke on it. Lucy thought that she could feel her anger still within her, a tight ball in the bottom of her stomach, an emotional tumour. 

The other half was being blind. Blind to your husband’s rudeness or indiscretions, as the case may be. Blind to the cruelty that happened around you with astonishing frequently. Blind to all the pillars of filth that kept this fantasy world propped up. Lucy swore that sometimes her eyes watered from looking without seeing. She should not speak and she should not see. These were the qualities that made a wife here.

She couldn’t stand it. Sometimes she thought that the cost of silence was that one day she was going to scream her throat bloody. The cost of blindness was that she would claw her eyes out. She would ruin her pretty face and break their pretty rules and maybe then she would be allowed to go home.

No.

That wasn’t an option. Not until she got what she wanted. She could endure a thousand humiliations, a hundred indignities if it meant freedom. Her pride in herself was not as great as her pride in her country. And besides - it was all for something. Not an inch of her pain was pointless.

She reminded herself of that when there was yet another comment about her cousin. When she was told to let the men talk. When she spent yet another afternoon gazing into nothingness because all she had to do was exhausted. When she heard a servant scolded for a minor infraction. She repeated it to herself in the safety of her own head - this isn’t for nothing. Endure, endure, endure.

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Hurting someone in anger

It took no effort or hesitation whatsoever. Void pulled the lollipop out of her mouth with a resounding ‘pop!’ and stamped her foot down onto the man’s leg, snapping it as if it were a twig. She ignored his screams as she considered the situation, eyes gazing sightlessly out of the window as she thought. After a moment or two, the screaming broke her concentration and while giving him an irritated glance, she found a t-shirt lying on the motel bed and shoved it into his mouth. Much better. She sat on the edge of the bed and daintily crossed her legs, looking at the small caster in her hand. She had two options.

She could do her job to the letter, rip out this guy’s liver or whatever, collect the company documents and head home. Clock off with a job well done and spend the rest of the night with the other Valkyries, bickering over what movie to watch. Or she could pretend this job had taken her a little longer and go after the latest sighting of Xero. Either she would find her and be hailed a hero, not find her and get away with it, or not find her and then have to explain how much company time she had wasted. She clicked her tongue.

She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to find her sister and drag her home by her ringletted hair, throw her in front of her brother and say ‘See? Look what I can do. Look at how much smarter I am. How much better.’ The problem was of course that so far, Xero had been cleverer and better than her. Every time she had been close, she had slipped away. Void was sure it was down to their programming - maybe as long as they were programmed the same they would evade each other forever, always just out of reach.

The thought made her wiring spark. On a sudden, furious impulse, she stamped down on the man’s other knee, then again and again until it was little more than a mess of flesh and bone. Not that it mattered. He’d be dead soon anyway. It’s not like he was going to need his knees. But for the few minutes between his injury and his death, Void felt just a little better. For a minute. Then the old rage was back as she knew it would be. It never could be quenched for long. Not until she could take it out on Xero.

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Displacement

She let the water in the rock pool move around her feet. Seaweed tickled her soles and right at the bottom of the crystal clear water she could see a crab peering up at her, weighing up if she was a threat or not. Apparently she fell on the side of not and it scuttled into the base of the seaweed and disappeared. She peered up at the dark grey clouds, the threat of rain looming large. She couldn’t wait.

It had been three weeks since she’d lost her skin. She had not yet gone mad. She had not yet ripped the human flesh from her, though that was all her hands longed to do. She had not drowned herself in sea or bath tub. She had not walked into the village and stabbed every man who had looked at her with anything less than complete chastity. All these things had tempted her and she had resisted them all. Surely that counted for something.

Sometimes she would walk up the cliff, right to the very top and look out over the dark waves. She would squint and search for the sight of her sister’s heads cresting the top of the water. She would pluck eyelashes from her eyes and blow on them, making a wish to return to the sea. It wasn’t her magic but she would try anything. She had done the mundane things; searched every cove and cranny, asked the villagers even as they averted their eyes and even followed a dog for a day to see if it scented anything. All to no avail. Her skin was lost and therefore so was she. 

A war of attrition was next. At night she sat on the rocky beach and sang. It was not a human song. It was a song of water and sorrow. It sunk deep into your bones and gave you shivers. If you heard it when you slept, all your dreams became dreams of you drowning. You’d wake with the taste of salt on your tongue. The villagers, soon sick of the melancholy that plagued them, joined in the search efforts, wishing to rid themselves of this sorrowful woman with the dark dark eyes.

On the fourth week, a man confessed. He had stolen the selkie’s skin and hoped to make her his wife. When she wailed at the discovery of the theft, he had grown afrighted. He had burnt the skin in his stove. Now, he presented her with ashes, on his knees with penance. She threaded her fingers through the ash, painting her palms with it. She could feel it was hers. Like hair on a barber’s floor. A pain struck her heart and she uttered a little cry. The man feared for his life. He needn’t have. She turned her back to him and walked into the sea.

The village watched from the shore as bit by bit, the water ebbed over her head. Soon, she could not be seen at all. Then all at once, it began to rain.

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You can’t fix this

Primrose’s family were tinkers, fixers and tailors. They fixed things. Pots and pans, shirts and trousers yes, but also other things. Primrose was particularly adept at sewing together a broken heart. Her mother specialised in keeping a family together, through clever application of metaphysical glue. Her brothers, scamps though they were, could knock any manner of bad thoughts out of a person’s head. And so, like this, they had a working relationship with a village of humans. The humans would leave out plates of fine cream and unleavened bread and Primrose and her lot would repair what they could.

After a while, you got to know the humans. You knew the parson always needed a little extra help come autumn to pull recalcitrant carrots from the soil of his vegetable patch. Mrs Matthews left out splendid jam if you would sweep the fallen apples from her path. The Thompson sisters had a nasty cat who would nip at your ankles as you cleaned her oven. Mr Cambridge had needed quite a lot of help to get over a broken off engagement but Primrose had gotten there in the end and he was all the stronger for it. 

As is the case with all fairies, they loved the children of the village best. The little ones left them such trinkets and treasures such as bottle-caps and ink wells and in return, the fae might let a particularly lucky youth catch a glance of them as they scurried about their nocturnal business. Thomas was one such youth. He was a bonny boy, with black hair and blue eyes. He was quick to laugh and slow to anger. He rarely tantrumed and he was utterly devoted to his mother, Maggie. His father had died in some war or another and it was just the two of them. Primrose paid many visits, helping to lighten the load of motherhood and it did not escape her notice how her offerings were always left out on the best china. 

So you can see why Primrose was so wounded when word got to her that Thomas had been in a fatal accident. Braving the gaze of the humans, she crept down the chimney and peeped out of the fireplace. The poor boy was laid out on the dining room table, very nearly unrecognisable. He had been crossing a bridge when a horse had started, trampling him in its efforts to flee from the road. His mother wept and wept and nothing her friends could do consoled her. For the first time in a long time, that night there was no cream left out for Primrose.

When the crowd had dispersed and Maggie had fallen into a fitful sleep, Primrose came out of her hiding place to have a close look. It was bad alright. Broken bones, torn skin, he looked like a lost ragdoll. It was that image that gave her the idea. She scampered off to the eastern ash tree and hammered on the little door, rousing her family who had taken a day off to mourn. She gathered them round and told them of the plan. In a orderly line they streamed back to the house and got to work.

Her brothers popped out the dents in his skull. Her mother glued his bones back together. Primrose knitted the skin into neat line, held with brightly coloured fabric. Hours of work and he now looked like a very repaired rag doll. Primrose was almost bursting with pride. She linked hands with her family for the very last bit. The magic bit. They weren’t quite sure what was appopriate so they decided to try a little of everything. Primrose made his broken heart start beating again. Her mother made it so he wanted his own mother more than ever. And her brothers made it so he would never had another bad thought ever again. Then together they put all their power into the spell of ‘fixing’. There was a rush and a shower of sparkles and they knew they had achieved their aim.

It was dawn by this time and they scampered up the mantelpiece, hiding behind the clock to watch the joy that was about to interrupt the household. Maggie woke slowly, raising her head from where it had lolled against her chest. She had fallen asleep in the armchair in front of the fire. It took her a moment to notice her son was sitting up, reaching for her. She started screaming. She did not stop screaming for a very long time. But that was okay. Primrose and her family could take the bad thoughts out of her head to and make her love Tom again.

They were good at fixing things.

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Loss of home 

He couldn’t help but think Kahraman would be next. It had suffered enough already, occupied seemingly every other month, the wave of barbarians only just managing to be tided. It was hard to stay optimistic. Optimism had started to look like its less desirable cousin - ignorance. Ignorance was way too close to self-deceit for Matthias’s liking and so he had begun the hard road of coming to terms of what was happening. 

Thinking of Urizen didn’t exactly help. He had no great love for it as a nation and had sat through rather too many speeches about how they should be helping the poor place for him to feel particularly obliging. But the similarities were mounting and he wondered how long it would be before he was making speeches in Conclave and labyrinth knows where else to beg for his own land back, for the help that should have been given as soon as this situation arose.

He didn’t like that it was a deal. At least Dawn and The Barrens had gone down fighting. Admittedly Spiral was a less inspiring example as the entire place seemed cursed now, but it hadn’t been a decision made with the view of pragmatism. Wisdom and Vigilance were Matthias’s least favourite Virtues for a reason. He didn’t like the greater good. He liked doing good impulsively, doing good recklessly. 

Now Feroz was like a phantom limb. He could feel it, even if it wasn’t part of him anymore. Strangely, he was more afraid of the sensation fading than the sensation itself. Once he stopped feeling it, it would be like he had lost it for good. He imagined each territory being disappeared like that, until he was almost a ghost himself. What happened to an egregore spirit once a nation was destroyed?

He didn’t want to find out.

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Being somewhere new and lonely 

He did not remember getting off the train. One moment he was dozing in his seat, the next he was on a wooden platform, no train in sight, just miles and miles of track stretching off towards the horizon in both directions. In front of him, the grass turned to sand turned to the sea. Behind him, there was a pine forest. The light seemed to be implying twilight, though the sky was so thick with cloud it was hard to be sure. He blinked when he noticed the old fashioned suitcase sitting by his ankles. For absence of anything else to do, he picked it up, turned and walked into the forest.

The ground was springy with pine needles beneath his feet. The smell of pine mingled with the smell of the sea and clung to him. The air seemed to promise drizzle but it never materialised. Instead there was just a slight dampness that pervaded everything and cooled the skin. He walked further and further, noticing as he did so how the light didn’t seem to change at all. And how no matter how far he walked, he could still hear the sound of the sea. When he finally came upon the clearing, he couldn’t guess how long he had been walking for. 

In the clearing sat a cottage. It was of a modest size but looked homely enough. Each window was lit with a candle, the warm orange taking a little of the bite out of the light that hung outside. Max hesitated for a moment, wondering if this place would be abandoned too. But then, he saw shadows behind the windows, heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of laughter. It was then he noticed other details - the pile of boots left by the front door, the spade leaning against the eastern wall. He was lost. He should knock. And yet.

He stood there, dithering, holding his suitcase in one hand. It wasn’t that he was worried that it was a gingerbread cottage, full of witches and cannibals. It was more - well, if someone lived out here, they didn’t exactly want company, did they? He didn’t want to intrude. His presence here felt both natural and precarious, like if he took a step wrong, he would shatter the entire dreaminess of it. He was still trying to decide what to do when the front door swung open, revealing a girl with long straight hair and a freckled face. She blinked in surprise then threw over her shoulder; “Anna! We have another one!”

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Plans changing

Bailey sat on the curb, backpack firmly between her legs as she completed the intricate work of unwrapping a lollipop and placing it in her mouth, opening her palm to let the wind take the wrapper. It was a welcome wind, warm and carrying with it the scents of the board walk - popcorn, candyfloss, burgers dripping with cheese and ketchup. It was summer and it was evening and the place was busy. Couples holding hands, gangs of kids pushing the limits of their curfews, families only just starting to head home toting tired toddlers in push chairs or held in arms. The sky was streaked with purples and pinks, stars only just starting to appear above them. Bailey always thought her town seemed more movie than real life and at this moment, that had never been truer. She checked her watch again and slipped her earbuds on. Her ears filled with comforting noise and the world felt a little softer. Nobody looked twice at the girl sitting very much in the way, except to glare as they almost tripped over her.

She gave up waiting at half nine. Her train was at ten and she was not going to miss it. She stood and brushed down her shorts, swinging her backpack onto her back. As she walked to the station, she lit a cigarette, checking her phone once more. A large part of her wasn’t surprised that Ellen had ghosted. This was the thing about most kids her age - they were all talk. But when Bailey said she was running away, she meant it. She had made it a point of pride to never make an empty threat or an empty promise. If she said she was doing something, for better or for worse she would be. The lack of surprise was coupled by a lack of hurt. Bailey did not mind being alone. She was entirely comfortable with her own company and refused to sacrifice her own comfort just so she wasn’t alone. Most people grated on her. Ellen had not been one of those people Ellen had been clever and fun and smart. And Bailey had always expected the worst from her. So this betrayal? It had already happened in her mind a hundred times. She was already over it.

She handed her ticket to the guard and moved past him to get on the train. She took a window seat, watching the last of the sun disappear over the horizon and the lights of the boardwalk really come alive. She wasn’t sure where she was running to. Her ticket simply went to the end of the line, some nowhere town she had never heard of. But it wouldn’t be here and it would be new. That’s all she ever needed. That and herself.

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Being unable to react to a trigger 

She couldn’t cause a scene. Not at Christmas. Besides, she was fucking bored of always being the one to cause drama, of losing her shit. It may not have been fair but it was the way she felt, playing into the general malaise she had about her own existence right now. 

She realised she was holding her own thigh so tight her nails were close to breaking the skin. Ash swallowed, keeping her eyes on the screen. She couldn’t quite remember what they were watching any more but the conversational jokes about killing your sibling still flashed around the room. And the film with the dead sister and the dead little girl carried on playing.

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about how you did. How her blood is on your hands. About how you could tell everyone in this room exactly how it felt and how accurate or inaccurate the film might be. Don’t wonder if your parents had kept your shared room the same, with one child dead and the other missing. Her chest felt tight, as if an iron band had been tightened around her. It wasn’t that she wanted to cry - it was that her body was reacting to a memory it didn’t want, trying to reject the thought out of her head. She closed her eyes, remembering that she could breathe, that it was all in her head.

The thing was about her specific situation though was that she couldn’t soothe herself by saying it was all made up. It wasn’t. The horrible thing had happened, the monster did exist and it was her. It was all her. So, how do you move on from the truth? You don’t. It just becomes a part of you, until trauma is built into you like a fault line. Sometimes it would cause earthquakes. 

She opened her eyes. Nobody had noticed her breathing change in the darkened room. She was thankful for that much at least. She could break down all she wanted when she was on her own again. But not here. She wouldn’t have another thing ruined by her.

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Someone triggering you on purpose

The smell of blood filled the tent. Before they had even registered the wound, Julienne had slipped into a predator’s stance, every muscle in their body tense and held perfectly in position. Their head filled with buzzing white noise. All they were aware of was the hunger gnawing in the bottom of their stomach, the sharpness of their teeth, the shape of their nails. Then they blinked and came back to themselves a little and realised that the person sitting in the chair had done it entirely purposefully. They locked eyes. Julienne’s eyes flickered to the knife in their hand, the one that had sliced open their palm. “Oops.”

Julienne could not easily extract themselves. They were curled at Orlene’s feet, two other members of the house tangled with them. There was no question of quietly leaving. They held their breath - literally. As if the wound would heal before they had to breathe. As if this was going to end in any other way. In the end, they lasted longer than anyone could have expected. But they did break.

All it took was a sharp intake of breath. Then, before they could stop themselves they were out of the pile and across the tent, pressing their mouth to the wound and drinking the small amount of blood that oozed from it. For a moment all was ecstatic - the hunger in them curbed for just a moment. But then the reality crashed in. The entire tent was looking at them. A small smile played on Orlene’s lips as she watched. Julienne shoved the hand away from them and stalked outside with as much dignity as they could gather. Which wasn’t much.

Part of them wished they felt no shame. Their father certainly didn’t. They wished they could wear their monsterousness as a badge of pride, as a sign of their superiority. But look how he ended up - mad and hated, his entire house living in fear of him. It was that anxiety that kept them grounded. That kept them human. Julienne took deep breathes of the clean (if dusty) Anvil air and let it cleanse them. They took a few minutes to remember how to be a person again, not just a creature of instinct and hunger. They left it behind with no small amount of regret. Being a wolf was much less complicated.

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You can’t talk about your insignificant problems

In the midst of all this, grief was inane. Especially grief for a father that was certifiably up to no good. It should have been simple. Lance should have stopped caring the moment he found out he was just as bad as the rest of them, but he didn’t. He still missed him. 

It wasn’t like he could talk about it. Not when the sector was at war, not when even personally he had bigger problems. Taking someone aside to talk about this wounded feeling he had when everyone had loved and lost someone seemed like nothing more than frivolity. Especially when he didn’t want empathy, he didn’t want someone to nod and say they understood. What he wanted was for someone to say how awful it was. How complicated and painful and unfair. But nobody would do that in a sector where this small betrayal was barely a scratch on the surface of things that were complicated, painful and unfair.

What do normal people do when they feel like this? He didn’t understand how anyone coped. He wanted to get high, get drunk, murder something, hurt something, anything to pull his mind away from the constant spiral of grief. He couldn’t and therefore he didn’t know what to do. He just had to sit with it.

Sometimes he came close to mentioning it. It would be on the very tip of his tongue and then as he opened his mouth he’d remember Jensch’s dead husband. Nic’s missing boyfriend. Astrid’s missing mothers and dead sgt. They all had had it much worse for much longer and he had no right to ask for comfort for such a tiny hurt. And so he kept it buried. He thought about it often and mentioned it rarely. It worked. He certainly wasn’t distracting from anyone else’s loss.

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Having a fundamental difference in values

Athena tilted her head, black curls falling over her shoulder. It was one of the very few physical tics she had. It meant that she was studying something, looking at something she didn’t understand. Naturally it was a rare sight. There were very few things she didn’t understand. Admittedly though, the things she didn’t understand were huge.

For instance, she didn’t understand money. Oh she understood how economies worked and what it did and how to obtain it. Indeed, she had obtained a great deal of it with a number of plans, mostly for fun. Once she had it though, it was essentially tissue. She had what she needed and wanted nothing beyond that. Occasionally a new scientific instrument would come out and she would buy it for her lab, but she never wanted for the sake of wanting. She engaged only because that’s what everyone else did. She didn’t understand why collectively people didn’t just... stop. There were more than enough resources to go around. Why complicate things? It was a problem of logic in her view.

Something even more confusing was love. Yes, she understood it was a cocktail of chemicals reacting in the brain to stimulus. However, she didn’t understand why she never felt it. Why there were no triggers in her brain that caused her to value someone. People were much of a muchness to her - they were useful or they weren’t and generally, they weren’t at all interesting. They ran on rails, like trains, and she had no interest in those either.

Athena suspected all this (amongst other things) was why she was called a sociopath. She had read the various definitions and agreed that it certainly a fitting term. She did not feel what she was supposed to feel or value what she was supposed to value. She often thought she didn’t have moods at all, not really. She had modes and only two of them at that; interested and not interested. She valued knowledge and nothing else. These two traits made interacting with anyone else... odd. Like she was watching them from a great distance. Or from enclosed in her own small cell. Able to watch but unable to touch. When she did manage to touch the outside world, well, people didn’t seem to like it very much. Something about sanctity of life. She didn’t understand. There were seven billion people alone, not to mention all the animals. How on earth could life be precious?

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Scared in the dark

Trick had a theory that all horror writers were cowards. That at their heart, they were less brave than the general population. That’s why they wrote - it was the only way they could face their fears, the only place they could win against monsters. Or maybe he was just generalising a personal phenomenon. It was certainly why he was obsessed with certain subjects or why certain monsters would be in vogue for a while. A spider dropped on him while he was in bed? Almost definitely the next story would be Attack of the Spider Clans. A particularly bad day at school? Well, it would bear resemblance to the haunted asylum in Time’s Out. There was one theme he always circled back to though, like water around a drain. 

Trick was scared of the dark. Not what was in the dark - that was a whole separate fear that was mostly dependent on if he’d seen a horror movie recently or not. The dark itself. He had dreams of it enveloping him, until even his ears and mouth were full of it. He also had dreams of it enveloping everything else, the dark creeping up streetlights and houses until there was nothing left, just him in an endless void without a single point of light. 

He slept with a nightlight, some Disney one made for kids, plugged in beside his bed. He also kept his bedroom door open a crack, letting the hallway light sneak in. It cast shadows, but shadows were comforting. It meant there was light. He would watch them as he fell asleep, making sure that they weren’t spreading. He never once imagined that one day, he’d be in a world where the dark void got up and moved, taking form of a person. If he had known, he would have never slept again and written a novel. Both the sign of a coward.

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Having your confidence knocked

She popped up from the brush, notching an arrow and letting it fly all in a matter of seconds. Each motion was smooth and practised. Yet she missed. The arrow missed both horse and rider and they thundered past. Marie clenched her jaw and stood up straight, brushing the dry leaves and moss from her knees. She was officially Rattled.

Marie could be rattled on a number of things. She was easily flustered around those she admired, did not take criticism or compliments elegantly and was known to be extremely clumsy when tired. However, her archery had always been impeccable. If she was firing badly, something must be wrong. But she did not know her own mind and therefore her bad mood was a mystery to even her. Plus fucking up the one thing she was good at was hardly going to improve it.

She sloped home, empty handed, face like thunder. Luckily even her more mischievous brothers realised that teasing her now would either lead to tears or an act of extreme violence. They averted their gazes and filled the air with pointless chatter about what goods that had managed to filch from the village. Marie sat down miserably, tapping her fingers against the wood, staring into space.

As she stared, her eyes fell on the calendar that hung on the wall of the kitchen. Ah. Of course. It was getting close. Sometimes the body remembered what the mind forgot. Trauma could ache in the bones, causing ripples deep below the surface of conscious thought. Well. At least her poor shooting had a reason. Unfortunately, there was likely to be three more days of this, until the date passed. She wasn’t sure if she could be any use at all. What she wanted was to lie facedown on her roll mat until it was all over. When you were on the run, that wasn’t exactly an option. Always keep moving. Never stop, never get caught.

Because if you got caught, well, you ended up with weeks like these.

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Obsessing over past hurt (pre-Avalon)

Jones was currently stable, as was the Labyrinth. Zeus was no longer trying to kill him and Asclepius was safe. Michael was alive, Lydia, Tori and Daniel were all immortal. Paris still loved him and his health wasn’t failing any time soon. So why wasn’t he happy? He wanted to forgive and forget. He wanted to move on. He wanted to stop feeling this way. But no matter how much he kept telling himself to get over it, it didn’t work. It was like the wounds left weren’t bleeding but they hadn’t healed either. They just sat there, open to the air.

His ability to trust had been fundamentally damaged. He couldn’t believe that the angels would keep to their word. That Zeus would keep his promise. That Asclepius would stay, that Paris had forgiven him, that Jones would be okay in one way or another. He kept looking at the perfect tie ups of all the problems and he felt like they were one wrong look away from falling apart all over again. So he couldn’t relax. He couldn’t work on getting over it because, well, what if it wasn’t? It would be even more painful a second time. His body may be able to recover countless times but he wasn’t sure his soul could. 

Deepest of all were the cuts that nobody had apologised for. People shouting at him, people insulting him, people taking him for granted. Tommy wasn’t even aware this formed part of his burden, but it did. It rendered him a solitary creature, expecting no support from anyone but Jones, who was fragile in an entirely different way. He found himself with a peace that was not comforting - it was another word for acceptance. Of circumstances he should not accept. It wore him down. It made him tired.

God, he was so tired.

____________________________________________________________

Growing as a person

Cal didn’t want to be the bigger person. They had spent the entirety of their life nursing a hundred small hurts, never able to defend themselves, never able to do anything about how they felt. Now they had the power to do so. They could wipe away a planet, sweep through an army, change the fabric of reality on their say so. They could.

So now of course they had the moral obligation not to. 

They understood it. They agreed with it. They would never do anything that would hurt their Love. But they still rankled at it a little. As always, it was the responsibility of the good to be the bigger person. To always chose the high road. If you were a baddie, you didn’t have to do that. If you didn’t know you were a baddie, all the better. You think you’re justified. 

The Imperium that the two of them wanted was one that was judged on how it treated its lowest citizens. Not just those weak or downtrodden, but those who had been captured and imprisoned. There were levels of course. They had seen it fit to bless them with Rage as well as Love. But fundamentally, they were to act on reason and belief, not feelings.

All those slights. All those hurts. They had to let them go, save for ones that were morally hazadous. It was hard. Very hard. The only way it stoped chafing so much was when they realised they had someone ready to help them through it, to hold their hand through being better, to tell them that They understood how much it cost them. That was a comfort. Even thinking of it sent waves of love through them. This love meant never having to be alone again. With that they could do anything, defeat their greatest of enemies - their own spite.

______________________________________________________________

The AIDs Crisis (Saimon)

Beautiful people were dying and he did not understand why. The Sam part of him might of, but whenever he tried to access that part of their mind, he shied away, refusing to come up, refusing to talk. This was most unusual. He would ask Frankie and Bobbi but they’d both gained a slight frown that tugged at their beautiful lips and he had no wish to deepen it.

From what he could tell it was a disease and it was catching, the way a field fire could set fire to a whole country. It could be slow or it could be quick. It didn’t seem to have a preference of victim, apart from it being the people that populated their favourite clubs, galleries and theatres. 

Sam, in the back of his mind, felt a prickle of fear. Paimon curled around him, soothing but without any real idea what he was trying to convey. Safety? Protection? Sam knew he had that already. His fear was something deeper. The word alienation tripped off his tongue, along with the word forgetting. 

They performed magic where they could. Made their bars even more sacred spaces, replaced people’s blood, returned vision. But the four of them were not built to combat a plague and though Saimon offered, he knew it would thrust them all into a limelight they had been studiously avoiding for decades. It hurt Frankie to still his hands in a way it rarely did. Frankie scarcely cared for politics. But there was something here that cut him to the wick, touching him in a most unusual way. Saimon wanted to solve it, to knock off every poitican who was suddenly, pointedly blind to this illness. People said his rule would be bad. From what he could see, whatever was ruling this world was not doing better.

He felt a sadness too, surprisingly. That these people would no longer be able to make art, to tell stories, to provide the colour to the world he had been immersed in. The human world would be duller without them and Saimon could not stand boredom. Though boredom would indeed be preferable to this forced helplessness. He would take being bored right now. If it all just stopped. If it slowed. Anything. 

But all he could do was hold Frankie closer. Protect the one piece of this world he could.

______________________________________________________________

Lover death

A great many people had loved him in his time. Artists, poets, writers, actors. He had been painted, serenaded, immortalised in prose and poetry. He could be found in any great text about the era, hiding between the lines of sonnets or love letters. All the authors dead now of course. Of age, or consumption or suicide or a hundred other mundane deaths masquerading as Romantic. The only true Romantic death, Thomas believed, was undeath. So in that respect, he was the greatest poet of them all.

He wondered if he loved any of them back. Certainly not as a vampire, he would no longer love a kine as love a dog, but when he was alive. Maybe he played at it, went through the motions because life was so much more invigorating that way. Or maybe he fell for some older man who wooed him expertly or a painter with dark eyes. He couldn’t remember. He preferred it like that. The idea of being in love was some what repulsive to him. The vulnerability, the boredom, the sentimentality of it all. Even if he may have wanted it once he certainly did not want it now. He was untouchable and he intended to stay that way. Love made one have blind spots and blind spots were where a predator could sink their teeth.

Better than love was fascination. Being interested in someone, wanting to see how they worked. Wanting to create together, to learn the mind of someone else to the fullest. Now that was rare for him, but it did happen. It kept the world fresh, kept a constant rotation of interesting people swanning in and out of his orbit, causing chaos together then drifting away once more. It had been a while since he’d had this experience - the Court of Liverpool was many things but it was not what he would call invigorating though. Here though, there were several candidates. He wondered if any of them were up to the challenge. If any of them would bite.

___________________________________________________________

You love someone because they remind you of someone dead

Mary had a dim awareness she was broken. It was like gazing at a mirror through fog. Catching a glance of the cheek, the flash of an eye, but never the whole. She did not know herself, except in parts. All she knew is that sometimes people looked at her funny and she didn’t know why. She would say something or do something and she would see their eyes widen minutely, look around the room for someone other than her for support. It happened more and more the older she got. 

It happened today when she had finished drinking from Elliot. He was a sweet youth with sandy blonde hair and big blue eyes. She told him how beautiful he was, how much of a poet. He looked confused and said he had never written a line of poetry a day in his life. 

“Elliot, how could you say such a thing?” He pulled away from her a little more. “Who’s Elliot?” It was only then she noticed the differences. The wallpaper on the wall was not silk. There was no sound of horses outside, only the blaring noise of traffic. And too late she realised of course he could not be Elliot as he was Jane’s beau and she wasn’t Jane, Jane had been dead for so very long - 

Her head hurt. Her fingers began running over the lace on her dress, over and over, comforting herself. She was Mary. It was the twenty first century. She had been alive only twenty five years and all those other lives were just dreams, nothing more. She’d always had a vivid imagination. She couldn’t have lived multiple lives, that wasn’t Christian and she was definitely Christian. Even if churches were different now and they weren’t in Latin -

Elliot was looking concerned so she painted a smile on her face, brought him close with comforting words and lapped the last of the blood from his neck with all the delicacy of a kitten. He allowed himself to be mollified. It wasn’t a hard task. He adored her. If she said everything was fine, it was fine.

And it was fine. It had to be. Nothing made sense otherwise. 

#prompts #hurt #prose #now to never write ever again

[ana-c99]

Artist Books

Pre - 2000

1. "Songs of Innocence and of Experience" by William Blake

Songs of Innocence and of Experience is an illustrated collection of poems by William Blake. It appeared in two phases. A few first copies were printed and illuminated by William Blake himself in 1789; five years later he bound these poems with a set of new poems in a volume titled Songs of Innocence and of Experience Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul.

 "Innocence" and "Experience" are definitions of consciousness that rethink Milton's existential-mythic states of "Paradise" and "Fall". Often, interpretations of this collection centre around a mythical dualism, where "Innocence" represents the "unfallen world" and "Experience" represents the "fallen world".Blake categorizes our modes of perception that tend to coordinate with a chronology that would become standard in Romanticism: childhood is a state of protected innocence rather than original sin, but not immune to the fallen world and its institutions. This world sometimes impinges on childhood itself, and in any event becomes known through "experience", a state of being marked by the loss of childhood vitality, by fear and inhibition, by social and political corruption, and by the manifold oppression of Church, State, and the ruling classes. The volume's "Contrary States" are sometimes signalled by patently repeated or contrasted titles: in Innocence, Infant Joy, in Experience, Infant Sorrow; in Innocence, The Lamb, in Experience, The Fly and The Tyger. The stark simplicity of poems such as The Chimney Sweeper and The Little Black Boy display Blake's acute sensibility to the realities of poverty and exploitation that accompanied the "Dark Satanic Mills" of the Industrial Revolution.

William Blake (28 November 1757 - 12 August 1827)

Poet, painter, engraver, and visionary William Blake worked to bring about a change both in the social order and in the minds of men. Though in his lifetime his work was largely neglected or dismissed, he is now considered one of the leading lights of English poetry, and his work has only grown in popularity. In his Life of William Blake (1863) Alexander Gilchrist warned his readers that Blake “neither wrote nor drew for the many, hardly for work’y-day men at all, rather for children and angels; himself  ‘a divine child,’ whose playthings were sun, moon, and stars, the heavens and the earth.” Yet Blake himself believed that his writings were of national importance and that they could be understood by a majority of his peers. Far from being an isolated mystic, Blake lived and worked in the teeming metropolis of London at a time of great social and political change that profoundly influenced his writing. In addition to being considered one of the most visionary of English poets and one of the great progenitors of English Romanticism, his visual artwork is highly regarded around the world. 

 Because Blake's later poetry contains a private mythology with complex symbolism, his late work has been less published than his earlier more accessible work. The Vintage anthology of Blake edited by Patti Smith focuses heavily on the earlier work, as do many critical studies such as William Blake by D. G. Gillham.

 The earlier work is primarily rebellious in character and can be seen as a protest against dogmatic religion especially notable in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, in which the figure represented by the "Devil" is virtually a hero rebelling against an imposter authoritarian deity. In later works, such as Milton and Jerusalem, Blake carves a distinctive vision of a humanity redeemed by self-sacrifice and forgiveness, while retaining his earlier negative attitude towards what he felt was the rigid and morbid authoritarianism of traditional religion. Not all readers of Blake agree upon how much continuity exists between Blake's earlier and later works.

Psychoanalyst June Singer has written that Blake's late work displayed a development of the ideas first introduced in his earlier works, namely, the humanitarian goal of achieving personal wholeness of body and spirit. The final section of the expanded edition of her Blake study The Unholy Bible suggests the later works are the "Bible of Hell" promised in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. Regarding Blake's final poem, Jerusalem, she writes: "The promise of the divine in man, made in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, is at last fulfilled." 

John Middleton Murry notes discontinuity between Marriage and the late works, in that while the early Blake focused on a "sheer negative opposition between Energy and Reason", the later Blake emphasised the notions of self-sacrifice and forgiveness as the road to interior wholeness. This renunciation of the sharper dualism of Marriage of Heaven and Hell is evidenced in particular by the humanisation of the character of Urizen in the later works. Murry characterises the later Blake as having found "mutual understanding" and "mutual forgiveness".

Other Works:

1. The archetype of the Creator is a familiar image in Blake's work. Here, the demiurgic figure Urizen prays before the world he has forged. The Song of Los is the third in a series of illuminated books painted by Blake and his wife, collectively known as the Continental Prophecies.

2. Blake's The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with Sun (1805) is one of a series of illustrations of Revelation 12.

3. The Ghost of a Flea, 1819–1820. Having informed painter-astrologer John Varley of his visions of apparitions, Blake was subsequently persuaded to paint one of them. Varley's anecdote of Blake and his vision of the flea's ghost became well-known.

4. The Night of Enitharmon's Joy, 1795; Blake's vision of Hecate, Greek goddess of black magic and the underworld.

2. "Investigations—The Four Elements: Earth" by Daniel E. Kelm and Timothy C. Ely

The series of unique books Investigations: The Four Elements draws upon Kelm’s and collaborator Tim Ely’s shared interest in alchemy and sacred geometry. Each book consists of a set number of interlocking panels that can be assembled into one or more shapes forming Platonic solids.

The Platonic solids—tetrahedron, cube, octahedron, dodecahedron, and icosahedron—are polyhedrons with congruent sides, edges, and angles. Although these five shapes were known prior to Plato, they are specifically mentioned in his dialogue Timaeus. In this work, Plato describes these solids as the building blocks of matter, equating the tetrahedron with the element of fire, the cube with earth, the octahedron with air, the icosahedron with water, and the dodecahedron with the materials that form the stars and the cosmos.

The closed box.

Book sculpture by Kelm.

Painting and surface treatments by Ely.

Acrylic and ink on paper, with airbrush acrylics, aluminium, brass tubing and rod, thread, and wire edge binding.

A first glimpse inside the box reveals shaped page panels and a metal tube with paper wrapped around it.

One slot in the box holds the square page panels and a second slot holds the triangular page panels.

The Investigations series is the earliest example of Kelm bindings with no permanent hinging; i.e., the pins can be removed and the pages completely disassembled.

The metal tube contains the pins that will be used to hold the binding together.

The paper scroll depicts a possible configuration of pages.

Here you see all the pages combined to form a cube-octahedron—which means that it is an integration of a cube and an octahedron. 

Detail of the painting and hinging.

Daniel Kelm

Daniel Kelm is a book artist, sculptor, book binder, and teacher. His intricate, detailed works invite unconventional ways of reading—which can resemble unearthing a mystifying treasure or solving a 3-D puzzle—and they condense wondrous topics that have laid between book covers for centuries—like alchemy, mathematics, science, metaphysics, maps, and illustrations—within visually astonishing bindings.

He invented the widely-used “wire-edge binding” and is the founder and proprietor of Wide Awake Garage studio in Easthampton, Massachusetts, where he designs and produces artist’s books and innovative sculptural bindings. His work has been shown nationally for over thirty years, and he has taught and lectured at universities and libraries in the U.S. and Europe.

Interview:

Lyra Kilston: Your work expands the form of what most people think of as a book: your works don’t need words, or images, or to open in an arc. In your view, what is the outer limit of having something remain a ‘book’?

Daniel Kelm: Books are a wonderful vehicle for telling stories. Most often the book artist constructs the book around their or an author’s story. Many of my books contain no recognizable words but are made of shapes that allow wide-ranging flexibility and movement. They are actually quite toy like, and if successful engage the “reader” in the same physical and interactive way as do toys. During that play, these wordless books can inspire someone to discover their own voice and story. I love watching someone interact with one of my sculptural books, then suddenly stop to tell one of their own stories.

What are some of your favourite materials to work with?

I love working with vegetable-tanned goat skin, a material commonly used in traditional fine bookbinding. For non-traditional work I tend towards metal, glass, and plastic. I’ve not found any material to be too rare or impossible to find and work with; there is always a way to invite it to play. In all cases, whatever the material used, it is important to discover its voice and to let that voice support the story being told.

Mars, 1991–2005, Daniel Kelm. 11.5 x 8 x 3 in. (closed). Contents: box, accordion book partially pinned together, and three objects representing various aspects of Mars. Materials: paper board, paper, acrylic paint, thread, stainless steel wire, dry-mount adhesive, iron nickel meteorite, chrome steel ball bearing, Civil War iron canister ball, felt, fibre board, cloth. Techniques: wire edge binding, painting, photocopy transfer, airbrush, paste paper, silk screen printing, letterpress printing. Voice of Mars text by Taz Sibley. Letterpress printing by Art Larson.

What themes have you been working with recently?

After 20 years immersed in chemistry, I began a thirty-year study of alchemical processes that has inspired many of my artist’s books and sculpture. Experimentation with plant alchemy (spagyric alchemy) led me to an appreciation of pharmacy. In my latest work I’m exploring chemical and pharmaceutical processes through installations combining laboratory apparatus with antiquarian books describing the process.

I look at the installations as functional sculpture. The animating voice of each piece is that of the chemist, pharmacist, researcher, or lab worker who developed and explained the particular approach, so their name is usually intimately associated with it.

What is your research process like?

I often start with a description of a process or an image of the associated apparatus and then find out everything that I can about it, including details about the life of the person who developed it. My work always tries to integrate the personal connection (through the life of the individual associated with the science involved), the historical (by choosing a process that has been proven through its historical record to be significant to our lives), the aesthetic (as seen in its sculptural quality), and the technical (the details of the process and materials themselves).

Relgio Mathmatica, 1990–2007, Daniel Kelm. 9 x 9.5 x 9.5 in. Materials: paper and paper board, stainless steel wire, thread, English yew wood, paint, leather. Techniques: wire edge binding, spattering, paste paper. Photographer: Jeff Derose, One Match Films. Binding assistance by Kylin Lee. This video of Kelm manipulating the binding shows how the “Lotus Flower” configuration closes—the red cube moves to the inside, and the black and white surfaces to the outside.

Sources used:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Songs_of_Innocence_and_of_Experience

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake#Development_of_his_views

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-blake

http://www.danielkelm.com/core/wideawake/3/1#/galleries/2

http://www.danielkelm.com/core/wideawake/3#/entry/wide-awake-garage-videos

https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/alchemical-book-artists-at-work-part-2-daniel-kelm/

  Post - 2000 Artist Books

1. "Don't Lose Heart" by Anne Gilman

Don't Lose Heart 2001 mixed media digital accordion book printed on Arches cover stock, edition of 10 9" x 6" x 1" Don’t Lose Heart contains a play on expressions we use with the word "heart". Below is the text that appears at the end of the book:

You can have a change of heart, a heart of gold, a heavy heart, a heart to heart.

You can eat one’s heart out, lose heart, have a heart, take heart.

In my heart of hearts, with a heavy heart, cross my heart, from the bottom of my heart, Don’t lose heart.

Anne Gilman 

Anne Gilman is a Brooklyn-born artist who works in varying formats that include large-scale drawings and multi-panel projects.  The political, social and personal concerns that fuel all forms of moods, worries, and psychological states of being are the materials that feed her work. She begins by using her own thoughts and experiences as a starting point for considering larger issues of why we do what we do, what matters and how we can get lost in distractions that are ultimately unimportant. The resulting drawings are a mapping of information, thought and emotion. 

Other Works:

Sundowning 2018 pencil, graphite, paint, tape, ink, on paper with hand-stained wood 134 x 60 inches

Sundowning (also known as a sundown syndrome) = a neurological phenomenon associated with increased confusion and restlessness in patients with dementia. It occurs in the late afternoon/early evening. Symptoms include increased agitation; a person may become more upset/anxious/confused/disoriented/suspicious

Boiling point (5 works in this series) 2018 ink, pencil, tape on mulberry paper One section is 94½ x 27½ inches and the other four are 46 x 27½ inches

“A part of the writing in these drawings focus on issues of anger and rage. I was thinking about the levels of discontent that people live with, whether triggered by relatively insignificant incidents or by a build-up of frustration over time, and the need for an appropriate outlet to diffuse and address the intensity, before it erupts in explosive ways.” A. Gilman

this place / this hour 2019 Coloured pencil, graphite, ink, and washi tape on mulberry paper 321 x 27 inches

“I was invited to do a project commemorating the 200th anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth. My research resulted in this two-sided 27-foot scroll and a limited-edition artist book. In both projects Walt Whitman’s words, process and internal struggles are intertwined with my own. This scroll is suspended from the ceiling and extends across the floor in two directions. This view shows the non-text side of the scroll on the left side and the text-based side of the scroll on the right side.” A. Gilman

Up close / in the distance / now 2018 pencil, graphite, tape, ink, BIC ballpoint pen, matte medium on mulberry paper 340 x 38 inches

This scroll suspends from the ceiling with one side showing primarily the text part of the work and the other side showing non-text drawing. This view shows the text side. The next two images show other views.

Up close / in the distance / now 2018 pencil, graphite, tape, ink, BIC ballpoint pen, matte medium on mulberry paper 340 x 38 inches

This view shows the scroll from the side. The next view shows the non-text side of the drawing.

Up close / in the distance / now 2018 pencil, graphite, tape, ink, BIC ballpoint pen, matte medium on mulberry paper 340 x 38 inches

This is a view of the non-text side of the drawing.

2. “Second Road” by Timothy C. Ely

Second Road, 2016, Timothy C. Ely. Drum leaf binding, full leather, watercolor, dry pigments, gold and ink on paper. All images in this post courtesy of the artist.

 Timothy C. Ely

Ely studied design and printmaking and has been making books for over forty years. (He also owns sixty books on baking bread, his other passion that relies on precision and a bit of alchemical magic.) He has shown his work at museums around the country and it is in many private and public collections.

Interview:

Lyra Kilston: Do you have a favorite rare or ancient book? Have you been able to see it in person?

Timothy Ely: The Gutenberg forty-two-line Bible, which I saw in New York’s public library. I have handled this book, and revel in the idea that it is a point on the historical timeline where we switched over from the book as a handmade ideal to an industrial product. My work is embedded in the ideas of pre-Gutenberg technology, with as much of the production being done by hand and the content generated by long contemplation and the intuitive handling of method.

Timothy C. Ely’s studio, 2016.

You work with fascinating materials, like animal skin bindings and nineteenth-century paints. What are a couple of your favorite materials to work with? Is there a material that you’d love to work with, but it’s too rare or obsolete?

I envision making a large vellum book using a contemporary variant on an old technology. I have a vellum model in the works which has been in the press for sixteen years. Vellum is expensive and requires much animal husbandry to provide foliation for the artist. This book-to-be needs patronage.

Other favorites are rare pigments made of materials from obscure locations. Not so much for what they materially do but what associations are formed. Meteoric dust (I have some from a meteor that fell around the time of Columbus), sand from Asian deserts, soil from the gardens of bookbinders and monasteries. My collection is vast and my spies numerous. This material adds form to covers but on occasion finds its way into the interior.

Soil from the plains of Central Tibet, one of many unique materials in Ely’s studio.

Your work takes inspiration from a range of sources, from ancient runes to science fiction to the spiral pattern on a pine cone. What themes have you been working with recently?

I am attempting to render the invisible, to describe some ideas like 4-D architectural renderings and diagrams of the ineffable. By using well-tested ideas such as symbolic visual descriptions, I can make an foray into how we might imagine the path of a particle or a hunch.

What is your research process like?

My process is to draw, fail, evaluate, draw again, erase, redraw, abandon hope, find the path again, read something, draw more, melt something or hammer it together, fuse things, make some bread, draw again, and continue to see what shows up. Often up, sometimes down—it is never a linear process, but one that works by continuing to work with purpose against a plane which cannot easily be scaled.

The Observatory, 2006, Timothy C. Ely. Ink, gouache, and dry pigment on paper.

Sources used:

https://www.annegilman.com/

https://www.annegilman.com/artist-books/limited-edition-artist-books/view/57

https://www.annegilman.com/artist-books/limited-edition-artist-books/view/58

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/1

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/2

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/6

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/3

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/4

https://www.annegilman.com/scroll-drawings/scrolls-on-and-off-the-wall/5

https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/alchemical-book-artists-at-work-part-1-timothy-c-ely/

#artist books #anne gilman #william blake #timothy ely #daniel kelm #pre-2000 #post-2000

[sportsnightnut]

double chocolate muffins and cigarettes

My Valentine’s Day Fic Exchange entry for Charnette (ScullyLovesQueequeg on AO3). A little angst, a little unrequited love, and not a lot of fluff, per her request. :)

Nicole ( @gaycrouton),  thank you so much for setting up these fic exchanges. They are delightful and fun and I love this so much. <3

the you I miss does not exist, but I’ve never wanted anybody more than this -john mayer

It’s 5:53 on Thursday morning, and Dana Scully’s first thought is that she really, really, really wants a cigarette.

Her alarm isn’t supposed to go off for another seven minutes. She could’ve had seven more glorious, unconscious minutes where she wasn’t awake and she wasn’t thinking about him or it or anything . But her internal clock decided that wasn’t necessary, so now she’s here, awake, staring at the ceiling and contemplating which expletives best fit her mood this morning.

Scully throws the covers off, sliding off the bed and right into her slippers. She pads out to the living room and turns on the television, which is still on The Weather Channel from yesterday morning. She throws the remote unceremoniously on the couch and makes her way to the kitchen.

While she starts the coffee, she listens for the infamous “Local on the 8s” segment to advise her on what to wear today. For the end of February in Washington, it’s been unseasonably, and somewhat obnoxiously, warm. As she suspected, high of 51 today, which is practically balmy after last week’s snow showers and highs in the low 20s. Her sinuses are furious.

Scully’s shower this morning is quick, partially because she doesn’t care that much today, and partially because there’s been a lack of hot water in the building lately. She’s not about to risk an extra five minutes just in case it turns to ice

Black suit, white shirt, black heels, a swipe of lipstick, and she’s out the door at 7:06.

She doesn’t feel like driving today, so she takes the Metro, Yellow line to the Archives station. There’s a bakery she likes about a block in the opposite direction of work, and since it’s the kind of morning that calls for a muffin the size of her face, Scully stops there first before ducking into the pharmacy next door to grab a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

She smokes two on the walk back. At first, it burns her throat and her lungs, but then she decides she kind of likes the feeling, so she finishes the first and shakes out a second. Scully finds an odd sense of pleasure in grinding a cigarette butt into the concrete sidewalk, something she would normally find repulsive.

When she steps off the elevator and into the office (their office? his office?), she’s surprised to find that Mulder is already there, digging through a file cabinet. He turns around when he hears her open the door.

“Eight o’clock on the dot, Agent Scully,” Mulder remarks with a smile, the kind Scully can’t decide if she loves or hates because she can’t decide if it’s endearing or annoying. This morning, in particular, it feels annoying.

“Mmm,” she replies as she hangs her coat. Since he isn’t currently at the desk, Scully decides it’s hers for the moment and takes a seat, tearing open the paper bag to reveal the double chocolate muffin inside. She takes a bite, wiping the crumbs off her skirt onto the floor, before she reaches for her travel mug of coffee and takes a drink.

“Are you okay?” Mulder asks, and it’s this, this question, this seemingly innocent yet not so innocent question that causes Dana Scully to snap.

And she’s not sure if it’s because he asked it or if it’s how he asked it or why he asked it, but if she were asked to detail everything leading up to this moment that led her to react the way she did, here is what she would tell you:

One: she’s been surrounded by alpha male figures her entire life, the most notable being her father. Captain William Scully. Sometimes she wonders what it might’ve been like to grow up away from the military, away from the structure, the rigidity, the “you’ll do what you’re ordered to do” culture that dictated their family. What would it’ve been like to have a more benevolent father? Would it have made any difference? For her? For her brothers? For Maggie?

When she’d asked Maggie whether or not he was proud of her, all Maggie had said was: “He was your father.”

What was that supposed to mean? Was it just assumed that he was proud of her? As much as Scully doesn’t want to admit it, she was desperate for his approval, and she really needed to hear it from him. But now he’s gone, and she can’t ask that of a dead man.

Two : Sometimes it is really fucking exhausting to be a woman in a male-dominated field in a male-dominated organization in a male-dominated government in a male-dominated society. Could Dana Scully run circles around half the men in the FBI? Absolutely. Is she a better shot than half the men in the FBI? Absolutely. But does she also have to prove herself every day, far more than any of the men she works with ever have?

Absolutely.

Three: Maggie cannot seem to stop pestering her about “settling down,” especially now that she’s gasp turned thirty.

They had dinner for her birthday last Sunday; a nice, quiet, mother and daughter meal. Scully ordered a fancy salad with grilled salmon and an expensive glass of pinot grigio, and almost as soon as her fork pierced those first bites of lettuce, Maggie said “So, Dana…” and Scully tried so desperately not to roll her eyes because she knew exactly where Maggie was headed.

Maggie means well. Scully knows that she means well. It’s just that if Scully hadn’t already been slightly self-conscious about celebrating her thirtieth birthday by having dinner with her mother, she was as soon as those two words left Maggie’s lips.

Scully is a doctor. A board-certified physician who is also a badass, gun-wielding Special Agent for the FB-fucking-I and all she can think about right now is the fact that she isn’t married and she’s having her thirtieth birthday dinner with her mother.

Four: Speaking of that whole doctor thing.

Scully knew early on in life that she wanted to be a doctor. Heavily influenced by her parents, of course, though she felt she’d come to the decision on her own. She loved science and logic, and she also felt called to serve others; practicing medicine was the perfect blend of two things she truly loved.

And sometimes Scully would daydream about becoming a doctor; getting that white coat, making rounds in the hospital. Maybe specializing in surgery, maybe pediatrics, maybe pediatric surgery. And she’d meet a handsome fellow physician, and they’d be an absolutely adorable couple, eating lunch together in the cafeteria and consulting on each other’s cases.

Now she’s found herself in the basement of the Hoover building, daydreaming instead about the man sitting just feet from her. He’s not a doctor, no, but he’s incredibly well-educated in his own right, having attended Oxford and graduated with honors from the academy.

But that’s just it: all she’s done so far is daydream.

Five : Speaking of Mulder.

Sometimes he’s irritating. Really irritating. For a few different reasons, of course, one being the fact that he is obnoxiously tall. All six feet of him towering over her five-foot-three frame. Mulder likes to stand behind her, often when she’s performing autopsies. He’d tell you it’s because he finds it--and her--fascinating. Scully doesn’t know that, so it feels alot like he’s watching her every move, waiting for something that’ll prove he’s right and she’s wrong.

And Mulder can also be a bit of a condescending asshole.

But here’s the thing: he’s also really, really attractive. And really, really smart. And did she mention attractive?

Six: Scully finds herself coming to Mulder’s defense more often than not.

They’re not dating or in any kind of relationship other than “work partners,” yet Scully finds herself defending him and/or having to defend him. Regularly. To their colleagues, to Skinner, to random strangers who don’t know him. And having to do this all the damn time is starting to get irritating.

It’s not only because she’s tired of defending him. She’s also tired of other people not understanding Mulder; not knowing her partner well enough to see how intelligent he is and that really, he doesn’t need her to defend him. Sometimes people will listen to her more than they’ll listen to Mulder because she’s the logical, rational one, without stopping to consider that Mulder might actually have a point. Playing the role of defender is, quite honestly, wearing on her.

Seven: Scully has made some hints, both subtle and not-so-subtle, that she likes Mulder as more than a work partner.

But he’s either an idiot or he’s missed every single one of them.

Does she really need to stand so close to him? No.

Does she need to purposely touch his hand every time he passes over a file or gives her a pen? No.

Does she need to sit on the bed in his hotel room and pass takeout containers back and forth while they compare notes and work on their reports? No.

Does she need to linger even after they’ve finished their work and talk with him late into the night? Definitely not.

Does she need to wear that one suit she knows he really likes because she’s seen him look at her appreciatively in it several times? No.

Although she’d be lying if she said she didn’t do it on purpose and that she didn’t enjoy the butterflies-in-her-stomach feeling that accompanied Mulder’s appreciative (but not creepy) gaze.

Eight: Scully got stood up last night. On her birthday.

She shouldn’t have planned a date on her birthday. She knows better. It’s just that she was supposed to go on a date with this guy named Peter and he said he was available on Wednesday, so she agreed, deciding not to tell him it was her birthday.

He’d chosen an Irish pub for their date, which was a little out of Scully’s first date (and overall) comfort zone, but she decided to give it a go anyway. Why the hell not. Except, of course, for the part where Peter never showed up and never called to explain why.

So Scully sat at the bar, alone, with a few pints of beer and something called Irish Nachos to keep her company. She decided that if she was going to be stood up, she may as well make the most of it with a plate of waffle fries covered in cheese.

Along with the fact that she was stood up last night, she’s also thinking about the fact that yet another Valentine’s day has passed without a man. Without a partner, a significant other, someone to buy her a cheesy card and a box of chocolate and maybe some flowers.

She hates that she wants these things.

Eight point one : Cheap beer and cigarettes.

The cheap Irish beer was good last night. It was appropriate for the situation. It wasn’t a glass of “I’m on a date” red wine. It was three or so pints of “I don’t give a fuck” beer.

And something about this cheap beer made her crave cigarettes for the first time in over a decade. She knows they’re terrible for her and she shouldn’t want them, but she’s been frustrated out of her goddamn mind and they just sounded good.

She used to sneak cigarettes as a teenager, simultaneously exhilarated that she was breaking the rules while being terrified that her father was going to find out. It was rebellious, and it was wrong. It’s still wrong, both because smoking is terrible for you and because Dana Katherine Scully is a rule follower.

But she’s tired of following the rules. Tired of worrying about what’s good for her or bad for her. She just wants to do something without considering the consequences.

Which leads her to buy that giant double chocolate muffin, that pack of cigarettes, and that lighter.

Nine: Scully wishes, more than she would ever admit, that Mulder would just ask her out already.

She sees the way he looks at her. She knows the way she looks at him.

She’s mad about this, too, though. It’s adhering to these typical gender roles and procedures of “guy asks girl out.”

It’s 1994, damn it. She could ask him out if she wanted to, you know? Just walk into the office and say “Mulder, would you like to go to dinner with me?” And he’d say yes, and that would be the end of that. The end of that frustration and tension and that “will they won’t they” dance they keep doing around each other.

Ten: Scully doesn’t say that last part.

Instead, she says this: “Fuck off, Mulder.”

Mulder blinks several times, very slowly, as if he can’t process the words that have just come out of his partner’s mouth.

“I…” he starts, but doesn’t know what to say. Because he doesn’t know what he’s done. Because all he’s really guilty of is being hot and brilliant and really fucking distracting . Because he has nothing and everything to do with the nine other reasons she’s exhausted and frustrated and smells faintly of cigarette smoke.

Scully thinks maybe she should apologize, except  she wouldn’t know where to begin. She’d have to go through all ten point one steps of everything leading up to her telling Mulder to fuck off. So she doesn’t. She takes a bite of her muffin and says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says. “I didn’t...I didn’t mean…” he trails off. He’s apologizing and doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

Scully sighs. “Yeah. Me too. It’s fine. Let’s get to work, okay?”

It’ll be a long, long while--years, in fact--before Mulder finally understands what all of this was about.

#xf fic #my fic #early seasons unrequited love #sportsnightnut

[honeylikewords]

Do it. You know you want to. You know you want to make headcanons about this man. This man played by Oscar Isaac. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams. This man played by Oscar Isaac who is made out of cake and dreams and who, despite being the main protagonist, has a whole canvas of life to paint a story for. *i place a paintbrush into your hands and curl your fingers around it* Paint is a portrait, Master of the Arts. ;)

Don’t tease!

But, I suppose I must... for I love Santi deeply and I want to tell his story! So, here I go! 

Despite being a very handsome man and his teammates frequently making comments about his informant being “attractive women” and calling said informants “his girlfriends”, Santiago has never actually slept with or wooed any of his informants. He treats them exactly the same way he would treat a male informant; with sympathy, kindness, and firmness when necessary. He doesn’t believe in using sexuality as coercion, especially against women. It makes him feel gross, uncomfortable, and disgusted to imagine doing that; he considers it a form of predation and would never behave like that.

Santi also loves working with kids and teenagers. He’s very sensitive to the needs of children and always treats them in a friendly, almost fraternal or fatherly manner, and wants to have kids of his own, one day. Once out of the forces, he takes a job working with kids, either as a social services worker or a teacher in some variety, possibly a counselor (as I’m discussing with @regrettablewritings ). He’s very fond of kids and they’re often very fond of him; he’s playful, fun, and empathetic. 

Santi loves chocolate, especially chocolate that’s a little bitter or has some spice in it, like chiles. He’s not super picky about his chocolates, but when his sweetheart surprises him with a whole selection of dark, artisan chocolates, he’s over the moon, kissing her cheeks and cooing about how kind of her it is to give him something this rich! He offers to share with her (he’s fond of sharing, he finds it very intimate, and he’s not a very selfish man by nature), and if she agrees, he’ll enjoy feeding her bites of the chocolates and taking some himself, asking her what she thinks with every bite.

Growing up, Santi loved his parents. His father was very supportive of him, if a little harsh sometimes, and his mother was the kindest woman he ever met. His father was Mexican-American, and his mother a Columbian immigrant to the U.S., and while never especially rich, they were happy and loved each other very much. Both parents were very influential in forming Santiago to be the compassionate, intelligent man he is today. Despite both of them passing when he was relatively young, he remembers them very fondly and keeps their memories alive in the work he does for other people.

Santi is great at soccer. He’s very light on his feet, fast, and playful, and despite his knees having a bit of trouble, he still loves to have a good game every now and then with the local kids or with his friends. He watches big games on T.V. every now and then and has favorite teams, even owning a few jerseys himself. 

Around the house, Santi tends to wear pretty relaxed clothes. Jeans if he’s going out, a button-up over a t-shirt, things like that, but if he’s just at home, it’s exercise shorts and a t-shirt. Or boxers and a t-shirt. Or boxers and an old soccer jersey. He’s not picky. It just has to breathe and be comfy for him.

Santi sleeps in just his undies, or nude, if he can manage it. I’m sorry.

On that note, Santi also likes hot weather but with the air conditioning cranked to max. He’s pretty used to the heat and finds it kinda relaxing. If the weather is cold or snowy, he gets put off and cranky. He HATES being cold, but doesn’t mind the chilly feeling one gets from going from sweating to icy air conditioning blast. He finds that stimulating, but finds the regular cold groggy and gross. It makes him super grumpy if he gets snowed in.

Not to do That Dumb Fanfic Trope(TM) but he also regularly switches between Spanish and English, especially in the company of people who do speak Spanish. He prefers Spanish to English if he’s with people who also speak Spanish, but doesn’t mind using English if the people around can’t keep up or don’t know Spanish as well. He also knows some amount of Portuguese, but uses it less often.

Santiago does, actually, want to get married and have a family. He’s a little shy about it with his team, but when Fish got married and settled down with babies, Santiago was secretly jealous. He told himself he wasn’t, but then he’d lay awake in bed during those rainy Columbian nights, staring at the ceiling fan, thinking about what it would be like to have a soft little lady here in bed beside him (though he imagined the bed somewhere back in the U.S., maybe Florida), their baby either in the room over or still in her tummy. He imagined being retired, working somewhere he could help people, wearing a gold band around his finger, introducing people to “Mrs. Garcia”, holding his baby in his arms. He’d roll over and go to sleep, pretending that wasn’t what he’d spent the last hour daydreaming over, but every time he’d see a father cheering in the crowds at a son’s soccer game or a mother outside a shop kissing her baby’s cheek, his stomach would knot and he’d get that voice in his head saying “When’ll it be our turn?”

Santi sometimes fidgets with the necklace he wears, especially when he’s reading. He winds it around his fingers or taps the charm at the end of it to his lips, humming a little. When the clasp glides over the ridge of cartilage at the back of his neck, brushing his scar, he’ll shiver and note the sensation. Though he no longer feels the scar, he’s still aware of it, and the area surrounding it is sensitive to him because of that awareness.

In a similar vein, he likes when his sweetheart lays him on his stomach and kisses his bare back, especially following the white-pink line down his neck and spine, the scar that glows against his gold-tan skin. He gets happy little shivers whenever she does that.

Santi doesn’t watch much T.V. and prefers music as background noise. That being said, he can’t sleep if things are too quiet, so he always has something running, especially when he moves back to the U.S. and gets an apartment in a quiet, normal neighborhood. Everything’s so... calm. And silent. It makes him tense. So he plays the T.V., radio, or music at all times, even as he’s sleeping. When he goes to sleep, he sometimes turns the T.V. on to some boring show he doesn’t care about and calmly falls asleep to the familiar sounds of bickering voices and cars.

On that note, Santi loves Metallica. He loves all the big 80s rock bands, especially metal ones, but Metallica is his favorite. 80s music, generally, is something he enjoys, though, so he’s happy to jam to anything with a strong bassline and some good ol’-fashioned synth.

Despite loving and being comfortable in the heat, Santi hates sweating and feeling stinky, so he bathes religiously. He’s very particular about his grooming, keeping himself clean-shaved, his hair handsomely done, his skin well-washed, exfoliated, moisturized, and SPF’d. It’s not that he’s vain, but rather that he’s meticulous and cleanly, and he likes to take these moments to have some quiet self-care. He’s always so busy and lived a very hard and harsh life, so taking the time to zone out and just clean himself up feels good. Dude’s not ashamed to pop on a face mask and clear his pores out. It’s self-love, baby. Even veterans can do it. Plus, everyone should wear SPF every single day, and Santi is very firm about that! Especially in intense climates like Colombia!

Santi gets bored at the movie theatre often. He finds movies largely disinteresting, and if his partner wants to go see a movie, he’ll just sit there the whole time rubbing up on her, touching her arms, stroking her face, kissing her hands, massaging her thighs. It’s not that he’s trying to Get It On in the theatre, just rather that he’s bored and he loves her, and it’s nice and dark and quiet so he can just revel in the sensation of touch, watching how her skin reflects the light of the screen. Sometimes, he doesn’t even see the movie at all, not one second of it, his focus so solely on her. He doesn’t mind; she looked so pretty all engrossed in the movie, and with her head tilted like that, he had good access to her neck to leave kisses and little bites here and there. Very enjoyable, ten stars out of ten.

Santiago has the best relationship with Fish, then with William, then with Tom, and then Benny, in that order. Fish is his closest and oldest friend-- they knew each other as young men in high school and enlisted together-- and met William very early on, bonding the most with those two out of everyone. While all of the brothers of his team are very dear to him, he sees Fish and William the most regularly, and values their input on his life the most. 

Santi is a good dancer, but never shows it off except at home, listening to his records with his beloved. There, he’ll shake his hips and snap along, shimmying to the tunes like there’s no tomorrow, swaying with his lady love. It’s adorable.

Santi’s necklace was previously his mother’s, and he can’t bear to not wear it. It upsets him not to have it on, and if he thinks he’s lost it, he’ll start having a panic attack. Luckily, he’s never lost it, and it’s made it through hell and back with him. He hopes one day to pass it on to his child, too.

Never in his life would Santiago ever have a social media account. Texting? Sure, fine, he can do that. But posting stuff? Personal stuff? Pictures of himself or others? No way! He’s very private and secretive, despite what others may think. He’s not one to keep up with other people’s lives, either; if he wanted to know, he’d ask them, call them up, text them. So he’s off the grid, internet-wise, and plans to stay that way.

Santi’s hair started greying very early. His first greys showed up when he was about 20, and now he’s very salt-and-peppered. For a while, he tried dyeing his hair, but found it too finicky and stressful. Besides, he grew into liking his looks, and maintains a very youthful appearance even with the greys. And, lord knows, the grey is pretty darn sexy, so he keeps it, now. Especially after his sweetheart spent a long night kissing him and telling him how gorgeous all those silver streaks are. “Like comet-light,” she giggled, kissing his cupid’s bow. “I mean, I can’t believe how stunning you are...” “Right back at you, darling,” he murmured, lips to hers.

Santi also loves getting massages. His poor back and legs ache all the time, and his neck is so sore, so when his sweetie gives him that good, deep, untensing massage, her thumbs really digging in and undoing all his knots, cracking those tired joints, he lets out happy hums and sighs. “Oh, that’s the ticket,” he’ll purr, sometimes complimenting her in Spanish and cooing about how relaxed he feels.

On a different note, Santi is always the one who drives. He hates being in the passenger seat. He’s a terrible backseat driver and actually gets stressed out not being in control of moving vehicles. It’s a vet thing he doesn’t like talking about too much, but he feels like he has to be behind the wheel in order to keep everyone safe. 

Santi likes being the big spoon a lot, but doesn’t mind being the little one. He’d prefer to be the big one, but if he’s feeling sensitive or needy, he’ll curl up in his lover’s arms and feel safe and ensconced, wrapped in her love and protection. She’s not gonna leave. She’s there for him. And he’s happy as can be!

Okay, this got... longer than I anticipated. But my heart is full of love and I cannot control myself!

#messages #here i go again!!!!!!!!!!!!! #santiago garcia #Anonymous

[xiv-endora]

Send in two (or more) names and I’ll fill all this out about the ship!

General:

Rate the Ship -   Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! (All the reblogging things pls and ty) | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last? - A very long time. I feel like these two would be good at talking about their issues, if they ever had any. Communication is key!

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - ...I’unno man cause, I’m thinking the first time they saw one another smile and found themselves staring too long into each others gaze; it was then they fell without ever really knowing.

How was their first kiss? - It’s either something really passionate and slow, the whole ‘stare into your eyes’ and then move in for the kill deal orrrr.. it just happens out of instinct. Endora goes to thank Cassian for something, without thinking, she gives him a kiss out of appreciation. It’s in that moment the two are locked in a ‘oh no’ moment.

Wedding:

Who proposed? - Either one of them maybe? Cassian more than Endora? She wouldn’t have an issue with doing it though and chances are, she would, if placed in that situation. Wouldn’t be romantic from her end though. More of a, ‘hey I got you this ring..can you wear it like, 24.7 for me? kthnxbai.’

Who is the best man/men? - @the-wanted-man Roman no doubt.

Who is the bride’s maid(s)? - ..Roman again (that’s rough).

Who did the most planning? - Neither one of them. Most likely they shot a few ideas back and forth, both ended up agreeing they want something private between themselves. No theme, no invitations, nothing. Just each other.

Who stressed the most? - Endora maybe, because she’d be a bit paranoid that part of her past will come out from the shadows and ruin everything, literally.

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big. THEY HAVE THEIR OWN KIND OF WEDDING.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Their fathers, family from both sides that haven’t been in their lives for x amount of years. 

Sex:

Who is on top? - They switch it up, all depends on the mood and what they’re feeling.

Who is the one to instigate things? - Endora. Poor Cassian, bless his soul.

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now The two know how to express their feelings for one another in small and large gestures, let alone sexually. So it’s pretty damn healthy.

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - Think this depends on where the two are cause, if they’re at home? ..It can be for as long as they’d like or who tires out first, essentially. Let’s just say a decent amount of time for the both to feel extremely satisfied. 

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - Much as Endora would want Cassian to get off much as herself, she might be the one experiencing one or two orgasms more than him. He’s a giver and is pretty passionate about things.

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it. 

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - They wouldn’t really plan out how many they’d have in the long run, it just, ..happens! Two?

How many children will they adopt? - Pets can be considered as children, right? Cause if so then Endora would be thrilled to adopt a murder or two of some of her feathered friends. Little kids though, there’s no telling how many they would take in. Another one of those situations where it just happens and in the end, they couldn’t be happier.

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - Cassian. #bestdad

Who is the stricter parent? - Neither are strict really. They’re on the same wave length and agree that their kids should be allowed to make their own mistakes, let alone experience life themselves without rules holding them back from knowing what being a child is really like.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Again, neither. They’re going to watch their kid be a dumbass and then ask if they’re okay or not.

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - Maybe Cassian? Endora would remember if she wasn’t so tired the night before, would even do it the night before. But there’ll be those mornings where she’ll nudge Cassian awake, urging him to make the lunch before their kid leaves for school. She’s too in love with sleep to do it herself.

Who is the more loved parent? - ...!? THAT IS TOUGH. Uh, both would have their own situations the kids would go to. Cassian for the boys to talk about.. guy stuff, girls with their mother about.. lady things. I’d like to think that their family would be open enough to talk about either parent, no matter what. 

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings?- Endora. She has no issue in speaking up on any topic and not afraid to make a scene if ever the time called for it. Cassian would go to, but might not be as mouthy as she would- only when it came to defend their children. 

Who cried the most at graduation? - Neither one. Between all the hugs and praise, no tears would seen.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Let the kids sit and rethink about what they did in order to get where they are. Then? Either mom or dad would show up with the ‘learn your lesson?’ look and when they get home, the other parent might give some punishment. They break up the whole ‘being the bad guy’ thing, so neither parent is hated more than the other.

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - Depends on their schedules. Whoever is off at work most that day wouldn’t to worry about it. Most likely it’d be Endora though but she won’t do the dishes. NOPE.

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - ...Endora.

Who does the grocery shopping? - Cassian!

How often do they bake desserts? - She loves to bake, so, if she has the time to do it then there will always be baked goods in the house. Could be every other night, twice a week. All depends really!

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - Meat.

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Cassian. Endora would most likely..not give him anything dinner related, more of a cliche “dessert”.

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - She would, but it wouldn’t be frequent. More of a.. ‘hey let’s get out and enjoy ourselves’ kind of deal.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - ..Endora and most likely, a fire has broken out two or twelve times. But who is counting, yeah?

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - They both are organized people, so there’s no set person to do this.

Who is really against chores? - Neither one.

Who cleans up after the pets? - Pretty sure Cassian would help out but Endora doesn’t own any pets that needed to be cleaned up after. They’re mostly out in the wild, but again, this would be a team effort.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - Bless Cassian’s soul if he ever tried it cause boy, Endora would give him a earful about that. But neither one of them would do this-- hopefully.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Endora only a little bit because there are some things she doesn’t want others to see, so, ..she’d be trying to pick up pretty quickly and be sure everything is safe.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Cassian, but Endora says it was hers and plucks it out from his fingers.

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Endora? Cassian might take longer ones after a long day of work, cause he’s always covered by something or another, but she’s most usually taking her time especially if it’s a bath. If they’re in it together? ..No telling how long they’ll be.

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - Not Endora, he would.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Anything that she celebrates or feels strongly about, Endora will easily decorate for. Especially if they had kids, to show tradition or something. But if it’s just them? Anytime they wanted to decorate would be wonderful. For new memories shared together from their past, or start anew.

What are their goals for the relationship? - Be open, trustworthy and always themselves. No need to lie, nor wear a mask. They both want to feel this way for their entire relationship because quite frankly, it’s the best. Also, to never go to bed mad at one another. Endora won’t let him sleep if they argued and haven’t made up or at least spoke about what’s wrong.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - He doesn’t sleep long or well, so that’ll be Endora.

Who plays the most pranks? - Cassian.

@cassian-kane

#answers #stories #Pretty Pretty Princess #Friends is the 'f' word

[dreamstormdragon]

A Promise

A Promise

Jack didn’t like how worried his father looked. His father had always appeared strong and never faltering. Not when he burned himself a little lighting candles. Not when he forgot to dry the dishes and left them in the sink for his mother to find later on. Not when his old knee injury was acting up.

But this… this was an expression Jack didn’t like seeing. Milo was leaning forward on their couch, holding tightly onto his cane. So tightly he thought he might break it.

Jack frowned, looking at the clock. It was so early. Why was he awake? Jack rubbed his left eye a little before going to his parent, tugging on his arm.

“Father, why’re you awake? The moon’s probably still out.”

Milo flinched a little at the touch before trying to put on a brave look.

“Jackie… I..” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I… Oh goodness, there’s no easy way to say this. The baby’s coming.”

Jack perked up a little, momentarily excited. His mother had told him months ago that he was going to be a big brother in several months time.

The excitement faded though as he remembered that wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

Jack looked up at his father, seeing genuine fear in his eyes, feeling his own fear crop up. He climbed up beside his father, looking him over before leaning against his side.

“M’sorry…”

“No, Jackie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you-”

“No!”

Milo frowned, gazing down at his son.

“Jack...”

“It’s my baby brother or sister. I gotta know too! So… So I can help or something!”

Milo kissed his head, hugging him close. He had awoken in the middle of the night to Cornelia shaking him, telling him something was wrong.

Her pregnancy with Jack had been normal. Jack had been a healthy infant, born right on time. How could they have guessed that things would go so south this time around?

Just please… please, be born alive. Please be alive.

They waited for hours, Jack dozing off against his father in time. Milo, however, couldn’t help the fear he was feeling.

He just wanted everything to go well.

Milo closed his eyes, gripping the necklace hidden under his nightshirt tightly.

Please.

It was mid morning when the doctor appeared, a look of concern in his eyes.

“Mr. Carter?”

Milo felt his heart sink. He took a shaky breath, standing up after making sure Jack was still asleep.

“Yes?” He gestured for the doctor to follow him into an adjacent room. “How’s my wife? How’s… How’s the baby?”

The doctor looked grim as he spoke.

“Mrs. Carter is doing as well as she can be expected to after this type of ordeal. She’ll recover, just needs time. As for your child… He’s very small and frail. Very underweight. He was born so early. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Milo swallowed hard. He looked up the stairs to where his wife and child were.

“You can’t be serious. He’s… He’s going to be alright, won’t he?”

“Sir, I can’t give him a good prognosis at this point in time. If he makes it through the year I’ll consider it a small miracle. I’m so very sorry.”

Milo felt like all the air had been sucked right out of his lungs. He felt numb. He wanted to cry out. To scream. To demand that the doctor fess up that it was some elaborate and cruel prank.

But it wasn’t.

“Thank you…. I… I need to be with them.”

oooooo

Jack was aware he was being carried. He yawned a little, burying his face into his father’s shoulder.

“Is it breakfast time yet…?” He mumbled.

“Later, Jackie. I want you to meet someone, okay?” Milo spoke quietly. “The doctor left to go get some medicine for the baby and your mother. We’re going to go say hello.”

Jack rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly before giving a nod.

“Okay.”

It was very quiet. Milo was smiling but the smile didn’t make it to his eyes. His eyes were still full of fear and worry.

Jack gulped a little.

“Now, when we go in there, I want you to go to the wash basin and clean your hands, okay? The baby can’t get any germs at all. Alright?”

“A-Alright.”

Milo sighed shakily before leading Jack inside, both of them washing their hands before turning to where Cornelia laid.

She was sitting up in bed, rocking her newborn. She looked up briefly, giving her best gentle look.

“Hello there, Jack. How’s my little fae?”

“I’m… I’m well.” Jack murmured, going to her side, being mindful to not brush his hands against anything. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Cornelia gave him a small smile, kissing his forehead.

“I will love. Now, are you ready to meet your baby brother?”

Jack nodded  leaning over as Cornelia uncovered the baby a bit. The infant was fast asleep, breathing quietly.  Jack smiled a little.

“This is William.”

“Hi, William.” Jack leaned over, feeling relief go through him. The baby was here and he seemed safe… He hoped, at least. “I’m Jack. I’m your big brother. You’re too little now but when you get big, I’m gonna show you all kinds of neat stuff. Like how to catch bugs and find good herbs and dig for crystals and neat stones. A-And….” Jack’s voice cracked, tears stinging his eyes. “And I love you.”

Cornelia looked behind him at Milo, giving him a nod. He lifted Jack up, setting him down beside his mother.

“Would you like to hold him?”

“B-But what about germs?”

“You’re clean, love. You’ll be careful with him. I know. Now, just like I showed you. Mind his head.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard, cradling William against him. The baby mumbled a little in his sleep before scrunching his nose up.

Jack gulped, bracing himself for possible crying, only it never came. William wiggled in the blankets, a tiny hand managing to escape it.

He’s so tiny… Oh gosh he’s really tiny.

Jack brought the arm holding him around him tighter, gently pressing his index finger against William’s palm. The infant grasped onto it tightly. William coughed a bit before settling down.

“I love you.” Jack whispered, holding him close. “I love you so much. I’m sorry you’re here early but I’m glad you’re here.” His voice cracked. tears running down his face.

“Oh, Jackie…”

Milo sat down, bringing his arms around his wife and children.

“We’re gonna make sure he’ll be okay.” He promised. “William is going to be fine.”

“He’s just got a bit of a challenge.”

Jack just hoped it would be a bit.

I got you, William.

oooooo

The first three months of William’s life were a blur for Jack. Doctors and nurses coming by every single day. All of them giving his brother medicine, examining him. Trying to make sure he would have a fighting chance.

He didn’t let his parents know how often he listened in on these appointments. He wanted to be there for his brother, even if William was sick all the time.

Especially tonight. Jack was in an unfamiliar place. A doctor they knew of for years but hadn’t gotten to come around yet.

They had to come to him tonight, however. When Jack and Cornelia were checking on William they had noticed something very, very wrong.

The baby had stopped breathing and in a flurry of emotions and fear they had ran three houses down, pleading for help.

Jack looked at his parents before sneaking off, adjusting his coat so it didn’t make any noise.

He had been told no family was allowed in the treatment room the doctor had but Jack didn’t care.

I’m his big brother. That’s MY responsibility. I’m the one who has to watch him.

Peering in through a crack in the door, he did.

He wasn’t sure what was happening but he did hear William crying which was a good sign as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t see him fully, but he did see how fast the doctor was moving.

“Alright little one, we got you breathing. Pupils responding normally too.”

Jack wished he knew what he was seeing. He wished he could do something to help or at least be in there to make sure William wasn’t scared.

You’re gonna be fine, Will. Just keep being a good boy.

“I know you’re there. I said to wait outside.”

Jack gulped before shaking his head, standing up straight.

“No.That’s my baby brother. I’m… I’m not letting him be alone.”

“Then stay outside that door at least.”

Jack gulped a bit but nodded. It felt like time stood still. All he could do was focus on what happening.

It felt like forever until the doctor came and opened the door fully, kneeling to Jack’s level. He smiled, giving him an assuring look.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s going to make it past one year.”

“Th-Thank you um… Doctor…?”

“Just call me Dr. Stiles.”  

“Thank you.” Jack ran in to see his brother fast asleep on the table. He had to stand on his toes, to see him clearly but it didn’t matter to Jack.

His baby brother was alive.

“Hi, baby.” Jack saw one of his hands was out as he pressed his finger against it gently. William’s face scrunched up a little before his hand grasped onto his brother as tightly as he could. “You silly little baby. Don’t… Oh goodness, William, don’t scare me like that again. I mean it. Never ever again.”

William coughed a little before opening his eyes slowly, looking at Jack before giving him an innocent smile.

Jack sighed in relief, smiling back.

“I promise... I’m gonna do everything in my power to help. You’re not gonna get sick like this again. Not as long as I’m around.”

Jack wasn’t sure how or when but he was going to find a way to keep that promise.

I’m gonna be a doctor.

I’m gonna be your doctor and you’re gonna get better. I’m gonna make sure you can do everything. Everything you ever wanted to.

I mean it William.

#William Carter #William Carter Don't Starve Together #dst william #dst jack #dst jack carter #milo carter #oc's #don't starve #Survive the Shadows #Storm Snippets #storm arashi #fanfiction #don't starve fanfiction

[crazyblondelife]

Preventing Dementia

Memory Loss due to dementia or Alzheimer's Disease is a heartbreaking thing to watch.  My mother lives in a memory care center and my father just passed away from Alzheimer's Disease.  I watched them slowly decline, feeling helpless and unable to do anything to change it.  Watching our parents age (sometimes not so gracefully), and wondering what we can to do help them, while at the same time, wondering how we can prevent the health issues they are having from happening to us is but one of the major challenges of midlife.

I've always believed that diet and lifestyle are important to our health and that stress levels contribute in a big way to our long term ability to stay healthy.  Because I have chosen, for the most part, to use more holistic medical practices in my life, I decided to research memory loss from this perspective.  I found several good articles by well known holistic doctors, medical medium Anthony William, as well as the Mayo Clinic and others.  I've summarized my findings in this post.

Memory loss doesn't happen suddenly. 

Memory loss begins before we even realize it and research shows that it can be reversed with diet, supplements, exercise and stress reduction.

  Many of my blog posts are about the importance of self care and self love.  Living a healthy lifestyle is not only a gift to yourself, it's a gift to those who love you.  Quality of life is paramount to aging gracefully!  What does a healthy lifestyle involve...

Take These Steps to Prevent and Improve Memory Loss

New research shows that there is a connection between blood sugar levels and memory loss.  Eating a diet of whole foods and cutting out the bad foods can help.

Improve your diet by cutting out refined carbs, processed foods, vegetable and seed oils.

Eat healthy fats and quality protein such as avocados (try this easy recipe and check out my Pinterest avocado board), walnuts, almonds and cashews, grass-fed meats, pastured chicken and eggs, olive oil, wild fatty fish (try this salmon recipe), whole eggs and coconut oil.  Healthy omega 3 fats are good for your brain. 

Reduce alcohol consumption

Alcohol consumption can increase the risk of dementia.  Most people associate the term dementia with Alzheimer's, but that is only one form of dementia.  Dementia can be linked to alcohol use because using alcohol can kill brain cells at a faster rate than age alone.  People who consume one bottle of wine in one sitting, in midlife, are three times more likely to have dementia by the time they turn 65 according to The American Addiction Centers.  That is frightening!

Exercise Daily

If you are not active, begin by taking a 30 minute walk.  If you are already active and fit, Incorporate weight training and high intensity interval training.  Try Zumba, power yoga, or other aerobic activities.  Physical activity has been shown to prevent and slow down cognitive decline.  For a short core workout when you're pinched for time, try this workout.

Take Supplements

Because of depleted soil quality, even on organic farms, our food supply isn't as healthy as it once was.  In addition, because produce often travels long distances, nutrients are further depleted.  It is more important now than ever before to take quality supplements.

Take a high quality multi-vitamin and mineral supplement at the very least.  Other supplements that are highly recommended are an omega 3 fat supplement, extra B6, B12 (Kombucha is very high in B vitamins and folate), folate and vitamin D3 (read this article about vitamin D3).  A good quality probiotic is also important.

Have hormone levels checked and treat them if they are out of balance.

The most common cause of female hormone imbalance is perimenopause, which is the transitional phase leading to menopause.  During this phase, the production of estrogens and progesterone begins to decline.  Lifestyle factors, including stress, obesity, poor diet, lack of sleep and exercise can also cause hormone imbalance.  Hormone imbalances can increase a woman's risk of heart disease, osteoporosis, and memory loss.  A healthy diet is also important to hormone levels because over time, we are exposed to dietary toxins, which contribute to the decline of hormones as we age.

Thyroid imbalance from hypothyroidism and hyperthyroidism can also cause cognitive problems and a decrease in memory.

Detox From Mercury or Other Heavy Metals

In our modern world, we are exposed to many toxins from things like air pollution, plastics, and industrial cleaning agents as well as thousands of new chemicals that are introduced into our environment every year.  They are our water, air and therefore in our homes and workplaces.  Heavy metal toxicity is quite common but not commonly diagnosed.  Most of us have are carrying around heavy metals that have been with us for most of our lives and are deep in our tissues.  Heavy metals can inflame and irritate our central nervous system...especially our brains, causing memory loss, brain fog, fatigue and depression.

Accumulation of heavy metals is inevitable but is relatively easy to get rid of by adding certain foods to your diet including -

Spirulina

Barley Grass Juice Extract Powder (drink 1 - 2 teaspoons mixed into coconut water or juice)

Cilantro (add to a smoothie, salad or guacamole)

 Wild Maine Blueberries - wild blueberries from Maine are the most powerful food for halting dementia.  If you can't get fresh ones, buy frozen and read this blog post for more.

Atlantic Dulse - this edible seaweed binds to metal toxins and doesn't release it until it leaves the body.  Eat two tablespoons of flakes daily.

These 5 foods are a powerful team of foods for removing heavy metals from your body.  Consume these foods within 24 hours of each other for optimal effect if possible.

Also consume lemon water with raw honey and freshly grated ginger (try this detox tea) and aloe vera juice.

Control Stress Levels

Chronic stress takes a toll on your body and brain.  Learning to relax is vital to preventing and reversing dementia.  Find something that helps you calm down such as deep breathing, meditation or yoga.

Get 8 Hours of Sleep Every Night

Sleep depravation is getting worse and worse because of our addiction to devices and studies by the National Institute of Health show that poor sleep becomes a risk factor for Alzheimer's disease.  Aim to get 8 hours of sleep every night.  Here are a few tips for getting a good nights sleep from Dr. Mark Hyman.  Arianna Huffington has also written a great book about the importance of sleep called The Sleep Revolution, Transforming Your Life, One Night at a Time.

Go to bed and wake up at the same time each day.

Use your bed for sleep, not reading or television.

Aesthetic environments encourage sleep – use serene and restful colors and eliminate clutter

Create total darkness and quiet – consider using eyeshades and earplugs

Avoid caffeine before bed – it may seem to help you stay awake but actually makes your sleep worse

Avoid alcohol for at least 2 hours before bed – it helps you get to sleep but causes interruptions in sleep and poor-quality sleep

Get regular exposure to daylight for at least 20 minutes daily – the light from the sun enters your eyes and triggers your brain to release specific chemicals and hormones like melatonin that are vital to healthy sleep, mood, and aging

Eat no later than three hours before bed – eating a heavy meal prior to bed will lead to a bad night’s sleep

Don’t exercise vigorously after dinner – it excites the body and makes it more difficult to get to sleep

Write your worries down – one hour before bed, write down the things that are causing you anxiety and make plans for what you might have to do the next day to reduce your worry. This will free up your mind and energy to move into deep and restful sleep

Take a hot salt/soda aromatherapy bath – raising your body temperature before bed helps to induce sleep. A hot bath also relaxes your muscles and reduces tension physically and psychically. Add one-and-a-half to one cup of Epsom salt (magnesium sulfate) and one-and-a-half to one cup of baking soda (sodium bicarbonate) to your bath, you will gain the benefits of magnesium absorbed through your skin and the alkaline-balancing effects of the baking soda, both of which help with sleep.

Get a massage or stretch before bed - this helps relax the body making it easier to fall asleep

Warm your middle to raise your core temperature by using a hot water bottle, heating pad, or warm body.

Avoid medications that interfere with sleep - including sedatives (these are used to treat insomnia, but ultimately lead to dependence and disruption of normal sleep rhythms), antihistamines, stimulants, cold medication, steroids, and headache medication that contains caffeine.

Use herbal therapies - try passionflower, or valerian root extract

Take 200 to 400 mg of magnesium citrate or glycinate before bed to relax the nervous system and muscles.

Try melatonin to help stabilize sleep rhythms.

Use relaxation techniques, meditation or guided imagery and essential oils to help you get to sleep.

A recent article by the National Institutes of Health concludes that common pharmaceutical Alzheimer's drugs are expensive with limited effectiveness for most patients and are not cost effective enough to justify the expense.  Given this...alternative and holistic prevention and treatment for dementia are certainly options that are worth trying.  There really is no downside.

Thanks so much for reading today.  This is a subject that is very near and dear to my heart and I hope you found it informative.

#healthy lifestyle #dementia #Alzheimer's #supplements

[aion-rsa]

Supergirl Flirts with Horror and Fights Phantoms

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This SUPERGIRL article contains spoilers for Season 6, Episode 4, “Lost Souls.”

Supergirl Season 6 Episode 4

To vanquish the Phantoms and escape the Phantom Zone, Supergirl motions toward horror with its body-snatching plot in National City and eerie quest over in the Phantom Zone. With the Prime Phantom still terrorizing National City and Kara and her father still trapped, the Super Friends had their hands full while still trying to come to terms with the emotional aspect of losing Kara, mostly by consuming Scotch or doughnuts. (Come on Nia, be the innovator who makes it Scotch and doughnuts!)

In an early bout with phantoms, a seemingly defeated phantom coming from lying on the ground to standing up in one smooth movement was a particularly cool genre moment for the usually-light Supergirl. The final showdown with the mini-Phantom Zone on Earth has more horror beats, like when Brainy is taken and he claws his way from the shadows – his red eyes a sign he’s been taken – before the phantoms pull him into the darkness. Mostly, though, Supergirl is too silly for the genre. Instead, Brainy deadpans that, “we’re going to need a bigger gun” and the Prime Phantom is taken out in a very Ghostbuster-y display of knock-off proton packs.

Over in the Phantom Zone, it’s hard to shake the feeling that something just isn’t quite right. That something turns out to by Nyxly, the exiled imp princess introduced in the previous episode. Played with winking charm by Peta Sergeant (Snowfall), there was always going to be more to her story, and it seems obvious that she’ll survive the blast and find a way to keep causing headaches for Kara Zor-El for a while longer. The bigger question is, how long will Kara’s father Zor-El (Jason Behr, Roswell) be able to survive Nyxly’s antics, and might Mxyzptlk return to help?

A drawback to the bad blood between Kara and Lena last season, above and beyond the feud between the two of them, is that it isolated Lena from the rest of the characters she used to be so close to. This episode was a nice return to form then, with Alex backing Lena up in a big way and giving her the digital record of Kara’s life force. That’s a huge vote of confidence, and while the audience has known how Kara feels toward Lena and Brainy has spent time with the law-abiding Luthor, it’s good to see how the rest of the Super Friends actually feel.

Lena’s pain and guilt over Kara being in the Phantom Zone and her desire to bring her back is palpable. Importantly, this isn’t season 5 Lena, vowing to make Non Nocere work to spite Kara or Lex, a maniacal glint in her eye, churning her hurt over Kara’s lie into innovation, no matter the cost. Katie McGrath’s performance makes it clear that this desire to do whatever it takes is rooted in sadness and resignation, that she ultimately knows Alex is right about saving National City instead of Kara, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

With Kara in the Phantom Zone, Super Girl is mixing it up when it comes to scene partners. Aside from the old standby of reuniting Alex and Lena (it’s always good to see Alex Danvers working in a lab), M’Gann and Dreamer teaming up makes use of M’Gann’s new, temporary powers. With M’Gann sticking around, hopefully she gets to keep working with other characters beyond J’onn, to flesh out those relationships.

This season has largely sidelined William Dey and so far, it’s hard to object. At some point Nia’s story will likely involve professional maturation to match her growth as a hero, or perhaps Lex’s inevitable return for revenge will bring him back into view. For now, though, the Tower is a world unto itself, with National City only mattering in the abstract. Silas (Claude Knowlton) has been a nice touch, but with so many characters and so little time (we didn’t even see Kelly this week!), one doesn’t exactly lie awake at night wondering about Andrea Rojas.

Supergirl’s legacy has already emerged as a strong theme this season. It makes sense, as the show considers its own legacy as well. Brainy often talks about the legend of Supergirl and Nia Nall in his own time, especially in pep talks to Nia, who is flourishing as a hero in her own right. Here, Alex made a painful choice because she knew it was what Kara would have wanted. That’s likely why Lena didn’t conspire to thwart Alex. M’Gann and J’onn lived her message in a different way, putting their lives on the line to save one another, the kind of egalitarian heroism Supergirl espouses.

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Supergirl herself was no slouch in the heroics department, destroying her way home rather than letting Nyxly terrorize earth, even trying to save her. There’s a long way to go before we say goodbye to Supergirl, but the woman of steel is nothing if not steadfast in her resolve to make the hard choices to do what’s right until the very end.

The post Supergirl Flirts with Horror and Fights Phantoms appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[scripts4dreamers]

Misunderstood

AN: It’s just another boring day at Nissen until, of course, your world turns upside down Characters: Christoffer Schistad, William Magnusson, Los Losers Pairings: Chris x reader Warnings: None Spoilers: None Prompt: “Hey! Can you do a Chris Schistad imagine where him and reader are always together and have a thing but aren’t 100% official like in lunch you can find her sitting between his legs or at party’s his arm around her and then Eva walks up and is all over him which pissed the reader off. And at school she tries to ignore them and he notices and pulls her in a classroom and they talk and he reassures her he has no feelings for her. Thanks so much!!”

---------------------

“You talk such shit, you know that?” You laughed, leaning shifting closer so that your back was resting against Chris’ chest.

“You love me though,” he joked, fiddling with the edges of your sleeves.

You snorted and rolled your eyes, “Whatever helps you sleep at night Schistad.”

“You could help me sleep at night if you want Y/N,” Chris teased, and you could practically feel his smug smirk.

The sounds of the party rose and fell like tides; the heavy thrumming of the music was accompanied by the chatter of your classmates and the familiar sound of people moving and breathing together. You sighed and leant your head back against Chris’ chest. He hummed happily in response and nuzzled into your hair, a movement that was so familiar to you and yet still made something in your blood boil. His nose touched the soft skin of your neck accidentally, followed by the feather-light brush of his lips and you bit back a gasp as your heart skipped a beat. He was drunk and he couldn’t possibly know what he was doing. You needed to get yourself under control.

“There’s the happy couple,” William boomed, collapsing in the chair next to you with a smile, shattering whatever tension may have been forming.

He was drunk, which wasn’t unusual, but William was usually far more reserved than this, far less frantic and…well…happy.

“We aren’t a couple,” you reminded him with a sigh, reaching back to card your fingers through Chris’ hair when he made a quiet noise of agreement, “we’re just really good friends.”

William laughed, but didn’t disagree, “Yes, of course sorry, I forgot that we were still playing that game. Well then, Chris, considering that you’re a single man, I feel totally fine asking you to come be my wingman. There’s a pretty little first year here that I want to impress.”

You felt Chris hesitate for a moment, his arms tightening around your body protectively, as though to stop you from leaving. Something about that, about the way his whole body strained to keep you close, suddenly alerted you to the intimacy of your position between his legs, and you cleared your throat to stop yourself from blurting out something embarrassing.

“What’s this one’s name then William?” you asked as you disentangled yourself from Chris, trying to distance yourself discreetly, “You’re not still after Vilde, are you?”

William laughed again and you cast a nervous look at Chris, who seemed to be inspecting his own hands with an alarming intensity. Maybe he’d noticed the frightening intimacy too, maybe he was trying to find a way to let you down easily, to remind you that you were, after all, just friends.

“No, not Vilde, her name is Noora,” William told you, smiling in a way that seemed to light him up from the inside.

“Oh, I know her,” you said quickly, “she’s a tough one. You might need to actually treat her like a human being for once in your life.”

“Come on, I’ll go with you,” Chris told William, standing up suddenly, “sounds like you’ll need all the help you can get.”

William’s face broke into a wide smile, “Yes! The Penetrators ride again, let’s do this!”

“You’re still coming back to William’s with us, right Y/N?” Chris asked.

You nodded but then paused and shook your head, “I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, so I’ll probably just go home. Don’t worry about me though, go have fun.”

Chris pressed his lips together, frowning slightly, but nodded once in return before following William into the next room. Alone suddenly, you sighed and looked around, wondering what you could do to pass the time. It wasn’t as though you didn’t have other friends, you did, they just weren’t Chris. No one was Chris really, and that was a huge part of the problem. Without him, the sounds of the party became nearly overwhelming, and you felt naked and exposed without the familiar weight of his body beside yours. You thought about the ghost of his lips against your neck and, almost imperceptibly, you shivered.

“Chin up Y/N/N,” you whispered to yourself, focusing again on reality, “it’s just another party.”

And, with that, you pushed yourself up off of the couch and waded your way towards the front door. You could lie to Chris and William all you wanted, but you couldn’t lie to yourself. Without them, there was no point being at the party anymore and so, with one last look over your shoulder, you left.

-----------------

Monday, as usual, came too soon and, as you strolled through the gates of Nissen, you were really only half awake. You’d spent the whole of Sunday trying to finish a paper for Norwegian that should’ve been done on Friday and cursing yourself for your poor time management skills. At this point, your blood had to be at least 15% coffee.

“Y/N,” a second year, Iben, called, “hey, how are you?”

“Good,” you answered with a polite smile, “How about you?”

“I’m also good, did you hear about William?”

You frowned, “No, what happened?”

Iben’s smile turned mischievous and she leant forward conspiratorially, “Apparently some first year girl turned him down in front of the whole third year class and Chris vanished off with one of her friends, so William had no back up whatsoever.”

You tried to mask your shock. It wasn’t like William to strike out, especially with a first year and, even more so, it wasn’t like Chris to abandon his friend for a girl. Something uncomfortable and hot coiled in the pit of your stomach when you thought about Chris with another girl.

“Oh, wow, that’s unusual,” you commented, pushing the nagging feeling away.

Iben nodded, “I just thought I’d let you know, since you’re such good friends with them and all that.”

You forced a smile and gave her arm a quick squeeze, “Thanks Iben, I appreciate it, really.”

As you made your way further into the school grounds, you turned the information over in your head. Why hadn’t William told you? Why hadn’t Chris told you? If you were honest, that one hurt the most. Chris usually told you everything and so you would’ve expected him to trust you with this too. Your eyes scanned through the crowds of students milling around until they landed on Chris.

Instinctively, you started to smile and make your way over there. His eyes lit up as they met yours and he pulled you into a tight hug. Something in your chest relaxed. Everything was alright, you were sure Chris had just forgotten to mention-

“Chris!” A voice cheered, and suddenly Chris broke the hug and turned towards the new voice.

You tried not to pout and you turned to face the new comer. She was pretty, you noticed; with long red-brown hair and a bright smile, young too. She wrapped her arms around Chris and pulled him close, giggling at something he said as a bitter taste filled your mouth. This had to be her then, the girl who had so entranced Chris that he’d left William on his own. Selfishly, you wondered who she was and whether or not you could make her leave by pretending to need to talk to Chris on his own.

Eva, your brain supplied, her name was Eva. She was friends with Noora and Vilde and that girl Sana who you so admired. Chris and Eva. Together. They made, or would make, an attractive couple, you thought unhappily. Her hand was still on his arm now, and they were talking passionately, as though they’d known each other for years rather than days. The only signs that either of them knew about your existence were the looks that Chris would occasionally shoot your way, looks that you mostly missed. Before you’d fully had the chance to process the sight, Chris had sat down on a bench and Eva had clambered into his lap, laughing prettily at some joke.

You felt your stomach flood with ice water and your vision turned red with suppressed anger. Without another word, you turned on your heel and fled into the school building, pushing through the crowds as your eyes blurred with tears. You blinked them away furiously, swearing to yourself that you wouldn’t let something as stupid as Chris liking a girl turn you into a sobbing mess. He was a single man, he could do whatever, or whomever, he wanted. You had absolutely zero right to be angry.

You were though. You were angry and, no matter how much logic you threw at it, the feelings wouldn’t go away. So, like the rational and emotionally stable woman you were, you simply avoided him. For the whole week, you made it your personal mission to not be anywhere near Christoffer Schistad. In class, you pretended not to see him and chose seats on the opposite end of the room and, in the hallways, you avoided your locker and turned around whenever you saw him trying to make his way towards you and, when you arrived at school in the mornings, you strolled right past him without so much as a glance in his direction.

Was it unfair? Definitely. Did the look on his face, the sad, confused one, break your heart a little bit? Yes. Were you planning to stop? Not in the foreseeable future, no. Eva was, more often than not, with him, so it wasn’t as though he was on his own, you told yourself. It was kind of lonely without Chris by your side, but it was for the best. It had to be.

The days seemed to crawl by and, by the time you had to head towards your last lesson of the week, your iron-clad resolve had softened considerably. Your feet echoed along the hallway as you headed towards the science labs, going over the homework task in your head as you walked to avoid thinking about how utterly alone you were.

You never made it there though. Suddenly, hands gripped you and pulled you into the nearby empty French room. You shrieked in alarm, but a hand covered your mouth and muffled the sound.

“Shhh, it’s just me,” Chris assured you, looking slightly sheepish as he pulled his hand away.

You sighed with relief and pressed your hand to your chest in an effort to calm your pounding heart.

“Chris, what on earth are you doing?” you asked, forgetting for a moment that you were supposed to be ignoring your friend.

He looked down at the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets and avoiding your eyes. He looked awful, you noticed, with dark bags under his eyes, ruffled hair and a slightly pinched look to him, as though he was a bow string, pulled so tight that it was about to snap. Your heart clenched with concern as you took in his appearance. Of course, despite all that, he was still unfairly beautiful.

“I had to see you,” he answered, “you wouldn’t talk to me any other way.”

“So, you kidnapped me?”

Chris’s face flickered with irritation, “Don’t be so dramatic Y/N, the door is right behind you, you can leave whenever you want.”

You tried to make your legs move, but they were frozen in place and you realized, with a rush of shame, that some part of you needed Chris. There had been an ache in your chest all week and now, with him so close, it had finally gone away. At the end of the day, you were too selfish to walk away from that.

Uncomfortably, you shifted from foot to foot, “You look awful.”

Chris snorted, a half smile dusting his face, “I haven’t been sleeping,” he admitted, finally meeting your eyes.

“Why not?” You questioned.

Chris gave you an incredulous look and shook his head in disbelief, “Honestly Y/N? Really? Because my best friend has been ignoring me for a week and I have no idea what I did wrong!”

You flinched, feeling a tidal wave of guilt come crashing over you.

Chris stepped slightly closer, “Tell me what I did, please. Whatever it is, I’m sorry, really I am but I’ve been wracking my brain all week and I can’t think of what I might have done to-“

“Nothing,” you interrupted, feeling your traitorous eyes fill with tears as you crossed your arms over your chest. It was too much, having him this close, you needed to protect yourself, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Chris floundered, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to make sense of the situation he found himself in.

“Wha-then why-how come you’ve been avoiding me then?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

You shrugged, “I-you and Eva seemed so happy I just didn’t want to-“

“Wait, me and Eva? What the hell are you talking about?”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a stray tear away, “Cut the crap Chris, I know you two are a thing now.”

Chris’ eyes widened and he took another step closer, resting his hands on your arms. You hated yourself for leaning into the touch.

“No, no, no-Y/N/N, you’ve got it all wrong-fuck you honestly have no idea how wrong you are,” he started, “Eva and I aren’t together. We don’t even like each other that way.”

You looked up into his eyes, ashamed of the fragile hope that had started to worm its way into your chest. Chris took your silence to mean that you were listening and he continued.

“Eva likes Noora. At the party, when William asked Noora out, Eva started to cry so I took her out to make sure that she was okay. We started talking and she kept going on about how badly she wanted to be with Noora and how hard it was pretending that she didn’t care and I-well-I guess I could understand that better than most so we just became friends.”

“Really?” You asked, covering your face with your hands to hide the wide grin that had begun to stretch across your face as a huge weight was lifted off your chest, “Oh my God, I feel like such an idiot. Chris, I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s-it’s alright,” he assured you, his thumbs stroking along your arms, “Y/N?” he asked. You nodded and pulled your hands away to meet his eye, “If I’m wrong, please tell me, but is it-do you maybe have…feelings, for me?” he questioned. You flushed bright red, your eyes widening as you tried to come up with some way to prove him wrong, but he continued before you could answer, “I only ask because I have feelings for you and-I-fuck, I really like you.”

You closed your mouth as warmth spread through your body. He looked so nervous, so sincere and the glimmer of hope in his eyes was so fragile that it made you want to pull him close and never let him go. You thought back to all the moments the two of you had shared, moments that you’d written off as accidents or flukes because you’d been too afraid of being wrong. You thought about his arms around you, the feeling of his lips brushing your neck and your hands carding through his hair. Did you have feelings for Christoffer Schistad? What a stupid fucking question.

And, well, you don’t answer stupid questions. So, instead, you leant forward and pulled him close, pressing your lips to his as your fingers bunched in his t-shirt. You felt him gasp and, for a second you worried that you’d made a mistake, but then his hands came up to cup your face and he sighed with relief, as though you were the last breath of oxygen in the world. The kiss was passionate, but slow and gentle, like lava and it made your head feel like it was spinning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his skin as you pressed kisses along his jaw, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Chris’ eyes fluttered shut and his fingers tangled in your hair, “It was you, you were the reason I understood Eva.”

He tilted your head up and captured your mouth with his own again, deepening the kiss and drawing a breathy moan from your lips.

“I know,” you panted, “but I’m still sorry.”

Chris chuckled, “So long as you keep kissing me, everything will be forgiven.”

You smiled, “That can definitely be arranged.”

------------------------

“Eva!” You called, still floating on a cloud of happiness despite your talk with Chris having been hours ago.

The first year turned, looking nervous. You were out at a shopping mall, looking for clothes for the party you were hosting tonight. Your stomach pinched with guilt when you remembered how badly you’d treated Eva, and you pulled her into a tight hug.

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, I’ve been a real bitch. Thank you for being so nice to Chris,” you told her.

Eva smiled gently. She really was extra-ordinarily pretty. Noora was going to be a very lucky girl.

“It’s alright,” she said, “Chris really likes you, you know?”

You smiled, still in shock over that particular revelation, “I know and now, to make up for my atrocious behavior, I’m going to take you shopping. There’s a party at my house tonight and I’d love it if you came.”

Eva’s eyes widened, “Oh, thanks yeah that’d be awesome, but you don’t need to take me shopping. I’ll probably just wear what I usually wear.”

You shook your head, “Not tonight you won’t.”

By the time you and Eva arrived back at your house, the party was in full swing. The first year looked painfully nervous, but beautiful in a dress and jacket that you’d bought her.

“Y/N/N, are you sure that this is a good idea?” she asked.

“Yes, trust me, this is gonna be an awesome night,” you promised, catching Chris’ eye and giving him a wink.

He nodded and proceeded to welcome Eva with a cheer and steer her in the way of another girl, Noora, whose eyes had been glued to Eva from the moment she’d arrived.

“Hey there beautiful,” Chris greeted, wrapping an arm around you shoulder and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Hey,” you hummed, nuzzling into his neck, “nice job with the party, everything looks great.”

“I just hope that this actually works.”

At that moment, you and Chris watched as Noora dropped her bottle of water and pulled Eva into a kiss, tangling her fingers in Eva’s long hair.

You cast a smug look at Chris, “Oh, it’ll work,” you assured him.  

#skam #skam imagine #chris #chris x reader #skam christoffer #christoffer #christoffer x reader #christoffer schistad #penetrators #skam chris x reader #christoffer schistad x reader #jordsie #jordsie writes

[myhauntedsalem]

The Boogeyman of Baltimore 1951

The summer of 1951 was a weird time in the city of Baltimore. The city sweltered under a heat wave and only the wealthiest residents of the region could afford air conditioners at the time. And there were no air conditioners to be found in O’Donnell Heights, a housing project on the southwest side of the city. This was a place where steel mill and shipyard workers lived with their families. For those folks, though, the steamy heat was less of a worry than the specter that was stalking their streets.

At some point in July, a tall, thin figure, dressed all in black, began sprinting across the rooftops of O’Donnell Heights. It leaps on and off buildings, broke into houses, attacked people, enticed a young girl to crawl under a car and played music in the nearby graveyard. Groups of young men patrolled the streets, while others waited by their windows at night, keeping a sleepy watch for the “Phantom Prowler” that eluded his pursuers and vanished into the cemetery before he could be caught. By the end of the month, police were arresting people for disorderly conduct and carrying weapons, but the phantom had disappeared and was never seen again. What in the hell happened in O’Donnell Heights in the summer of 1951? To this day, no one knows.

O’Donnell Heights was only eight years old when the mysterious stranger began making his appearances. Built as a housing project for defense industry workers at Bethlehem Steel, Martin Aircraft and Edgewood Arsenal during World War II, it was never meant to be either durable or attractive. Tightly-spaced, two–story row houses went up on sixty-six acres of what used to be farmland, a brickyard that belonged to the Baltimore Brick Co. and part of St. Stanislaus Kostka Cemetery, one of several graveyards in the immediate area. The others included Evangelical Trinity Lutheran Congregational, Mount Carmel, St. Matthew’s and Oheb Shalom Congregation Cemetery, but the phantom would show an affinity for St. Stanislaus and often appeared nearby.

By the time that the local newspapers realized that something very strange was happening in the Heights, the panic was almost over. Most of the stories that remain today come from the back pages of the Baltimore Sun and Evening Sun, which printed a handful of articles between July 25 and July 27, when the sightings came to an end. Reporters approached it as a “tongue in cheek” story with cartoon illustrations. No one seemed to know when the events had started, but on July 24, Agnes Martin told a reporter that the phantom had been seen for “at least two or three weeks.”

The first definite date discovered by researcher Robert Damon Schneck was on July 19, although the figure had undoubtedly been seen a number of times prior to that. On this date, though, there was a full moon and nighttime temperatures were in the 70’s. It was around 1:00 a.m. when William Buskirk, 20, ran into the phantom. He reported, “I was walking along the 1100 block of Travers Way with several buddies when I saw him on a roof. He jumped off the roof and we chased him into the graveyard…”

One of the other boys interviewed with Buskirk stated that, “he sure is an athlete. You should have seen him go over that fence – just like a cat.” The fence that surrounded the cemetery was six feet in height and trimmed with barbed wire around the top. According to the witnesses, the figure in black had leapt over it with ease.

Hazel Jenkins claimed that the phantom grabbed her some time the same week. She saw it twice at close-range and may have been attacked when the figure tried to break into the Jenkins home but her brother, Randolph, saw it soon after. He told a reporter, “I saw him two nights after he tried to break into our house… He was just beginning to climb up on the roof of the Community Building. We chased him all the way to Graveyard Hell.”

The phantom next visited the family of Melvin Hensler, breaking into their house on July 20, but stealing nothing. After this unnerving experience, the family went to stay with Mr. Hensler’s brother, but Mrs. Hensler returned to the house the next day and found “a potato bag left on the ironing board,” which she was convinced belonged to the intruder. Mr. Hensler was so exhausted from staying awake that his eyes ached and he had started talking in his sleep.

Storms on July 23 lowered the temperatures, but had no effect on the phantom. In fact, on July 24, he was especially active. Newspapers reported, “At 11:30 p.m. officers Robert Clark and Edward Powell were called to the O’Donnell Heights area where they were greeted by some 200 people who said that had seen the oft-reported ‘phantom.’ Clark said that they pointed to the rooftops and someone yelled: ‘The phantom’s there!’” The police drove around and arrested a twenty-year-old sailor carrying a hammer. He was fined $5.

A reporter from the Sun found thirty of forty people waiting around the back stoop of a house on Gusryan Street, waiting for the sun to come up. One of them, Charles Pittinger, had armed himself with a shotgun. He interviewed several of them, who passed along rumors and told of their own experiences. Some of them claimed the phantom lived in the graveyard and a woman who lived on Wellsbach Way, adjacent to St.

Stanislaus, suggested that the phantom was doing more than jumping fences and breaking into houses: “One night I heard someone playing the organ in that chapel up there. It was about 1 o’clock.”

The phantom was also reportedly seen beckoning to Esther Martin from underneath an automobile, saying, “Come here, little girl.”

The consensus of the crowd was that the phantom easily leaped from two-story buildings, flew over fences and was a general nuisance in the neighborhood. A man named George Cook admitted having mixed feelings about what was happening. He did not deny the reports of the phantom, just the possibility that something extraordinary was involved. In the end, he blamed the media. “It’s ridiculous to believe that a man can jump from a height and not leave a mark on the ground. Yet this character does it all the time. It’s my idea that when this thing is cleared up… it’ll turn out to be one of these young hoodlums who has got the idea from the movies or the so-called funny papers, and is trying to act it out. This sort of thing appeals to detective story readers who are mainly looking for excitement.”

Meanwhile, the police were busy ignoring the phantom and rounding up the “usual suspects.” On the morning of July 25, they arrested four boys on disorderly conduct charges at an unidentified cemetery. Around 10:00 p.m. that same night, officers arrested three boys on an embankment near the cemetery. Their six companions, all on the lookout for the phantom, fled the scene. An hour later, the police responded to a call from a resident who heard footsteps on his roof, but nothing was found. At some point the next day, Mrs. Mildred Gaines heard the sound of someone trying to break into her house and ran outside barefoot screaming, “It’s the phantom!” It was actually the police breaking down the door to serve a search warrant on the premises. Mrs. Gaines and four male companions were arrested on bookmaking charges.

By this time, the newspaper coverage – which had started off with reporters as baffled as the residents of O’Donnell Heights – turned humorous. The stories poked fun at the sightings, reported pranks by neighbors pretending to be the phantom, and carried a story about a phantom sighting on a rooftop that turned out to be a ventilation pipe. On July 27, the Evening Sun announced there were no more reports and that, “Police think it might be a teenager.” The phantom was gone, but the heat was back, with high humidity and temperatures in the middle 90’s.

Like most bizarre “flaps” of this type, there was no satisfying resolution to the panic created by the Phantom of O’Donnell Heights. An unofficial version claimed that residents finally chased it into the cemetery, where the phantom jumped into a crypt and vanished for good.

No one can say who, or what, this figure may have been, although based on the sheer number of sightings, something weird was happening in the neighborhood. Descriptions of the phantom were fairly consistent, considering that that the encounters were brief, took place in the dark, and he was usually moving at a good clip. William Buskirk said, “He was a tall thin man dressed all in black. It looked like he had a cape around him.”

The only one who mentioned the phantom’s face was witness Myrtle Ellen, who said it was horrible. She also agreed about the dark costume. The newspapers described the phantom as “black robed,” suggesting long, loose-flowing clothes. Mrs. Melvin Hensler, discoverer of the discarded potato sack, saw the phantom three times and said that during one sighting, it looked as though he had a hump on his back.

Theories abound about the “Horror of the Heights.” Sociologists have described the events in O’Donnell Heights as an example of an “imaginary community threat,” suggesting that the 900 families living there experienced some type of mass hysteria, whipped up by rumors and the media. It’s true that misconceptions undoubtedly played a part in the events, but they don’t explain the relatively straightforward experiences described by William Buskirk and other witnesses. The police never denied that people were seeing something but, like George Cook, thought it would turn out to be a “young hoodlum.” But if it was, he was never caught, exposed or confessed.

It’s also hard to accept that the newspapers played a part in creating any hysteria. The two local papers ran only six articles on the phantom, two of them mere fillers, and they were printed as the sensation was coming to an end. The only one that might be called “sensationalistic” ran on July 25 and included the experiences of a number of witnesses. However, it ended on a sober note: “The question of the prowler of O’Donnell Heights continued to be not one of the phantoms, but of people reacting to (and possibly creating) the unknown with their imaginations.”

Some have taken the phantom’s affinity for St. Stanislaus as evidence that it was an actual ghost. Part of O’Donnell Heights was built on land that once belonged to the cemetery, which contains a great many unmarked graves from the influenza epidemic of 1918. Also, bodies were exhumed and reinterred when Boston Street was extended in the 1930s, but it’s hard to see how this would stir up a spirit in July 1951.

There has also been the suggestion that the phantom was some sort of mysterious entity like the “Mothman” of West Virginia or the “Mad Gasser of Mattoon,” which plagued a small town in Illinois in 1944.

Whatever it was, it remains a mystery and one that – like far too many others – will simply never be solved.

#The Boogeyman of Baltimore 1951 #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits #unsolved mystery