#he did. granted he put forth some effort but in the wrong basket if you catch my drift…. (NOT ASS) like. piv isn’t everything and i know he | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fascination-street-writing · 3 years

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The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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kinsbin · 5 years

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To Forget

Title: To Forget Ship: Jenna/Muriel [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2162 Summary: Jenna forgets her myrrh one day and, with it, Muriel. When he discovers that he’s not part of her memory anymore, he’s torn up inside. He realizes just how precious of a person she is to him, and how he would give anything to have her remember him once more

A/N: A commission for @aoi-hina! I LOVE WRITING ANGST AND HURT/COMFORT THIS WAS SUCH A TREAT<3

He was sure that it would happen eventually. It always did.

The truth of the matter of his curse burned like a brand in the center of his chest, breaking through the scars and rough skin to sink into his very being. It was because of this curse, of course, that he rarely grew close to people. For the next day, well, they wouldn't know who he was. Their meetings would be fleeting and then new all at once. Meaningful and useless in the span of moments. The very knowledge of it made him sick.

He didn't know why this was supposed to he any different.

Maybe it was because of Jenna's will? Her determination to never forget her. The assured way that she held onto her myrrh charm like it was an anchor to her very being filled him with such a selfish sense of love that he dared allow the entire thing to continue without his guard up. For her words were a sweet and delicious assurance built deep in the base of his heart, forever cherished and even more worshipped.

That was until...until…

He had seen her out of chance, the market in the center of Vesuvia hustling and bustling with lively activity and multiple trades as merchants peddled wares and commonfolk flocked with delight to buy things they needed and some they did not. It was commonplace, he supposed, such normalcy he never got to experience save for a few moments. With a few people. He smiled despite himself at the sight of her, so beautiful in the light of the mid afternoon sun as she smiled down at the merchant handing her what appeared to be a basket of cloth, probably for Asra if he had to guess, with an equally delighted smile. He moved forward despite himself as well, crowds parting for the bulk of the man that he was. Muriel’s shadow hung heavy over her as she turned, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the behemoth before her.

“Jenna…” Her name left his lips with the utmost care and affection. This seemed to make her eyes widen more. She gripped the basket with more intensity, biting her lip as if unsure. Muriel’s smile faded slowly, brows furrowing into that of confusion as he reached out to her, intent on brushing some of her stray strands of hair behind her ear and asking just what was so wrong that she had to look at him in such a way. That she felt so nervous that her gaze was suddenly averted from his? She had always been the one to hold his eyes, after all, and would never leave them even if he was embarrassed about it. It was something he liked about her. Her eyes, after all, were incredibly nice to look at at all times…

Her lips were painted with a smile that felt awkward at best. Her entire body shrunk from his hand as she side-stepped his reach, making his fingertips brush the air before him as his eyes widened. No, Muriel realized with dawning horror at a situation that felt a little too familiar for him to be okay with, please no. Not her. He was begging the world. The gods. Whatever it was that controlled the fates of people to do this to anyone but her.

“I’m sorry,” The confirming words poured themselves awkwardly from between her lips as she laughed shallowly, “Um, do I know you?”

The world felt like it was fire around him, face heated and pale all at once as green eyes held Jenna’s with something akin to disbelief deep set in their irises. Her own gaze echoed that of more confusion, perhaps even uneasiness, as the steady silence thrummed like gongs between their ears. This couldn’t be happening, Muriel tried to muse with slow thoughts as his eyes raked down her, trying to find something out of place. Was this the wrong person? There was no way she could have forgotten. No way she-

He reached her neck, noting the lack of necklace upon her skin. Noting the missing scent of myrrh that always seemed to permeate her even when her own perfumes and incense masked the overall intensity of the scent itself. His stomach fell in the center of his gut, splashing in a way that made him feel as though throwing up was not far off from the things he could do in that moment. He felt his arm shaking a bit.

“You’re...not wearing your necklace.” It was more of a surprised statement than it was an observation. Looking down and tilting her head, Jenna touched at her bare collar bone with furrowed brows. He wanted her to smile and say that she was kidding. That she was sorry for scaring him so bad and pull the piece of myrrh out from her pocket with a bright smile. He wanted her to reach out so badly and kiss him. To reassure him it would be fine. That she was safe and his as she had always promised that she would be.

Instead the words shattered his mind as she laughed nervously.

“Um...How do you know I usually wear a necklace? You’ve seen me around before, I guess, but um...I haven’t seen you? Can I ask your name or-!”

He turned, unable to cope with the sight of her polite and naive face, and pushed through the crowd. Keeping his head down, Muriel drew up his hood and slid away into the distance, not caring who he hit or what he pushed in his way. He knew, after all, that the complaints would not last. There would be no punishment, as there never was. In seconds they would forget him. In moments they would never be able to recall his face.

Just like she did.

Jenna watched the man push himself through the crowd, disappearing just as Asra arrived at her side, eyes wide at the sight of his best friend leaving the crowd. He arrived with a confused look at his apprentice’s side, tilting his head at her and staring on at her own expression of surprise as he dissipated.

“What did you say to him to make him barge so far off?” The words were spoken half in jest and half in curiosity as he tapped her side to indicate he was there. Jenna shook her head, looking up at Asra and opening her mouth before shutting it, looking forward again, and letting her brows fall again in a furrowed state of unrest. Asra felt himself take in a breath of air as she answered him, voice soft and confused as she hummed, “Who are you talking about? No one’s there...There was a guy, wait, I think but...I can’t recall what he looked like…”

Saying nothing, Asra simply watched the trail that Muriel seemed to leave behind.

---

Muriel slammed his fist against the wall of his home, the entire frame of the cottage shaking violently with the effort he put into the aggressive punch. Several knick-knacks fell to the ground, the soft shattering of glass burning underfoot and the swelling pain in his knuckles nothing to the way his heart was tearing itself in two. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, only a couple sliding past his ducts before he willed them back with a sudden bout of anger. He wanted to yell, but, no sound would dare let itself slide from his lips. He knew that, if he opened his mouth, he would let out a weak and broken sob in place of the snarl he craved to echo from between them.

Muriel let his fist unlench, looking around at the small rain of destruction he had caused onto his property. He felt his face heat up with shame at the reaction he had, mentally scolding himself as he realized that none of this fidgeting and sadness would bring her back. She was, for all that he knew, gone forever.

He sat down on the floor, not bothering to reach or pick up the chair he had pushed over, and placed his head in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a shaky sigh.

Everything felt like it had been taken for granted now. He tried to hold onto each moment, but, it still wasn’t enough to make the empty feeling fade. He felt as though he had failed to hold onto each moment like it was its last. Her last grip to his hand as she brought it up and kissed his scarred knuckles...Her last airy laugh at a joke she heard in passing and emphasized to him with a kind smile. The last flicker of light in her eyes as she looked up to him and told him that she loved him more than anything in Vesuvia.

The last time she had told him that she loved him...her voice soft on the air and kind in her lungs as she sighed each syllable out in a way he would hear it perfectly. In a way that made his heart ache to remember every single motion she went through while and before saying it.

Tears fell again this time, dripping from his nose and onto the ground, making the softest droplets of noises in the otherwise silent interior of his forest home.

A knock on the door roused Muriel from his place, shifting his body, he looked up at the door with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. Who would be bothering him this late, he wondered? Who was he supposed to expect behind the door when the only person his mind half-heartedly hoped it would be would surely not be there?

It creaked open, slow and cautiously.

“Muriel?”

Her tone was soft and worried, almost broken in its echo. Muriel’s head shot upwards, eyes wide through their tears to see the silhouette of the woman he loved hang awkwardly in its frame, hands wringing together as she bit her lip. Eyes wide with worry as she gripped at the necklace secured around her neck, tightening her hold on the soft piece of myrrh that made its home there.

His voice was so soft that it sounded almost broken as he weeped out her name, slow and disbelieving.

“J...enn...a…”

She ran to him, eyes wide and tears bursting forth on her own edges as she enveloped him into a tight hug. He felt the wet droplets crash onto his shoulder as she took him into her touch, not bothering to pull back even as he froze with eyes wide and limbs paralyzed, unsure just of what to do or how to proceed with the attack he had been put under. Her whole body shook as bad as his did, but, his was calming with the knowledge that she had said his name. That she was holding him. That she was there.

“I’m so sorry,” Jenna sobbed out as she kissed the side of his cheek through her tears, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t wearing it. I’m so sorry I forgot you. I’ll never take it off again, I’m never going to do something so stupid. Asra showed me it and gave me it and-oh god-I promise, you mean so much to me and I won’t ever-”

He pulled her away from him, holding her at arm's length to look into her eyes. She stared back, tears still falling but slow and easy as opposed to their more violent movements before. In the slow setting sun of the forest, she was bathed in a fiery glow that only highlighted the glistening spots of her cheeks.

She remembered, he thought in awe, as his own tears subsided enough to bring her back in to him, pressing their lips together in a salty kiss. Jenna shut her eyes, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him close, sharing in the words the kiss expressed better than they ever could.

“I love you,” He whispered when he pulled away from her, resting their foreheads together as they breathed out softly and tried to steady their panicked tears in unison, “Please...don’t leave again...I love you so much…”

She smiled at him, weak but reassuring as she brought her hands up to his head and ran her fingers through his messy locks of hair, sobbing out her laugh as she kissed his nose.

“I promise,” She murmured, “I won’t go anywhere. I’m yours forever...I promise, Muriel.”

They stayed like that as the sun set fully, hugging one another and whispering their reassurances into each other’s ears as the scare of the day slowly but surely passed away into the night. Exhausted but comforted, the two spent the night in one another’s arms as they reassured each other that, yes, this was a mistake, but in the end they were back.

In the end, they had one another.

#self insert #self shipping #self ship #writing commission #kinley writes #self ship writing #self insert writing #the arcana #arcana #muriel

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brandilovevip · 7 years

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Healing America – Is It Possible?

Maybe but doubtful.

I want to believe that We The People are rational & capable of healing.

But I’m convinced this can only happen if we push the media, politicians and other puppet masters out of the discussion and out of influence. And this can only happen if both sides agree that The Constitution, The Bill of Rights and our Representative Republic remain the cornerstones of our nation.

Some, or perhaps many will say that “maybe but doubtful” is a cynical perspective. Perhaps it is. Unfortunately however, history tells me that it's also more likely to be accurate.

When contemplating if and how our nation can heal in the aftermath of Charlottesville, it's important to keep in mind these three things:

1. Our History

2. The Current Division

3. Healing is Based in Compromise

OUR HISTORY:

It's no secret that America is hurting. Regardless of what news outlet you tune in to, there is extreme tension.

A simple glance at a U.S. electoral map from Nov. 8 shows a striking red/blue divide that in most cases separates big cities and coastal areas from the rest of America.

As angry protests rage in the streets, it’s easy to conclude that we’ve never been so irreconcilably divided. Are Americans even in a mood to heal?

The truth however is that throughout our history we have found ourselves at odds with each other again and again. The question is: Did we heal the wounds that divided our nation previously?

I would suggest the answer is: Not really.

On April 9, 1865, Confederate General, Robert E. Lee surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant in Appomattox, Va. The surrender ended the bitter four year long Civil War, and eight months later the USA adopted the 13th Amendment to the Constitution, which outlawed slavery nationwide.

Our "fairytale" is that we began healing on that very day in April 1865.

University of Richmond historian Edward Ayers states: “When you think about the stories we like to tell, we like to tell the story about Appomattox; Lee and Grant shaking hands, Grant sending those Southern boys home with their guns and horses, and Lee handing his sword and so forth.”

And then everything was unicorns & rainbows.. the lions laid down with the lambs and we were one big happy family.

Not even close.

Abraham Lincoln, whose statues are currently being defaced across the country, had, of course, pushed for unity. Lincoln's second inaugural address, delivered on March 4, 1865, as the war wound down, concluded with this plea:

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

Only six weeks later, and six days after the war’s end, Lincoln was assassinated.

While Lee’s surrender and Grant’s gracious response were indeed significant, the rebuilding of the South called The Reconstruction was plagued by a 12-year, bloody guerrilla war waged against Southern blacks showing that the violence of the Civil War wasn’t done playing out.

Were there any real moments of genuine healing and unity after the Civil War?

Sort of.

The moment occurred between soldiers.

In a touching & powerful moment in 1938, during the 75th anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg, a handful of surviving Civil War veterans, dressed in suits and fedoras, reached across a rock wall to shake hands for newsreel cameras.

“That was seen as the great reconciliation of North and South,” Ayers said. Nonetheless, a look at voting patterns after the Civil War showed that southerners voted for Democrats and “against the North” for more than a century. “As the saying went, ‘People voted as they had shot.’"

Then, a century later, came the Civil Rights era... 100 YEARS LATER!

That's right... 100 years after the Civil War, in the mid 1960s, a decade of expanding rights for African Americans culminated in the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

The measures, guided by President Lyndon B. Johnson, were approved just months after the 1963 assassination of President John F. Kennedy, who had pushed for expanded civil rights. They effectively began the transformation of a century long voting pattern in the South, turning whites against the Democratic Party and, in the 1960s, stirring intense passions against African American civil rights leaders.

And while Lyndon Johnson was a civil rights hero .. he was also a racist.

Lyndon Johnson, a DEMOCRAT said the word “nigger” a lot.

According to an MSNBC ... yes MSNCB piece: "In Senate cloakrooms and staff meetings, Johnson was practically a connoisseur of the word. According to Johnson biographer Robert Caro, Johnson would calibrate his pronunciations by region, using “nigra” with some southern legislators and “negra” with others. Discussing civil rights legislation with men like Mississippi DEMOCRAT James Eastland, who committed most of his life to defending white supremacy, he’d simply call it “the nigger bill.”

Then in 1957, Johnson would help get the bill passed, known to most as the Civil Rights Act of 1957.

Enter Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Dr. King, an Atlanta preacher who rose to prominence in the late 1950s and who delivered the “I Have a Dream” speech during the March on Washington, D.C., in 1963, was one of the key leaders of the movement, spearheading efforts for desegregation, voting rights and unionization.

While there are agitators on both sides of the political spectrum that seek to claim Dr. Martin Luther King Jr as their own, his message wasn't based in politics. It was centered in The Constitution and Faith... God.

The faith that he defended and helped refine was a sort of national creed based on what had come to be widely accepted, after many painful years, as the immutable truth in the Declaration of Independence; that all of us are created equal, and on the idea that Americans are united not by race or by a particular religious belief or ethnic origin, but by our devotion to the concepts of The Constitution and individual rights.

Dr. King carried his faith to the pulpit and the nation. “There is something wrong with our world, something fundamentally and basically wrong,” he told a Detroit congregation in 1954. “The great problem facing modern man,” he said, “is that . . . the means by which we live have outdistanced the spiritual ends for which we live. . . . The problem is with man himself and man’s soul.”

A Washington Times editorial stated this beautifully.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached to us as he knew we were as he knew he was; Flawed beings too often given to cruelty and selfishness, yet capable of being elevated to something higher by the power of divine love. For some, that may seem to be language for the church pew rather than the halls of government. But Dr. King showed that it was the kind of language that can also lead a nation to better itself, to renew its attention to the ideals on which it was founded, to proceed, however unevenly, toward equal justice under the law.

Unfortunately, we’ve heard precious little of it, if any, in our national political discourse over the past eight plus years.

“My friends,” Dr. King said in his Detroit sermon, “all I’m trying to say is that if we are to go forward today, we’ve got to go back and rediscover some mighty precious values that we’ve left behind. That’s the only way that we would be able to make of our world a better world, and to make of this world what God wants it to be. . . .”

On April 4, 1968, visiting Memphis to support striking sanitation workers, he was shot and killed at a local motel.

It has been 49 years since the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. …have we healed?

I would contend things are at an all time low.

"I hope Trump is assassinated!" - Missouri state Sen. Maria Chappelle-Nadal

“The point I was making was not that Grandmother harbors any racial animosity. She doesn’t. But she is a typical white person…” — Barack Obama

“If Latinos sit out the election instead of saying, ‘We’re gonna punish our enemies and we’re gonna reward our friends who stand with us on issues that are important to us,’ if they don’t see that kind of upsurge in voting in this election, then I think it’s gonna be harder and that’s why I think it’s so important that people focus on voting on November 2.” — Barack Obama

“It is this world, a world where cruise ships throw away more food in a day than most residents of Port-au-Prince see in a year, where white folks’ greed runs a world in need, apartheid in one hemisphere, apathy in another hemisphere…That’s the world! On which hope sits!” — Barack Obama quotes Rev. Wright

“…I’ve got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don’t want them punished with a baby.” — Barack Obama

“ Elections have consequences and at the end of the day I won.” — Barack Obama

"We are living in a volatile political environment. You know, to just be grossly generalistic, you could put half of Trump's supporters into what I call the basket of deplorables. Right?The racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, Islamophobic you name it. And unfortunately, there are people like that. - Hillary Clinton

And then there is Donald Trump. While I support him, voted for him. believe in his policies and love that he is exposing how deep the swamp really is... He's completely obnoxious and the worst public speaker I’ve seen in a long time.

I refuse however to post Trump quotes because they are always taken out of context and used to make politically left points that don’t actually exist.

And now we have Charlottesville.

So... Have we healed?

No.

Can we?

Maybe.

Before we get to that however, you have to be willing to understand and appreciate what all those red counties understand to be true.

THE CURRENT DIVISION

It’s hard to be a parent tonight for a lot of us. You tell your kids, “Don’t be a bully.” You tell your kids, “Don’t be a bigot.” You tell your kids, “Do your homework and be prepared.” Then you have this outcome and you have people putting children to bed tonight. They’re afraid of breakfast. They’re afraid of “How do I explain this to my children?” I have Muslim friends who are texting me tonight saying, “Should I leave the country?” I have families of immigrants that are terrified tonight. . . . This was a white-lash. This was a white-lash against a changing country. It was a white-lash against a black president in part, and that’s the part where the pain comes.

~ Van Jones (on the Trump victory 2016)

It wasn't a whitelash Van... it was a left lash.

Those of us in the red counties are sick and tired of an increasingly radical left wing agenda being forced down out throats. We are tired of being labeled as racists, bigots, Islamophobes , homophopes and uneducated morons. We are tired of being force fed a liberal agenda that is at odds with our politics and faith.

Dr. Bill Perkins, in response to Charlottsville, put it better than anyone when he stated : "When you violently shove your finger down your throat, vomit is usually the result. For the last eight years, the left has been shoving their radical agenda down the throat of America and what we are seeing today is the result."

We have got to focus on stopping the finger thrust of leftism or else we will never clean up the vomit. It will continue forever.

Racism is a real issue, and it must be eradicated. AND at the same time, what we saw in Charlottesville, was the result of a concerted effort of those who seek to benefit from chaos, and who seek to grab power out of the ruins of American culture: that is the ugly face of leftism and "The Swamp" which includes Democrats, establishment Republicans, the mainstream media and leftist funded groups like Antifa and Black Lives Matter.

The side on the left is far more powerful and dangerous that all of the white supremacy groups combined.

As Dr. Bill Perkins aptly put it, "While neo-Nazis and white supremacists exist in the dark fringes of America and are roundly and regularly condemned by all sides, leftist Marxists are out in the open, enjoying the bully pulpit of the media and near universal celebration by the ignorant and the devious. If we fail to see leftism as the real driving force behind the racial turmoil in this country, then we will never truly solve the problem."

This current division is an issue of political ideals not race. It's the left that wants to advance a sickening fraud that this current division is about race.

I want to believe that We The People are rational & capable of healing.

But this can only happen if we push the media, politicians and other puppet masters out of the discussion and out of influence. AND this can only happen if both sides agree that The Constitution, The Bill of Rights and our Representative Republic remain the cornerstones of our nation.

HEALING IS BASED IN COMPROMISE

Last night I had a lengthy and fascinating interaction with a Twitter follower by the handle of @CBH94 that highlights the potential for healing as well as the significant challenges.

The context of this discussion had to do with hate groups. Here is where my belief system diverges from my conservative roots. I wish that all of these groups were listed as terrorist groups or something similar and outlawed. This would include but not be limited to groups such as the KKK, Arian Nation, neo-Nazis, ANTIFA , CAIR , Muslim Brotherhood Black Lives Matter, Black Panthers etc.

They are all based on hate, violence, division & social unrest. All serve to divide along racial and or political lines. The challenge would obviously be impartially defining and labeling these groups.

Here are just a few of the exchanges:

It basically started with this:

https://twitter.com/CBH94/status/898042917347926020

Midway through the conversation:

https://twitter.com/CBH94/status/898057955802628096

Two thirds through:=

https://twitter.com/CBH94/status/898063794378637314

And by the end:

https://twitter.com/CBH94/status/898068057385353217

As you can see there was an initial challenge, then some discussion, some more butting of heads and ultimately we both gave up something(s). We were able to come to a compromise we may not love but we could both live with.

And this is going to have to be the process if we are to have healing.

For example, regarding this issue of statues, 95% of those I speak with in the red counties have no problem removing Confederate statues from government buildings and instead placing them at Civil War sites / museums or on personal, residential property. They would however ask that statues of Lenin, Malcolm X etc be treated with the same care and thought.

While these are but two small examples, this same process will need to take place on core political issues if there is ever going to be healing and peace.

Is it possible?

Maybe but doubtful.

I want to believe that We The People are rational & capable of healing.

This will only happen if we push the media, politicians and other puppet masters out of the discussion and out of influence. AND this can only happen if both sides agree that The Constitution, The Bill of Rights and our Representative Republic remain the cornerstones of our nation.

References:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/2016/11/21/historians-healing-america/93875968/

https://www.economist.com/news/international/21600156-how-nations-torn-apart-atrocity-or-civil-war-can-stitch-themselves-together-again

http://www.msnbc.com/msnbc/lyndon-johnson-civil-rights-racism

https://www.traveloak.com/stories/rwanda-initial-thoughts-on-politics-and-the-economy/

http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2017/08/15/pelosi-challenges-park-service-on-permit-for-white-supremacist-rally-in-san-francisco.html

http://metrocosm.com/election-2016-map-3d/

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/martin-luther-king-jr-was-a-true-conservative/2017/01/15/b0f465e4-d9c6-11e6-9a36-1d296534b31e_story.html?utm_term=.bf432bdc7c8c

https://www.gilderlehrman.org/history-by-era/civil-war-and-reconstruction-1861-1877

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-40915356

https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/extremist-files/ideology/ku-klux-klan

http://www.newstandardpress.com/the-myth-of-trump-and-the-kkk/

http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/article/2017/aug/14/context-president-donald-trumps-saturday-statement/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOT3wDR7WZU

https://squawker.org/analysis/leftist-identity-politics-are-what-caused-the-violence-in-charlottesville/

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