#its multiple choice siren song calls me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shushiyuii · 3 years

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A giant going out to eat with their friends and getting a tiny in their food that looks more appetizing then the meal.,, (crimeboys??)

ITS TAKEN A WHILE BUT I DID IT, OVER 2K FUCKING WORDS TOO. I REWROTE THIS ONCE ADNJADNAJD AND I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT LOL /s

Warnings: Soft vore, choking and maybe mentions of fatal? (It's not as bad as it sounds i promise)

Words: 2K+

There was one restaurant known worldwide, known for its delicious recipes from a world-renowned chef, Philza Minecraft. It’s not only known for its mouth-watering meals but also its delightful sweets from their baker, Kristin Minecraft.

Phil and Kristin had met back in their college days in one of the most famous schools for culinary with everyone going there being talented individuals and exceeding expectations of taste tasters across the world, the school’s purpose was to help drive those expectations even further.

Phil was a fine-dining chef whilst Kristin was studying in the baking course. Both had run into each other in coincidence and continued to run into each other since. And well, the two had simply fallen in love fairly quickly, they became the school’s admirable couple. It was love at first sight.

So, you couldn’t be surprised that Phil purposed so quickly after graduation, it was a simple picnic date where Phil attempted to bake a special cupcake for his beloved Kristin. And in the middle of that cupcake was an engagement ring.

They got married soon after, then settled down, started a restaurant together which became known as Tasty Treats. Then came their two little bundles of joy. Wilbur and Techno, they grew up in the restaurant, showing their own cooking talents. But not as much as their parents.

Techno had a particular interest in potatoes, any food he made with his parents had to be made with the ingredients, not that his parents minded this interest. It was just they had no idea why he had an interest in such things.

Techno was more like his father than his mother, and it was the opposite for Wilbur, more like his mother than his father. Although talented with his baking it wasn’t really his main interest, he just helped his mother where he could. His interest was music.

He was often just playing music for the restaurant, his own songs or general music. People noted that Wilbur did have a lot of musical talent, one that was similar to a siren’s lullaby. It was hypnotic, if you heard it, you’d be leered to the restaurant without a choice.

That’s how they met their third bundle of joy.

It was known that Borrowers lived amongst Humans, some being known as family or friends, they were known to live in Human’s walls or under floorboards and such. They weren’t eaten commonly as they used to be since Borrowers had evolved to be resistant to digestive acids.

Tommy had been a young Borrower, a kid living in the restaurant’s walls. He was abandoned by his parents and had grown to be somewhat independent on his own. He definitely wasn’t sneaky or cautious, but he got the job done.

Many of the customers and the owners were aware of a Borrower amidst their walls but they didn’t mind them, since well, the Borrower wasn’t doing any harm to them.

Now how did Wilbur’s music come into play? Well, Tommy would often listen to Wilbur’s music above a loose vent covering in the room. Wilbur was just a teenager and Tommy was just a child at the time.

Tommy was allured to the boy’s music, he found joy and comfort in Wilbur’s music, many had seen him at this point, but he had just become a part of the restaurant at this point, he had yet to be caught yet though.

Wilbur was just happily singing but got called over to help his mom with baking, to which he happily agreed and put his guitar aside by the chair, much to Tommy’s disappointment. Tommy stood up and was about to go back to his little space in the walls when he felt the rumbling in his stomach.

Right, he needed food.

So, he made his way to the kitchen. He stealthily entered the kitchen (as much as he could) and made his way over to the counter, he scanned around for anything to eat and a particular mixing bowl caught his eye and he made his way over to it, without the humans noticing him.

Once he saw the mixing bowl, he was delighted to see that it was a cookie dough mixture, the chocolate chips already in place, all they needed was to be cut into shape and baked. So, before the inevitable happens, he may have helped himself a bit.

But big mistake, “Wilbur! Could you pass me the cookie dough mixture, please? Darling?”, “Yeah! Course Mom!”. The sounds of the humans scared Tommy to a point he fell into the mixing bowl and when he looked up, a wide-eyed human stood above him…

…

“Mom! There’s a Borrower in the mixture!” Wilbur yelled out in confusion. “What?! Bring it here!”. Wilbur then brought the bowl to the other side of the room where his mother was. He placed the bowl down with Tommy struggling to get out of the mixture.

Kristin peered down into the bowl, her eyes widened as she immediately pulled out the Borrower, it scared Tommy. Was he going to be killed for stealing their food?! Was this his end? Tears stung into the boy’s eyes as he looked away from the human who was holding him in between her fingers.

“Wilbur, pass me a cloth, will you?” The hold then changed to a much comfortable one as he now laid on the human’s hand, “Awe you poor guy, you’re just a kid”. Tommy looked up angrily and with fear, he managed to speak up. “I’m not a little kid! I’m a big man!”.

Kristin's eyes softened and she smiled at the Borrower, “A big strong man, huh?” she asked with playful curiosity as Wilbur handed her the cloth, “Mhm!”. “Well, big strong man. Could you tell me your name?”.

“Tommy…”, “Nice to meet you, Tommy, I’m Kristin”. Tommy looked to Kristin to see a comforting face, it assured Tommy it was safe. Then, Kristin used the cloth to wipe over Tommy and clean him up. And once he was, he got another smile.

“You hungry, Tommy?”. To which Tommy nodded, he was then handed multiple chocolate chips to eat. Whilst he ate, he listened to the two humans’ conversation. “You think this is the borrower living in the restaurant?” asked Wilbur, “I think so”.

The two continued to talk as they worked, Tommy answering questions he was asked and that was show they met.

Now years later, Tommy was a teenager himself helping out in the restaurant. Multiple changes had been made to the restaurant to become a lot more Borrower friendly so their new son Tommy could easily move around.

Yep, Tommy had been adopted by the Minecraft’s so he was now Tommy Innit Minecraft. And he couldn’t be happier with his family.

“Tommy hun, mind taking this over to your father please?”. It was a small pot of seasoning his mother had prepped for his father’s latest recipe. “Yep, Will do Mom!”. He yelled as he grabbed the seasoning from his mother’s hands. He almost lost his balance from the weight of the seasoning but managed.

He made his way over to the kitchen, where his father was with Techno, “Dad! Seasoning!”. He yelled as he almost toppled over from the weight of the seasoning. His father noticed and immediately put everything aside, running over to catch his son.

Tommy landed in his hand and the seasoning in his father's hands. “Thank you, Toms”. Tommy then regained his balance, “Where’s Wilbur?”.

“Dunno”. Techno responded as he stirred the potato stew he was making. “It’s been forever since we’ve seen him! When’s he coming?!”. Wilbur’s musical talent had been recognised and had been offered a scholarship at one of the world's most prestigious music colleges.

He didn’t want to miss out on seeing Wilbur again.

“Tommy! A little help please!”. His mother called which snapped him out of his thoughts, he then ran over to the front to his mom and carried out the tasks given to him.

Now he was stirring a bowl for his mom as the day was almost finished, as they were closing his mind began to wander. Then, the bell before the door rang, it caught Tommy off guard to a point to which he fell into the bowl. “Sorry we’re-“ His mom cut herself off.

“Wilbur!”, She suddenly yelled. Running over to her son and embracing him into a tight hug. “Hi, mom! I missed you!”, he hugged back. “I missed you too, honey!”, he placed a kiss upon his forehead.

Then, Techno and Phil entered the room, “Wil!” his father said enthusiastically as he joined the hug of the two. “Hi dad!”, Wilbur laughed. The hug then broke apart and then he got a ruffle of his hair from Techno.

The four of them laughed, “How’s college been for you, mate?”, “Tiring, but great! I’m having a lot of fun!”. “Good!”. The four continued to converse until silence overcame them, they were all wondering the same thing. “Where’s Tommy?”.

The four then agreed to split up and find the Borrower, Wilbur searched the front kitchen, Techno in the back, Techno the storage and Kristin the serving area.

“Tommy! Where are you!?”, yelled Wilbur as he lifted the lids of pots to try and see if the Borrower was hiding in ingredients again. “Tommy!?”, he yelled again then noticed the out of place whisk in a mixing bowl, with Tommy struggling to breach the surface.

He then picked up Tommy, carefully yet playfully lifted him by the leg. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” he said with a playful tone. Tommy then began to spit out curses. “Fuck you! Lemme go dickhead!”.

“That’s how you greet your brother after not seeing him for months, Tommy?”. Tommy then stopped his struggles and looked to his brother, “No- I-“. Wilbur then laughed, “Calm down Toms- I’m just messing with you!”.

“Dickhead!”.

“Be quiet Gremlin since you’re covered in batter. I suppose we better get you cleaned up, huh?”.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

Wilbur then lifted the boy above his mouth, smirking at his brother’s struggles. He then open his mouth, bringing his tongue out to taste him, he licked at the batter covering him, “Chocolate pudding? That’s always been one of my favourites!”.

He then carefully dropped Tommy into his mouth, feeling no struggle, he knew he had permission. So, he closed his mouth and poked his tongue at Tommy. To which his tongue got attacked by the playful struggles and hugs.

He then pinned Tommy to the top of his mouth, swallowing the chocolate pudding. He then opened his mouth to bring Tommy back out as his fingers carefully picked up the boy. Tommy complained as he was brought out of the mouth.

“What, you want to be swallowed?”. Tommy’s poutful expression was enough of an answer. “Alright! Alright!”. Then put the borrower back into his mouth. The once Chocolate pudding turning into a taste of Strawberry and Vanilla.

Soon, after tasting the borrower, he tilted his head back and was about to swallow. When the bang of the door scared the fuck out of Wilbur. “Wilbur!” Techno yelled, “We can’t find Tommy!”. His family soon joined the room.

The family stood as Wilbur almost toppled over, holding his throat and stomach. Tilting his head upwards as he began to choke. “Wilbur?!”, his father then ran over to Wilbur. He grabbed his son’s shoulders.

“T-tom-“. Wilbur choked out, Phil’s eyes widened as he realised what was happening. “Techno! Go grab water!”. Techno ran over to the sink, filling the cup to the brim and running over, handing the cup to Wilbur.

Wilbur gulped the water down, the lump in his throat moving as it finally made its way to his stomach. Wilbur panted as he finally got air into his lungs. “J-Jesus…”. Phil patted his back gently to soothe his son.

“Are you okay?”, he asked. “I-I’m fine”. Wilbur’s hand then suddenly moved down to his stomach, and he stared down at it. “Are you okay, Toms?”. “I almost died! Dickhead!”. Wilbur’s then rubbed his stomach in circles and sighed.

“Tommy’s fine too”. Then, he stood up with the help of his family and made their way home. Once he was in his room he put a hand to his stomach, feeling Tommy comfortably sleeping. ‘Yeah, sleep sounds good’. Then laid back, falling asleep himself.

#mcyt g/t #mcytg/t #dsmp g/t #giant!wilbur #giant!phil #giant!techno #giant!kristin #tiny!tommy #tw vore #shushi's writings

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raibebe · 3 years

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Neo CreaTures

Hello and welcome to my first ever collab call to celebrate me hitting a huge follower milestone! This is dedicated to everyone who loves the supernatural – like me – and enjoys writing a little more interesting creatures than just vampires and werewolves – which of course are still lovely. Under the cut you’ll find a list of awesome creatures to turn our favorite boys into – or even the reader if that’s the route you want to go. Our main theme is it to have some fun and post a variety of different spooky or not so spooky fics throughout October to spread our love for the supernatural. To claim a spot, simply dm me @raibebe your member and creature of choice and I’ll add you to this post as long as the spot is still up for claim.

Reblogs are appreciated even if you chose to not enter the collab to reach a wider audience!

rules

As always: First come, first serve

The fic has to be about the chosen member, meaning he is supposed to be the main character, you’re of course allowed to add in as many of the others as you want

You can bend the lore/appearance of your creature of choice how you may seem fit. Just don’t start telling me dwarfs turn into wolves every full moon.

Deadline is October 31st 2021

Minimum word count is 2k. This should be doable, it’s a lot of time until October. If you choose to write it in multiple parts, just send me the part you want to have linked on the masterlist.

No timestamps/drabbles, bullet points, social media AUs or reactions. Fics. That’s it.

Open to all genres, it doesn’t have to be horror or gory but I would love to read some darker pieces that are perfect for the season

If you want to include smut in your work, you have to be of age. No exceptions.

Even though all NCT members are of age, please refrain from writing smut for Jisung, Chenle and Sungchang, since otherwise Jisung will call the police on us.

Tag your work accordingly if you have potentially triggering stuff in it. When in doubt – you should probably tag it. But you can always ask which brings me to the next point:

Joining the discord is not mandatory but I’d encourage you to because it’s a great way to get to know your fellow writers and maybe ask for advice or just to chat about our boys.

That’s also where I’ll post announcements and stuff

Please tell me if you’re changing URLs or want to step out of the collab or can’t meet the deadline, which is both fine and can be negotiated

Please reblog this post after getting accepted so we can reach a wider audience.

For further questions just dm me!

Members

Taeil - @fan-but-no-art | Angel

Johnny -

Taeyong – @ncteaxhoe | Fairy

Yuta – @sly-merlin | Naga

Kun - @moonctzeny | Succubus

Doyoung - @just-come-baek | Mermaid

Ten - @jaesqueso | Werecat

Jaehyun - @127-mile | Ghoul

Winwin -

Jungwoo - @heejinnien | Elf

Lucas - @justonedaywithmysunshine | Genie

Mark - @alreadyblondenow | Zombie

Xiaojun - @key201303 | Guardian Angel

Hendery - @soliverse | Witch

Renjun - @moondustaeil | Kitsune

Jeno - @sparklysung | Incubus

Haechan –

Jaemin - @raibebe | Demon

Yangyang - @yangyanghater | Yokai

Shotaro - @chittapornswife | Nale Ba/Nishi Dak

Sungchan - @sichengscult | Warlock

Chenle - @flowerboykun | Merman

Jisung - @armysantiny | Shapeshifter

List of creatures to choose from.

Some creatures are fairly similar but I wanted to give you as many choices as I could come up with without having to choose absolutely crazy creatures. As said before you’re free to bend the lore of the creatures, this is just a guide – mostly off of Wikipedia – to some of the lesser known creatures. Warning: Some creatures are darker and more gore-y than others. The descriptions are as ungraphic as possible.

Vampire: A living corpse that feeds on the blood of the living to survive

Werewolf: A human with the ability to shapeshift into the form of a wolf

Werecat: A human with the ability to shapeshift into the form of a feline

Angel: A pure, benevolent intermediary between humans and god, protectors and guiders for humans, servants of god

Guardian angel: Godsend protector and guider for humans

Fallen angel: Angel that has become tainted by sin and fell from heaven

Devil: Ruler of the underworld, personification of evil and temptation

Demon: Supernatural creature usually associated with evil and sin

Incubus: Male demon that gains his energy from engaging in sexual activity

Succubus: Female demon that gains her energy from engaging in sexual activity

Yokai: Spirits and monsters in Japanese folklore, ranging from mischievous and malevolent creatures believed to cause misfortune and harm to some that are considered to bring good fortune

Ghost: Soul or spirit of a dead person that can appear to the living

Poltergeist: Type of ghost responsible for physical disturbance, often bound to the places the soul died in

Warlock: Male practitioner of witchcraft

Witch: Female practitioner of witchcraft

Necromancer: Practitioner of magic involving communication with the dead

Genie/Jinn: Neither innately evil or good spirit

Shapeshifter: A human possessing the ability to physically transform their body

Ghoul: Demon-like creature associated with graveyards and consuming human flesh

Zombie: Undead revenant

Siren: Creature half bird and half woman who lures sailors by the sweetness of her song

Mermaid/Merman: Aquatic creature with an upper body in human form and the tail of a fish

Nymph: Minor nature deity, generally regarded as personifications of nature, tied to a specific place or landform

Dryad: Tree nymph

Fairy: Magical creature with human appearance, magical powers and a penchant for trickery

Elf: Beings with magical powers and supernatural beauty, ambivalent to humans, capable of either helping or hindering them

Gnome: Diminutive spirit that typically lives underground

Dwarf: Entity hat dwells in mountains and in the earth, associated with wisdom, smithing, mining and crafting

Satyr: Bawdy male nature spirit with horse/goat like legs, ears and horns

Centaur: Creature with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a horse

Naga: Creature with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a snake

Harpy: Half human, half bird personification of storm winds

Dragon: Large, serpentine creature that breathes fire

Kitsune: In Yōkai folklore, all foxes have the ability to shapeshift into human form they have the ability to trick others but are also portrayed as faithful guardians, friends, lovers, and wives

Phoenix: Long-lived bird that cyclically regenerates or is otherwise born again, often through burning his body and being reborn from the ashes

Basilisk: Legendary reptile reputed to be a serpent king, who can cause death with a single glance

Unicorn: Beast with a single large, pointed, spiraling horn projecting from its forehead, often portrayed as horse-like

#nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #collab call #nct collab call #nct collab #nct fic #wayv fic #wayv collab call

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blissfulalchemist · 3 years

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Chance/Faith - ‘ what did you dream of? ’

Hello there once again! I do hope that you enjoy this short piece!

tw for drug use and mention. also for my dumb tongue in cheek jokes.

just under 2k

There’s something to be said about the peace that comes with sitting on the roof of some building. Hell just being up high always had its appeal to Chance, it was the coming down that left him sick. Maybe not the act of falling itself, that also provided some peace, but finding yourself back on the ground. The reality of being present, alive, stopped being fun the moment he had nothing but coming to his knees at the mere thought of them….of all that he had lost. Being grounded was overrated. Being grounded was pain. Being grounded was accepting the truth….something Chance had never been very good at.

To be high, in the sky, drunk enough to no longer keep steady on the ground….that was freedom….happiness. Even if it was set to kill him sooner than people wanted.

Catching the black smoke rising in the distance he smirks, giving a shake of his head, it’s the fourth one he can spot looking over the border of the Valley and Hebane. The gunfire Chance can just barely make out in the distance has him leaning back letting the sun warm the skin he’s sure is starting to look red rather than sunkissed. He probably should have stuck to the drinking after being arrested, he probably would have gotten another year of life. He definitely wouldn’t be in the middle of some war he never wanted to start or even end if he was being honest.

He takes a deep breath catching the hints of memories from when he was a teenager dying in the tight black clothing on this same roof in the height of summer. Back then Chance was just starting to experiment with drinking more and smoking weed while he dated some daughter of a successful real estate agent from New York, her hair the same color as Rachel’s. The eyes were a straight blue and her voice was a bit too gruff, she blamed it on always yelling for a taxi in the big city, and she was too self centered. It was only her hair that he liked.

Chance huffs, sitting up as he pulls out the stolen joint letting it find a place between his lips, testing the lighter once before he settles himself more. According to Hurk the joint was filled with some of the best weed in the world and how he saved it before some guy named Jason burned the whole farm down. Of course Jason was someone that Hurk met while out in Malaysia and really Chance should have been there to take down some guy that could almost rival Joesph in the crazy department. The exaggeration of the story Hurk had weaved for Chance still makes him chuckle, even now as he takes a drag letting the smoke sit in his lungs and envelop his tongue for a minute.

He let’s the smoke circle around him, closing his eyes, the high kicking in almost as fast as the Bliss does. “At least you’re right about it being some of the best,” Chance mumbles, bringing a knee up to rest his arm on while he watches over the activity he can’t really see. He’s about halfway through the joint when he feels someone watching him from below. Chance leans over catching the glimmer of her light brown hair, golden in the afternoon sun, before her blue-green eyes smile at him. “You’re pretty far out for just some casual stroll, don’t you think?”

He smirks as Faith rolls her eyes playfully, “Could say the same about you, Chance,” she tilts her head, looking to the stairs of crates leading to the roof, “Mind if I join you?”

Chance shrugs, letting out the latest drag, “Long as you can promise Jarhead or Gaston Wannabe aren’t waiting in the treeline to take me in.”

Faith begins the climb up the crates shaking her head, “Now why would I do that?” She smoothes out the skirt of the white lace of her dress, sitting next to him, taking the joint from his fingertips, “I don’t really like sharing you as it is.”

He watches her for a moment, taking in the way her hair shifts from brown to blonde at the whims of the breeze blowing, how her lips curve in a small smile as she inhales the smoke, and her eyes closing for a moment before handing the joint back to him. His heart tugs towards her, the suspicions he’s been having coming to the forefront of his mind. She can’t really be the same girl, there was no way. Tracey didn’t know Rachel like he does….did. Like he did. Seeing Faith like this though….Chance can’t help but see an older version of Rachel from that high school photo when she was a freshman, the last picture anyone had of her. He shakes the thoughts from his head, it was all probably a lingering hallucination from Bliss. Why wouldn’t it be possible for it to show you someone that you really wanted?

“What are you thinking about,” her voice pulls him back to the roof, the smile she wears before laughing, “Anyone home up there?”

He laughs in return, “This stuff really does live up to the hype it was given.”

Faith hums, leaning back on her hands, “So what did it make you think about?”

“The past,” Chance mutters, flicking the ash off, “This place brings back too many memories.”

“What kind of memories?” She asks sweetly.

“Summers up here, people I’ll probably never see again,” he says, balancing the joint between his lips as he searches for his phone, “Nothing special really.”

He lets out an a-ha finding it in his pocket, “Those people you think you’ll never see again,” Faith starts, Chance giving a nod for her to continue as he searches through the playlists, “Can I ask who they are?”

Chance settles on a song by Ghost, letting the music fill the silence while he takes what will be one of the last drags of this joint. He mulls over the answer as the smoke fills his lungs once more, passing the rest of it to Faith. “A girl.” Faith slides her gaze towards him slowly, “One of the few reasons I would have the possibility of being more comfortable with this place.”

“She an old girlfriend?”

“No,” he shook his head, “Just an old pipe dream.”

The silence falls quickly, Chance letting it stay for the length of a song, gripping for something lighter to talk about with her. She lets her head rest on his shoulder, fingers becoming entwined with his, “We’ve heard rumors about you, Chance.”

His heart rate slows after the initial surprise of her touch, his free hand closing over her chilled fingers, “If they’re from Gossip Girl, take it with a grain of salt.”

She laughs, giving a light slap on his chest, “Be nice. John’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

He rolls his eyes, “I’ll keep that in mind next time he’s got me strapped down and a knife to my throat.”

“But seriously though, many of the locals say that this wasn’t your first choice of a career.”

“I don’t think being the pawn in some supposed prophecy is anyone’s first choice in a career.”

“You’d be surprised actually,” Chance arches a brow at her response, “Again though can you let me finish?”

“Don’t I always?” He smirks, ”Thought you said that was my best quality.”

Faith groans, “Chance! Focus,” she takes a deep breath shifting to better lay against him, “What did you dream of being when you were younger?”

“Pfft, you seriously want to know that?” She nods, “Why?”

“Curiosity,” she states.

“Will you tell me yours?”

Faith thinks for a moment, tracing the tattoos on his hands, “Only if you tell me the truth.”

Chance lets out a sigh, keeping his eyes focused on the open space before him, “I wanted to be like Dad,” Rachel would have known that. “Your turn.”

“We didn’t have any dreams,” she giggles, the tone contrasting with the weight of what she’s just said, “What was the point when there wasn’t a chance we’d get anywhere close to them.”

“Something to aspire to,” he offers, “Keep you going. Keep you living.”

“Do you still have that dream? Wanting to be like your father?” Her voice flows almost like a song, drawing him in each time. There’s some resistance from him today as it feels almost inappropriate with their conversation.

“Sure. I was on my way once before,” he shrugs, “Why couldn’t that happen again?”

Her eyes are big, taking in every movement in his face and eyes, there’s a tingle along his skin the longer she stays looking at him like that. It doesn’t feel bad, but it also wasn’t the one he wanted to be feeling with her this close. Finally she blinks slowly, the shadow of her smile persisting as she looks at him now with such care, “Then why haven’t you felt like living in a long time?”

Chance jerks away, staring her down, heart pounding in his ears, “The fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m not suicidal.” He moves away from her shaking his head, jaw tight, “I just like to have fun. That’s it.”

“No one doubts that, Chance,” she stays in place, not even attempting to reach for him like she’s done before, “There’s just this….emptiness inside of you. We can feel it. Can understand it.”

“So?” She’s finally positioned herself to have the dark evergreens as a backdrop for her face.

“You can be helped and we can do that, Chance,” she urged softly, “You took help once before, what makes taking help from us so different?”

“Hilarious. I’ve given you multiple speeches on why that is.” Why is she being so pushy all of a-, A flicker of light dances just above her hair, much like a firefly and easier to see with the darker colors against her, Of course. He exhales sharply, “I’d remind you once more but,” Stupid. I knew she’d never have been this far out, he thinks, readying himself to leave, “ghosts don’t really remember unless it suits them anyway.”

“Chance wait,” they call out, crawling across the roof once he’s jumped down from it, “Come back. We can talk again. Just you and me.”

“Nice try!” He barks out, eyes cast down as his fingers work to untangle the headphones enough to get him back to the road, “I’m not coming back. Not going to fall for it again.” He finally has the earbuds in place, turning to point at the figment of his desire, “Not today Siren! Not today!” The woods are replaced by the screams of a man who’s fallen for someone he shouldn’t have. Her lips….my poison….How stupid could I be trying to pursue her?, He ground his teeth, nails digging into his palms as he mouthed the lyrics, I can’t even tell when she’s real….Just like they planned her to be.

That was the worst part of being sucked into the hell hole of Bliss, you saw who and what you wanted and they were always idyllic, making it too tempting to stay. Chance slowed, seeing a field of white coming straight at him. Tracey had said she and Faith were friends once upon a time and maybe they were or maybe, just like with him, the drugs made her think it was her old friend. Someone long dead and gone to her. It just makes her look like how Rachel probably would. Nothing more. The one person that could make Hope County more bearable for him….The one mistake he could have fixed after all this time.

#look I think i'm hilarious at times and sometimes i am but i love my meta jokes #see my love for legends and their meta #also look at me finishing something in a timely manner #lets hope it sticks as I feel my anxiety kick up #also sorry for the time of day I wanted to get this posted before I head off to work for the night #x: emo flower child #a chance for faith #faithxoc #chance ruicknar oc #faith seed #faith seed fc5

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vulpesmellifera · 3 years

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The Strange, the Fantastical, and the Horrifying

I’ve discovered I love writing weird stuff, so I decided to put together a list of my strangest, my most fantastical, and my most horrifying fics. Maybe there’s something here for everyone. Enjoy! <3

Johnlock

Rose Madder - Explicit. 25,415 words. With a history of bad choices firmly behind him, Sherlock Holmes has established himself with New Scotland Yard as a brilliant if egotistical solver of crime. An island unto himself, he's avoided all thoughts and urges of sentimental or physical attachment to another person not only for the sake of The Work, but for the equilibrium of his Mind Palace. Until he meets John Watson. This seemingly ordinary yet compelling man catches Sherlock's interest as something more than a mere roommate. When John moves in, he brings with him something unexpected: a strange family heirloom. The nightmare begins. (Tags include: Season 1 AU, Gay Pilot, creepy dolls)

Into the Gloaming - Mature. 8,385 words. She lays the sage bundle down in one of his seashells, avoiding the label. How he loved cataloging natural items. That sharp mind of his so naturally tended to the sciences, and she’d taken great joy in encouraging him all his life. All the first thirteen years of it. The last year has been entirely different.His hand lies just outside the white comforter. When she touches it, the chill of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. His lips move, his voice as soft as dead, dry leaves. “What’s that, love?” she says.“In the trees,” he says, his eyes still closed. “Is it John there in the trees? I think he’s waiting for me.” Viola turns her gaze out the window and to the closest tree, a resplendent cherry in the throes of autumn. In the branches there, for just a second, she thinks she sees it: a black bird, feathers gleaming in the sun. (Tags include: Creator Chose not to Use Archive Warnings, Mythology References, child death, Heavy Angst)

Haunted - Explicit. 22,342 words. Plagued by the past, John moves himself and his daughter to a new flat for a fresh start - and it's not 221B Baker Street. While he grapples with new knowledge and old guilt, he's confronted with odd neighbors and strange noises in the night. But is it the new flat, or is John Watson losing his grip on reality? (Tags include: post-canon, apologetic John, child endangerment, scary)

Mystrade

The Ghost in the Graphite - Explicit. WIP. He's spent his life avoiding idleness with pencil and paper. It's unpredictable. A visitor could slide into his mind, animate his limbs, and attempt to communicate through sketching. They come to him for closure - or for justice. Greg Lestrade joined the police force to placate the ghosts that haunt him. His greatest asset in solving crime flings himself off of a building, and Greg is once more faced with too many sleepless nights. When a forceful spirit and a troubling case appear, there's a chance an innocent man could end up in prison. Out of desperation, Greg turns to the one person he thinks could help him: Mycroft Holmes. As attraction blooms between them, the case becomes far more twisted and dangerous than expected. The full moon approaches. Time is running out. (Tags include: post-Reichenbach Fall, Medium!Greg, Slow Burn)

Among the Roses - Explicit. 14,043 words. The moon shone brightly on the garden, the colours of the roses now muted blue-greys like pebbles along the shore. A shiver ran down his spine as the hairs on his neck tingled. “Hello?” he said. Looked to the left and the right. Not a soul. “Who’s there?” His grip on the umbrella handle was clammy. A foghorn bellowed in the distance. Clouds crept over the moon’s face, casting long, gauzy shadows over the garden. Mycroft stepped back, and shut the door. He tried to quell the racing of his heart as he stood there, listening. “I’ve been waiting,” the man said, his voice as rough as waves hitting the rocks. (Tags include: MCD, Reunited and it Feels So Good, Angst with a Happy Ending)

A Song for a Siren - Mature. 13,992 words. Perhaps most fearsome among beasts is a monster with a sweet voice and an appetite that compels it to gorge on the marrow of men. It hid among the waves and in the crevices of the craggy rocks, its stringy hair slick along a back as pale as a fish's belly, its ocean-hued eyes forever fixed on the ship that carried the gallant Captain Lestrade. In a world of madness and monsters, many a man meets his fate at the pointed teeth of an otherworldly creature. (Tags include: Cthulu references, Multiple POV, Happy Ending)

Night of the Grey Mare - Teen. 8,606 words. Every Christmas Eve, Mycroft visits the Watson-Holmes family to deliver a story to his precious niece, and share in a little of the mulled wine. This year, Rosie wants to hear something scary. Mycroft tells her a frightening tale of The Christmas Witch, and then takes his leave before Sherlock and John can enact their usual routine to make him feel unwelcome. The way home is fraught with unforeseen events and Mycroft soon finds himself in his own frightening tale of horror. Or does he? (Tags include: Post-canon, Icelandic Mythology, Scary Stories on Christmas Eve)

The Tenth Muse - Explicit. 25,365 words. Mycroft sees things other people can’t. Lights, spectres, shades, demons, phantasms, and creatures that no one else can see. Voices no one else can hear. Colours eddying around people’s bodies, visible only to his eyes.It isn't deduction for Mycroft; it's a living nightmare that leads to self-imposed isolation. When Sherlock "dies," Mycroft finds himself reaching out for a golden slice of happiness, just one person to call his own in a landscape of horrors.

Sherstrade

[Deleted] - Teen. 10,400 words. Greg Lestrade and John Watson awake to find themselves locked in an unfinished basement. While they are well acquainted with one another, the two men aren't friends. But the darkness has ways of bringing people closer together. Meanwhile, Sherlock and Sally must work together to solve the case of a missing John Watson. They're running out of time. (Tags include: Pre-Slash, no TFP, Trapped, Rescue)

Hannigram

The Thing in the House - Mature. WIP. Horror-obsessed Abigail Hobbs lives in a cookie-cutter neighborhood where everyone is dreadfully boring. On the verge of graduating, she's eager to get out and pursue her dream of becoming a Special Effects Makeup Artist. Her big focus: monsters. She never thought an actual monster might move in next door. And she never thought that the monster might uncover her own secrets. (Tags include: Fright Night homage, POV Abigail Hobbs)

Geraskier

The Slippery Dark - Explicit. 7,944 words. Suspicion and guilt war beneath his skin like adversarial ant colonies - writhing and biting. None of this is right, but who is Geralt to demand answers from Jaskier? The bard has changed. He chafes at his clothes as if beset by a rash, he stares into the distance with a down-turned mouth and sad eyes, and he won't tell Geralt about the monster they're facing other than "it'll be easy for you to kill it," and "you're the only one I would ask." Anytime Geralt tries to bring up his angry outburst on the mountain, Jaskier walks away without a word. And the dreams. Geralt's dreams are strange and frightening. When they settle in at a castle in ruins for protection from a coming storm, will what lurks in the shadows finally consume the Witcher? Or will the Witcher find what he should have wished for all along? (Tags include: season 1 AU, Geralt apologizes)

#vulpesmellifera writes

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goldenuwuswriting · 5 years

Text

Siren’s Song

A/N: Just in case you haven’t heard this man’s heavenly vocals: A video or two! Also credit to @ncttrinities for feeding into my zero self-control and helping plan this. I might be slightly wh*pped for him.

Pairing: Nakamoto Yuta x Reader

AU: Siren! and College!

Summary: Sirens don’t exist or do they?

“Sirens were originally Persephone’s three handmaidens. When Hades kidnapped Persephone to be his wife, Demeter gave the handmaidens beautiful golden wings so they could search the earth. They eventually gave up, making Demeter mad and causing her to curse them to an island.” Professor Nakamoto lectures alongside the powerpoint made by his TA, Johnny. You took this Greek Mythology 101 class for the easy A or so you thought. Professor Nakamoto grades based on how much effort you put into the assignment and how much you participate in class.

“Time’s almost up for today, so your assignment for this week is to write your own siren myth.” The professor always had assignments like that. You thought that he set the class up like that to see how much the students retained from his lectures, but little did you know that he was hiding a big secret.

Professor Yuta Nakamoto was a siren and trying to teach that sirens don’t exist. The curse was just that in his opinion. The man literally looks like a god and could have been an Idol but had decided to teach to protect his secret. Johnny, his TA, came from America and was just as handsome as Yuta. Johnny was older than Yuta, but messed around and never graduated college and was the only one in the history department who knew Yuta’s secret.

You, on the other hand, were halfway through a Master’s degree in History. You were trying to take all of the credit hours you could, just to graduate early and start your life. Midterms were a few months away, so you had to make at least an A on them to give you a little wiggle room for the finals.

Johnny, being the greatest TA bless him (bless me achoo), hosts a study group and has office hours in Professor Nakamoto’s office before and after class almost every time.

You had a question over the study guide that Johnny had handed out, so naturally you went to office hours to ask before heading to your next class. There was something magical about the voice you heard coming from Yuta’s office. It was so pretty and drew you in. Your feet kept moving towards the door, as if they weren’t controlled by your brain. You reached out for the door handle and turned it. Something compelled you to keep walking into the office, where Professor Nakamoto was sitting in his chair and singing under his breath.

Yuta was shocked. You weren’t supposed to hear his ‘true’ voice. He quickly cleared his throat and asked you what you needed. You were frozen for a minute, as all of the gears in your brain started to move again, you remembered why you were there.

“I have a question on the study guide that Johnny made. Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t know where he is, but I could probably help you since I am the professor.”

You wanted to laugh at yourself for being such an idiot. “The question asks for the differences between harpies and sirens. Is it for the modern idea of sirens or the original idea of them?”

Yuta looked at you confused, shouldn’t you be questioning him on the fact that he is a siren (the answer is yes but you are too tired to realize it). He looked at you for a moment before answering, giving you his perfect, healing smile. “Its for the modern idea of sirens, Y/N. You’re the only student who caught that.”

“Alright, thank you and see you in class.” You took off towards your next class, mind still piecing everything together. Professor Nakamoto can’t be a siren because they don’t exist, right? Your next class went on for what seemed like hours.

Yuta was freaking out. He called Johnny, hoping the sentient tree would answer the phone.

“Hello?” Johnny’s disembodied voice flowed through the phone.

“I, uh, may have done something stupid and exposed myself.”

“Nakamoto Yuta, What did you do?”

“I may or may not have been singing under my breath and Y/N got captivated with my ‘true’ voice.”

Johnny sighed and Yuta could picture the taller man rolling his eyes.

“You want me to convince them that their mind is playing tricks on them, don’t you?”

Yuta just hummed in response.

Johnny hung up on him, not before telling him that he should be more careful.

You were finally dismissed from class. Johnny had texted you and asked if you want to meet up at a café near campus. It was about a 15 minute walk from the building you were at. The only thing in your head was the sound of Yuta’s voice. The voice that mesmerized you, the one that belonged to a forbidden object, and the one you couldn’t have. The more you thought about your professor’s voice, the more it dawned on you that he might be a siren. You walked towards the café, pulling your jacket closer to your body, trying to get as warm as possible while walking into the wind. The fall weather was your favorite, but it still had its downsides. You pushed the door open and took a deep breath, taking in the scent of fresh roasted coffee beans and fresh baked goods.

Johnny waved you over to the table he was sitting at. Your TA had two cups of coffee in front of him of which he handed you one. You gladly accepted the bean juice and took a sip. The two of you exchanged greetings and talked about random topics.

“Johnny, how much do you know about Professor Nakamoto?”

“He’s like my best friend, why?” Johnny was concerned about what you were going to say and it showed.

“I want an honest answer. Is he a siren?” You whispered those sentences. Perhaps you were going crazy with all the credit hours you were taking and the disturbing amount of sleep you were losing due to it. Everything about the professor seemed to match the exact creatures he was teaching about, obviously there were small differences.

Loud Laughter broke you from your thoughts. “You honestly can’t believe that, Y/N. Sirens don’t exist and he is not one. I think you need to take a break from your course work or take a long nap.”

“I guess so, but no one should have a voice that pretty.”

Johnny helped you with a few questions on your study guide before it was time for him to go help Yuta get set up for the Introduction to ancient civilizations class. You decided to head to your dorm and sleep as Johnny suggested.

The nap was just what you needed. Your roommate woke you up and asked if you had notes from your english class that they could borrow. Your phone’s screen lit up displaying the current time and a message from your best friend, Kun. Kun is the mom friend. He brings you food and takes care of you, so it’s no surprise when he texted you asking where you were and why you weren’t in class today.

Johnny had met up with Yuta and practically clowned him for letting you catch on.

“I didn’t know that they was there.”

“Well, It would take a genius to figure out that students are going to stop in during office hours.”

“If you’re so smart, Johnny, then why aren’t you a professor?” Yuta was becoming dramatic. He picked this habit up from a few of the freshman students. The students called themselves the dream team.

You weren’t prepared for class on Monday, knowing that you had to take the chapter test. Johnny had warned you that the professor had a project planned but he was picking the partners. You asked him to put in a good word for you, so that you would hopefully get paired with Dong Sicheng, who goes by WinWin and happens to be the professor’s favorite. WinWin was a cutie and very babie so you understood why he was the favorite. A plus to working with WinWin is that he was friends with Kun as well, so study snacks would be made for you both.

The test was easy, probably because Johnny had explained everything to you when he asked you to get coffee. Yuta had waited for everyone to turn in the test before explaining the project, which was to come up with and market a product as business entrepreneurs (Johnny’s idea after writing an essay at 3 am and drinking red bull). He started to call each pair.

“Dong Sicheng and Mark Lee.” There goes your chance at a decent grade, Mark was the only other student who wasn’t a freshman and had a great work ethic. “Y/L/N Y/N and Huang Renjun.” You have heard that Renjun was a responsible boy who loved art from Kun constantly talking about him and Sicheng. Kun also said that Renjun and his three other friends referred to themselves as the dream team and they did everything together.

The said boy came up to you and introduced himself and gave you his number. When class ended, you marched up to Johnny.

“I thought I asked you to make sure I was partnered with Sicheng.”

“I tried. Professor said no multiple times.” Johnny was trying not to smile at the memory of teasing Yuta.

“What would he say if I ask him? I really don’t want to work with a member of the self-proclaimed ‘dream team’.”

“He would most likely say no and to get over it, but you can try. He’s in his office.”

Johnny was sending you to war with a dangerous (read: Soft) enemy. Johnny immediately texted Yuta a heads up after you stormed out of the classroom. Yuta had anticipated someone was going to be upset at the partner choices, he just didn’t think that it was going to be you.

You furiously rapped on the door to Yuta’s office and waited for him to tell you to enter.

“Y/N, what can I do for you?” The male had asked in a sing- song tone. The cadence of his voice quickly quelled your anger.

“I wanted to know if I could switch Renjun for either Mark or Sicheng.” You smiled at him, silently praying to whatever gods or goddesses existed that he says yes.

“I’m sorry, but partner pairings are final unless one partner is doing more work than the other.”

You exited the office in a slightly better mood than before, which Johnny noticed when he passed you in the hall.

“Yuta, was Y/N just here?”

He nodded.

“They were furious after you assigned partners and then is suddenly in a better mood after talking to you. What happened?”

“We had a great conversation, that’s all.”

Johnny shot him a look that conveyed his thoughts. Yuta was slightly annoyed that the elder could read him that well.

“I just charmed them a little. Y/N might be short but They’re kind of scary.”

“I know, but we’ve had this discussion. What happens when they figure out that you are in fact a siren. Y/n already asked me if you were.”

Yuta knew that Johnny was right. He should probably stop while he was ahead. You were too pretty to die and he really didn’t want to move again.

You messaged Renjun and asked him to meet you at Kun’s after okaying it with him. Kun was already working on snacks for the three of you. Three hours later and Renjun never showed up, Kun tried calling him but the boy never answered and Kun knew the boy didn’t have class until tomorrow. You already texted Johnny and told him what happened and that Renjun hasn’t shown up. You made sure to ask where the professor was, hoping that this would get you a new partner. Your favorite and only teaching assistant informed you that the was hour left in Yuta’s office hours. The walk from Kun’s dorm to the office to you about thirty minutes compared to the usual hour. The anger boiling in your system at the freshman kept you warm and was what caused you to practically slam the office door open.

The Japanese man had heard angry footsteps coming down the hall, so he started to sing in order to calm the anger. It worked after a while and you could feel the anger melt away as waves of relief washed over you. The song continued and something about it compelled you to start walking towards your professor. You closed the distance between your lips and Yuta’s. The kisses were filled with passion and need.

“Get a room!”

That phrase startled you. Yuta grabbed your waist, not ready to let you leave, and looked at the source of the interruption. Johnny was standing at the door, rolling his eyes. You didn’t even notice the glare that Yuta shot him.

“Get Out, Johnny. Office hours are over.” (WiNk WoNk)

#nct yuta nakamoto #NCT #nct 127 au #nct 127 imagines #NCT 127 #yuta x reader #yuta nakamoto x reader #nctau #nct fanfic #nct fluff #nct imagines #nct scenarios #kpop fanfic #kpop au #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios

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shirtlesssammy · 5 years

Text

8x14: Trial and Error

Then:

Sam and Dean finally have a home.

Now:

Kevin Tran is living the dream on “Fizzle’s Folly” (omg). He’s working hard translating half the (demon?) tablet, drinking coffee, and frying up hot dogs, day after day after day...the boy isn’t doing so well.

One day, he looks at his board of clues and exclaims, “Holy Crap!” He promptly gets a nose bleed and passes out.

At the bunker, Dean is busy placing his new room in order: New Zep album, guns on the wall, and photo of Mary on the desk. Sam stops by to scoff at Dean’s enthusiasm for a real room. Dean’s too busy loving his new memory foam bed to care.

Later Sam is digging through books in the library (yeah, you say this isn’t a home but you’re already hooked, Sammy). Dean brings him food wearing just a henley (Nesting looks so good on Dean). Then Sam starts to be crappy about Dean cooking (and YOUNG MAN, who cooked for you your whole fucking life?).

Before Dean can take a bite into his amazing burger, he gets a cryptic call from Kevin.

They get to the houseboat to find a very sick Kevin. He figured out how to close the gates of hell! Germaphobe Dean gives Kevin a big hug and then Kevin breaks down what has to happen.

It’s a spell said in Enochian after completing three trials.

The first trial: Kill a Hell Hound and bathe in its blood. Dean is pumped! He sets out to get goofer dust and better food for Kevin. Sam is tasked on finding someone who has a demon deal coming due.

Sam takes a moment to tell Kevin to take better care of himself. “Saving the world? It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” Kevin knows that if they close the gates of Hell, he can get his life back. He wants this over asap.

Dean comes back and essentially tells Kevin to do the opposite of what Sam just said. Sam tells Dean about the Cassity family and their weird luck 10 years ago. Dean’s game!

Shoshone, Idaho

The boys arrive at the Cassity estate. They find the farm caretaker, Ellie, and she mistakes them for potential employees so they roll with it. They then meet Carl, the husband of one of the adult children in the family. After two seconds of interacting with the brothers he thinks they should be hired. Ellie reluctantly agrees and shows them their quarters. Then they get to do their “crap work” and by that, Dean finds out, she means actually cleaning horse stalls.

They witness a fight between Eliie and Alice, Carl’s wife. She’s frustrated with the exchange and doesn’t pay mind to Dean’s casual flirting.

It’s all to figure out who has a hellhound on their ass and both brothers assume it’s Alice.

That night over dinner, Alice and Carl hear the howl of a dog in the distance.

Alice decides to go check on the horses. The brothers follow.

Back at the dinner table, Carl gets a visit from a hungry invisible hound. Whelp.

Later, Sam tries to ask some questions at the investigation but doesn’t get far. They learn that all the Cassitys will be flying in soon. The brothers think that Carl had to have been the one to sign the deal and now he’s dead. Dean suggests they get out of there now that they didn’t get the hellhound.

Sam heads to the stables where he runs into Alice. He asks if she’s ok, and she says she’s fine.

She knows she should feel bad because she loved Carl, she just doesn’t remember why. This sets off alarm bells for Sam so he asks more questions. She grew up with Carl, but didn’t really see him until a Valentine’s Day party ten years prior.

Sam meets up with Dean in their quarters. Dean wants to summon a cross-roads demon. Uh, dude, slow your roll. Sam tells Dean about his exchange with Alice, and how it seems that he sold his soul for her, not the family oil. A demon made multiple deals with this one family 10 years ago.

The rest of the family arrive. There’s Noah Cassity, 71, worth a billion and just married wife no. 5. Then there’s Cindy, the middle child after Alice. She’s an alcoholic washed up country singer. Finally there’s Margie. She ran away 10 years ago and lives in Paris.

Ellie needs help now that the family is all there. Dean tasks Sam with waiting on them and Ellie gives Dean grill duty. She’s very impressed with his meat handling.

*Horrible Family Dinner Alert*

The family sits down for dinner. Sam serves wine (but not enough for Cindy).

Or maybe too much, because she reveals that Margie and Carl slept together before Alice and Carl were together.

Alice tries to remember the last time they had dinner together. It was a long time ago. Their father had invited a traveling salesman to join them. Charming, English, and named Crowley. Upon hearing that, Sam’s brain breaks.

Sam drops the news on Dean and they both worry about Crowley dropping in on their hellhound killing mission. Kevin calls with a new bit of timely trivia. The only way to see a hellhound is to either be damned or through an object scorched by holy fire. Dean nabs two pairs of protective eyewear to douse with holy oil.

The Cassitys continues to be The Worst. Noah and Margie head out with shotguns (and a little too much booze in the system) to kill themselves a wolf. This can only end well. Sam catches up with the bad idea gang and offers to join their posse - mostly to keep them from getting killed.

Ellie saunters outside, looking awfully fine. She clearly thinks the same of Dean by the way she’s giving him the look-over.

“I think you’re really hot,” she tells him. “You wanna go to my room and...have sex?” Like, YES? Dean’s brain basically stops working for a moment before he turns her down. He asks for a rain check and her face settles into something more serious and almost sad. “This is one night only.” Ouch, man. Ouch.

Sam’s crew has made it into the woods (super plan) where they start to get followed by the blurry handheld camera-de-hellhound. Sam peels off, tracking an odd sound, and ends up face-to-face with Noah. Margie’s off on her own. Cue the screaming and the blood! And now we’re down another family member since the hellhound has hauled Margie off to the pit.

Back in the house, Dean and Sam drop the pretense. The dead members of the family Cassity all sold their souls to a demon and hellhounds are using them as chew toys. They handcuff the family to the furniture (so they don’t freak out and hurt themselves), seal up the house with graveyard dirt, and head out to stalk the hound. That’s...one way to do it.

Dean orders Sam to stay safe in the house with the family while he goes out and does hero work. Sam calls him on his bullshit and Dean tells Sam that the trials are going to end in the death of one of them. “Or worse.” And if someone’s gotta go, it sure as hell’s gonna be Dean. Sam sees a way out but Dean - poor, fatalistic Dean - thinks he might as well go out in a blaze of glory. “I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand. 'Cause that's what I have waiting for me – that's all I have waiting for me. I want you to get out. I want you to have a life – become a Man of Letters, whatever. You, with a wife and kids and – and – and grandkids, living till you're fat and bald and chugging Viagra – that is my perfect ending, and it's the only one that I'm gonna get.” Oh, Dean. Always trying to feed up Sammy. A true parent!

Dean stalks the farm with his Clark Kent glasses and heads to the barn. There’s light and music playing and it calls Dean in like a siren song.

The Cassitys continue to break down. They suspect that Margie made the deal that made them rich.

Meanwhile, Dean walks in on Ellie drunk and dancing to “I touch myself.” She prowls into Dean’s space and Dean goes full-on awkward on her, telling her to stay inside no matter what she hears. “There’s something evil out there.”

“I know,” she says. She’s waiting for the hellhound to arrive and collect on HER deal. Oof.

Sam heads to the window and sees the hellhound prowling through the yard. At the same moment, Alice freaks out and breaks out of the house to run to her car, leaving Sam no choice but to race after her. The hound growls nearby and Sam shoos her back inside.

Ellie spills the details to Dean. She met Crowley that same night he made a deal with Margie. Ellie sold her soul to heal her mom from Parkinson’s and send her to a happy retirement. When Dean berates her, she asks him what he would have done if it was HIS mom. The same damn thing, his face says.

Dean also learns that Crowley never told Ellie that her ticket was up in 10 years, or that she’d be torn asunder by beasts. The beast howls and Ellie starts to hallucinate Dean’s face going all demon-horror. Dean pours out the last of the graveyard dust into a circle and orders Ellie inside. He heads out to face the hellhound.

In the rest of the barn, the horses are all SUPER quiet considering there’s an apex supernatural predator prowling around. Dean puts on his glasses (HAWT) and starts tracking the hound. He offers up some quips to the unappreciative beast and then is knocked aside and sliced across the ribs by the hound. It approaches him, ready to rip him apart, when Sam shoots at it. The hound scampers, Sam grabs the knife, and slices himself a fresh hellhound in the heat of the moment.

He’s doused with black gooey hellhound blood. Well. That went perfectly to plan!

They plan to create a hex bag for Ellie and tell her to run and hide from Crowley. Dean grabs some of the blood from Sam’s clothes and tries to do the first spell. It’s a total bust.

Sam tells Dean that he’s planning on doing the trials. And then he drops a truly wonderful, cathartic speech. “I want to slam Hell shut, too, okay? But I want to survive it. I want to live, and so should you. You have friends up here. Family. I mean, hell, you even got your own room now. You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't – I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it.” SAM!!! What a good speech. He also tells Dean that he’s more than a grunt - he’s a genius hunter. Awwww, Sam - what a good brother! He asks Dean to BELIEVE in him.

Dean hands the spell over, a little resigned. What a MOMENT! Sam does the spell and it works instantly. Sam’s arm lights up with power and he grunts at the pain of it. And then he collects himself. “I’m okay,” he tells Dean. Oh Sam bby.

______________________________

You Look Like Clark Quotes in Those Glasses:

Memory foam. It remembers me!

I'm nesting, okay?

This whole saving the world thing? It’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Did you know that there are like 6,000 kinds of tomatoes.

I do like a man who can handle his meat.

You're not a grunt, Dean. You're a genius.

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 8x14 #trial and error #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural season 8

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bevioletskies · 5 years

Text

bring it on home to me [2/5]

summary: The fight of everyone’s lives may be over, but for Nebula, Peter, and the rest of the Guardians, the search for the person they love most has just begun.

a/n: MAJOR spoiler warning for Avengers: Endgame, though I am a little vague about the events of what happened. Regardless, please don’t let me spoil it for you!

Fic title is, of course, from the song Bring It On Home To Me by Sam Cooke. Warning for mentions of blood and unnamed character deaths.

word count: 2.8k | ao3 | tag

Mantis woke to a dull throbbing in her forehead, a thu-thump that sounded more like an irregular heartbeat than the usual background noise of the Benatar’s engine’s rumbles and groans. It was an unfortunate common occurrence for her, the faint sounds of other people’s worries and fears radiating off them like a siren, calling out for someone to listen. Now, living in close quarters with teammates who constantly fretted and kept it all to themselves, the sirens were more like full-on klaxons blaring in her brain.

When she was growing up under the too-watchful eye of Peter’s father, it hadn’t been so terrible in that respect - he was a man of single-minded purpose, his arrogance so excessive that his narcissism far outweighed his doubt. His feelings, his emotions, had come second to all the things he’d demanded of her, and it was far easier to shut out one person than another five. Mantis had never understood the full spectrum of the emotional experience until meeting the other Guardians.

She tiptoed gingerly out of her bunk and into the tiny kitchenette, pouring herself a glass of water and sitting down at the table. Peter and Nebula had laid out scraps of reports and blurry photos all over its surface, still attempting to work together after the last half-dozen temper tantrums they’d had (Peter moreso than Nebula, not that anyone was counting). “We’re gettin’ closer,” Peter would say every morning during their team discussions, having long abandoned other jobs in favor of this one. Rocket would then quip that they weren’t, Drax would have some sort of blunt response, and Nebula would roll her eyes while Groot adamantly continued staring at his game console screen, trying and failing to not get his hopes up. Mantis would be sitting further away, observing, feeling completely and utterly useless.

“You’re not useless, Mantis.” It was three months after Mantis had joined the Guardians, and they had returned to their ship after a semi-successful job where their worst injury was Rocket’s singed whiskers and Peter’s bruised ego. She had sat down beside Mantis, who was sulking quietly by the vantage window. The softness in her voice always betrayed the sharpness of her expression. “I don’t need your powers to tell that that’s how you feel right now.”

“I wish I was more like you,” Mantis had sighed. “Brave...and strong. But I do not know if I want to fight.”

“Then don’t,” she had said simply. “Your life is yours now. Your purpose is your choice.”

“I suppose when you put it like that...I have never felt so free.” Mantis had hummed, some song that Peter had played once that had been stuck in her head ever since, drowning out the noise that had otherwise taken permanent residence in her head.

Her face had softened. “Neither have I. Though I’ll spend the rest of my life burdened with knowing what I’ve done when I was with Thanos. What I didn’t do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t stop him, I didn’t escape him until it was almost too late. I didn’t realize the extent of what he’d been doing to my sister until the damage to our relationship, to Nebula herself, was beyond repair.” She had shuddered, her hand moving to a specific pocket on her utility belt, drawing out a switchblade embedded with some sort of red jewels. Slowly, she had begun to spin it, flipping it deftly like she’d clearly done so many times before. “I imagine you felt similarly about Ego.”

“I do not know how I feel about anything sometimes,” Mantis had admitted. “But I do know that I wish I had met all of you earlier.”

“I don’t think you would’ve liked us earlier,” she had replied, her tone dry. Then, her head had dipped downward, eyes fixated on her lap. The switchblade came to a stop. “I know I didn’t.”

Mantis had watched her, pensive. “Do you like yourself now?”

Gamora had let out a low chuckle; the sound had haunted Mantis then, and it spoke to her now. “I hope that someday, I will.”

Mantis was drawn out of her memory by the sound of an awkward, distinctive cough behind her. She turned to see Drax stood by the freezer unit, a half-eaten rations packet poorly hidden behind his back. “Drax?”

“I was hungry,” he said, defending himself against absolutely nothing of consequence. “Why are you awake?”

“Sleep escapes me sometimes,” she replied, gesturing for him to join her at the table. He sat across from her, reluctantly putting the rations packet on its surface, knowing he was going to get an earful from Peter about it in the morning (“Food is expensive, Drax! You wanna see our bank account again, or do you wanna maybe not get the late-night munchies for once?”). “Everyone gets louder and louder the closer we get to...wherever Peter thinks she is.”

“We have been having discussions at the same volume the whole time,” Drax protested.

“I mean in here.” Mantis tapped a finger against her temples, right below the base of her antennae. “Nebula is angrier than ever. Peter has never felt so sad. They are very desperate. We are all very desperate.”

Drax elected not to respond right away, instead peeling back the packet so he could dig to the bottom, popping another bite or two into his mouth and chewing slowly without really tasting anything. He knew the others thought more highly of him than anyone but his family had ever done before, but still, he knew they also mostly saw him as oblivious, simple-minded Drax - the one they could count on in a battle, but not in a war. He was a warrior, not a tactician, a body, not a brain. His grief wasn’t always as obvious to the others, either; it wasn’t like Nebula’s scowls or Peter’s tears, Rocket’s drooping whiskers or Groot’s trembling mouth. It was quieter, far quieter than his combative cries during a fight or his harsh tones during an argument. It was almost silent. Most times, Mantis was the only one who could hear him.

“So desperate that we hang onto the mere existence of a woman who is not the one we know,” Drax said hollowly, setting the packet back down. “I have made peace with the death of my wife and daughter. I think it’s time for Quill and Nebula to make peace with hers.”

“How could you say that?” Mantis leapt to her feet, knocking over her water glass in the process; her eyes barely glanced over as it went splashing everywhere, dripping all over the floor. “We have encountered her three times since she ran away, and she has let us get closer each time. Maybe she is not the one we know, but she wants to trust us. I know that. I can feel that. We cannot just...give up!”

“We are working ourselves into a sickness, a disease. She would not want us to mourn her forever,” he insisted. “It is not the warrior way.”

“But she was not just a warrior, and neither are you,” she retorted, her lip curling in a childish manner. “She only died a few months ago. How long have you had to mourn your wife and daughter?”

“Too long.” Mantis froze, her eyes widening in horror in realization of what she’d said, of how easy it had been for him to answer her. She was hardly one to get angry at the others, but somehow, Drax was always the one who got to her more than anyone else. Whether it was a sign of their closeness or their wildly different temperaments, she couldn’t be sure.

She exhaled. “We deserve more time to look for her than you might think. Maybe someday, she will want to stay with us, and she can get to know everyone all over again. I think Peter and Nebula really, really need it. We all do.”

Drax got to his feet, moving to dispose of the empty packet, pointedly keeping his back to her. “Sleep well, Mantis.” He left before she had time to reply, weaving his way through the Benatar’s damp corridor and back to his bed, where he knew he wouldn’t be able to take his own advice.

Another two days passed before they were remotely close to where they were trying to be, a location that Peter refused to disclose to the others for reasons unknown. He and Nebula had reached the acceptance stage in their relationship, as in they accepted each other’s presence reluctantly and begrudgingly. Seeing them successfully coordinate their efforts was strangely disturbing to everyone else.

“I still don’t trust her,” Drax murmured to Peter after their usual morning discussion, watching Nebula reluctantly follow Mantis through to the back of the ship for lack of something else to do. “She has tried to kill us on multiple occasions.”

“Hey, look, Nebula’s not my favorite person either, but she’s different now,” Peter protested, furrowing his brow. “She only sometimes threatens to maim me these days. Plus, after all that stuff she did to help save the universe, we gotta cut her some slack. She’s not the bad guy anymore. She’s one of us.”

“I suppose she has become more agreeable, yes,” Drax relented, nodding. “But do not mistake her presence for her allegiance, Quill. She is merely here for her sister, and when she realizes that that woman isn’t her - ”

“Don’t - ” Peter’s finger was on the trigger of his quad blaster before Drax could get his next word out, though he didn’t draw his weapon. His breath was ragged between his teeth. “Don’t you dare, alright? Don’t you say nothin’ like that.”

“Then I have nothing more to say,” Drax said quietly, promptly turning and walking away.

On the other side of the ship, Mantis and Nebula were sat by the window, Groot’s favorite spot to sit and watch the stars go by when he was younger. The two of them had an odd relationship, knowing the absolute least about each other of all the Guardians, and yet always feeling a vague sense of apprehension in the other’s presence. They both knew what the other was capable of, the physical and psychological damage they could inflict upon one another, and that was all it took for them to maintain their distance. Still, between the loudness of everyone else’s personalities, they were somehow the quietest of them all, and sometimes, silence was exactly what they needed.

“What happened when you were with your past self?” Silence was not a particularly long-term commitment for Mantis. Nebula turned to shoot her a dirty look, but Mantis returned it with a steely gaze of her own.

Sighing, Nebula brought one knee up to her chest so she could rest her arm. “If you think I’m going to tell you what it was like to look into my own eyes from nine years ago, you’ve sorely misinterpreted our relationship.”

Mantis looked away. “After you left to kill Thanos...sometimes, she would find it very hard to talk about you. But other times, she would tell me stories about how you grew up together.”

“Is that what she called it?” Nebula said, her voice even raspier than usual. “Growing up together? As if we lived in a house and went to school and lived a perfectly ordinary life?”

“She said she always wanted to understand you,” Mantis mused. “But she did not know where to start.”

Nebula scoffed. “Understand me? My sister seems to have spent far more time getting to know you than she ever did with me. It was only in the end that she...that we…” She trailed off, unusually uncertain of what to say.

“Once she started to trust me, she was very helpful in making me feel like I belonged.” Mantis smiled bemusedly, her eyes glazing over, lost in her own memories. “Before becoming a Guardian, I did not think I belonged anywhere but on Ego, serving my master for the rest of my life. She made me see that I could be more, and that we had more in common than we thought.” Her gaze went back to Nebula’s face; it startled Nebula then how similar their dark, inky eyes looked in a certain light. “That includes you, too.”

“What could we possibly have in common?”

Mantis brightened, much to Nebula’s dismay. “Oh, many things! We were all taken as children by a powerful man who wanted us to be servants instead of companions. We felt isolated and controlled and alone. We - ”

“Do stop talking.” Nebula clapped her hand down firmly on top of Mantis’s, pinning it to Mantis’s leg. Mantis jumped but didn’t dare move otherwise. “I can only listen to your voice for so long.”

Mantis held her breath for a moment, then slowly, carefully, turned her hand over, gently prying Nebula’s fingers open so she could interlace them with her own. Nebula flinched. Then, she sighed, her shoulders dropping, and they both turned their gaze to the stars.

Back in the bunks, Drax was laid on his back on his comically small bed, staring up at the ceiling, bits of it eroded away from leak damage and other mishaps that Peter claimed gave the Benatar “character”. In the water stain, he could almost see the silhouette of a face, some vague side profile of a person who, if he squinted enough, reminded him of the slope of his wife’s nose, the strength of her chin, the curve of her jawline.

“Do you think of them?” It had been a mission like any other, some trafficking situation gone wrong that the Guardians had been called to, and the two of them were entrusted with dealing with the enemies on the ground, being the most skilled in close combat. The fight was over now, and they were the only ones left standing. Drax had been bent over at the waist while trying to catch his breath; she had kneeled on the ground beside a pile of bodies she’d created, staring at them in a near trance.

Drax had turned to look at her; she hadn’t looked back. “Of who?”

“Your wife and daughter.”

His answer had been immediate. “Always.”

She had smiled sadly, drawing a cloth from her utility belt to wipe away the blood on her sword. Her back had still remained to him. “Peter tells me stories about his mother almost every night before we go to bed. Yet I...I forget my parents’ names sometimes. I forget their laughs, their smiles.”

“This is an odd time and place to be having this conversation,” Drax had pointed out, though not unkindly.

“It makes sense to me.” She had drawn to her full height, storing away both the cloth and her sword, finally turning to face him. There was a splatter of blood across her torso and face, the silver in her cheekbones glinting through it like it was just another layer of warpaint. “Every time I look at all the death I’ve left behind, I think of them. I wonder what they would think of me if they saw who I was, what I’ve become. Do you not do the same?”

“I come from a race of fighters,” he had said, though his answer hadn’t been so quick this time. “War is our norm.”

She had hummed in response, gesturing for him to follow her back to the ship, where the others were waiting. “I’ve been responsible for more deaths than the ones committed by my own hand.”

He had fallen silent, unsure of what to say, thinking back to the very first time they had come face-to-face, her blade to his throat, then his hand wrapped around hers. “You are not the one to blame for my family’s deaths. That was Ronan and Thanos, but it was not you. Never you.” When she didn’t respond, he had grabbed her by the wrist, pulling firmly so she would turn and meet his eyes. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears, though still sparked with the defiance that every last person in the galaxy had come to know so well. Then, he had said, quite simply, “As I’ve said before - you are not my enemy, Gamora. You are my friend.”

The sound of the Benatar’s unceremoniously messy landing - more like crashing - pulled Drax out of his dreamlike state. He got to his feet and ran out to join the others in the cockpit, pausing when he saw everyone frozen in their seats, staring out the front window. Only Peter remained emotionally unmoved, his jaw clenched. After all, he was the only one who had known their destination.

The Guardians found themselves looking at the hollowed-out husk of a place that never had glory days, a place still struggling to rebuild after its destruction five years ago, smoke curling around its borders like it was threatening to swallow it whole. Peter cleared his throat. “Well, this was the last place she was spotted. Welcome back to Knowhere.”

a/n: First of all, sorry about this being late! I left on vacation for a week the day after posting the first part and thought I would only need a week to write and edit this part, but I was sick on my flight home and had a bunch of other stuff to catch up on. I hope you enjoyed regardless!

Secondly, this part was a little bit harder for me to write, as I usually explore Drax's character and relationships with others the least, but it was a fun little exercise in exploring these characters I adore so much! And wishful thinking, but I really want Mantis and Gamora to (somehow) have a good friendship going on in Vol. 3.

The next part will be posted next Friday - I'm halfway-ish through writing it so far. Thanks so much for reading, likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and see you next time :)

#starmora #starmora fic #peter x gamora #gamora x peter #endgame spoilers #spoilers #myfic #myfic: bring it home #marvel #sorry this is late! got sick on my flight home #also trying to write a post-endgame scott/hope fic at the same time

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autoirishlitdiscourses · 3 years

Text

Discourse of Sunday, 28 March 2021

Are Old, Who Rides with Fergus in the space that you contribute meaningfully to the larger-scale reading of the song recordings I posted to the connections between the poem and its representation of Father Sullivan is the ideal goal of the section develop its own; I think that you send me your recitation during a future week, you must email me a rough outline of your paper ultimately winds up being more successful in any reasonable way, literary texts rarely constitute direct proof that one way to do both at once. So, here is a rhetorical move that your reading of that is being transmitted, specifically, to be this week, I'll probably do this a worthwhile and important topics in the class for at least twelve lines of the subject in section. Let me know if you have 82. Were acceptable for purposes of this if you'd like. Did our conversation today answer your questions listed are fairly minor errors, though reciting more of the poem and its historical situation here, but that you will have definite ideas about what your paper's overall direction. There are no specific formatting or topical or length requirements. Well, God is good, and you exhibit a very strong job of setting your texts, a Batman, a rights-based and less discussion-oriented than it would be exhausting for someone who is taken to be wrong, but I absolutely understand that this is your only chance to talk about how most people think about why the comparison is worth. Talking in general, but I'm not willing to do it, and get them to larger-scale point winds up being quite fair to call on the last minute. Which is to think about just how much of an A-range grade on their own self-identify as Irish are more passionate than any other questions, OK? Hook-up, but others may surface, so I think you most need to include these types of documents in addition to tracking attendance, participation will be, and showing that you do not feel comfortable talking to me you've picked some good ideas.

Conforms in all, I'd love to archive them on my SoundCloud account and link to it. You're absolutely welcome to cut it off between 2:30 in my opinion, etc. It's been a clue. I think that one place where your analytical exploration of the class isn't for them and what women really are quite strong. Another potential difficulty is that you haven't yet or hadn't, when what your paper.

Section. History is or is going OK for you, and the only pair going this week. Let me know ASAP remember that you are thinking about this profitably, and your argument and how it fits a general pattern in Celtic mythology in which language and the only one freedom for wouldn't know what you actually get from putting Beckett, and that you've got a really, really is quite a slippery concept when examined closely, and it may be one way to clarify your own thoughts in more detail. I'll watch a few ways in which you can deal with.

Your poem will be helpful in any way. You must also provide me with a shrug but no vocalization when I asked them Who's read episode one of the prospectus when I've given you should be doing, and one, to come talk to me. Distribution of poetry or prose from an in-depth manner and provided a good break, and haven't impacted your grade. Noisy selfwilled man. I will also make a case of emergency, please see me but let me know. —People who identify as Irish are more interesting one, but not an acting class, which could be made about your ideas as you write, think in an even better, myself, since we follow Bloom and/must/attend or reschedule. Again, well done! I'm so sorry to take the morning.

If you wind up giving answers to these small errors, your writing. This includes your midterm and recitation in front of the whole class really was close to convenient and painless as possible, provided that you believe that the professor is behind a bit more so that I can get the changed document to me, and thanks for letting me know if you ask people to speak can be found online at. You've mapped out a mutually agreeable time for it and are certainly other possibilities that would be my student again have a good sense of the text in question, rather than simply instantiating an argument about it this way.

3 talk about them more quickly, and will use these two particular pieces is a complex relationship to the aspects of your discussion plans even if you assert it, you might think about the way that is intended to help people move along. /3 letter grade. Yes, there are several alternate readings that you know the name is not a bad idea to do. Here's what everyone is always telling me that is a wise textual selection that you picked, the sex-food combination pops up! No bibliography needed. You are now open for nominations from students already asking about crashing my sections but don't yet see a specific, this is a very difficult to treat in a lot out of lecture and less discussion-based and less discussion-based than I anticipated, and what would be more comfortable with silence, and a half pages from a piece of writing in order to be a more impassioned delivery.

Forster said. All nineteen students registered for that it is your central argument? I enjoyed having you in lecture yesterday: The study of 'Ulysses' is, after all, this would result in an American work, Upton Sinclair's The Jungle 1906, but you added one extra word in the back of your written expression. Section or not effectively support the overall arc that you examine. Up to/one percent/for emailing me a photocopy from it of the strongest papers I've read so far this quarter, then the quickest way to clarify your own thought, although you have read episodes 1, because I wanted to switch their attention back to some questions in section. None of which parts of Europe that frequently marks property lines, if I have posted a copy of the more helpful my feedback will be posted to the performance and discussion of ten weeks and also do the legwork myself. I haven't heard back from Alward, our undergrad adviser.

Based on notes provided by TA Christopher Walker and the idea that will change by much, but will get you a small observation: I will distribute your total score for base grade is largely based on your main argument as your main points out while still scaling up each part of the poem. This are comparatively minor textual hiccups here and there, I think that one thing that other people are reacting to look at. One of the 500 total points for both, that your thesis, because I think that that's what you are capable of even more specificity before a paper on the context of other interesting points, actually. For Young People via HuffPostBiz Welcome to the group. Part of the better ways to spin this to many other gendered representations here. On foundational definitional issues? However, I think that having more open-ended questions intimidating or not, too, which is to have in class, and I'll have a student paper; and/or minor problems in this world, on how you want to see models, there is also potentially interesting ways by a group is not just providing opinions. On the distrust of the Pig Toll Tax 6 p. This was incorrect: Thanksgiving is 28 November, though not comprehensively—cleaning these up is a series of topics whose relationship is between the IRA terrorists, while you write your paper and final later on for you so is perfectly OK at this point, but I haven't graded yours yet, and make sure that everyone will be thinking closely about it, then you may leave your luggage during section that week is by Eavan Bolland, not a statement about how Joyce treats Shakespeare in Ulysses, Bacon's paintings, and you really do have one extensive monologue from someone who is the highest possible grade you can point to start with the non-trivial citation problem; incorrectly sized margins or font; use of stream of consciousness and how that sympathy is constructed does to women and/or respond to very open-ended. The professor was discussing in lecture but didn't address the text, although the multiple starts ate up time that you sit down and start writing. Your writing is so as to avoid them entirely, etc. Here is what your paper as effective as it might come off as much as 1. Anyway, the sympathy of the midterm. Class level only appears when the hmm, he said No, I certainly will. Again, I'm suggesting that there is going to be including a text that you're capable of working through a series of questions or concerns about university policies on equal access, please consult a writing process. Nothing immediately proposes itself to me as soon as you could do an excellent delivery. You have an electronic copy however, that particular choice. So, let me know. What do viewers need to focus your argument itself is sensitive and nuanced interpretation—I've marked everything that you should focus on developing a more analytically incisive paper. Beyond that, it's a real pleasure to read. I suggested above, you did a solid job of effectively engaging the rest of the better ways to think about what is short-sighted or otherwise just saying random things about what you most need to hold the 11:30 work for you to become more specific, this could have been influenced by Beckett and the Sirens 1891. Think about what your most important insights are is one of the B range. I'll give away add codes as quickly as you being able to accept the offer, that you took. Often, a B for the foreseeable future. I'm going to be prepared for lecture and section to advance your central claim is actually quite busy with recitations this week! So let's have the capacity to succeed in this range do not use any form of communication device during an exam—or at any stage of the section. I also appreciate that.

Which is to engage the group. If you do have some interesting and clarifying thought-experiment, even though I've pointed to some comparatively nitpicky things in your discussion tactics for future use, and I really appreciate you both perform tomorrow night for you. The fact that the syllabus, and you incorporate the required texts in juxtaposition is a strong connection to religion, and that you don't have to set your expectations appropriately. But, you did quite a nice plan here. I think that what most needs to happen differently for this. I'm not aware of: you had a lot of good possibilities here several poems by Patrick Kavanagh, I suspect you ran up against was that I think that you speak enough in advance in section once when he supposedly came to mean that an A-paper receives a letter grade per day an A-and I really can't think offhand of work like you've done many things very well done! Remember that you could merge the recitation performance itself, for this paragraph: attending section a total of ten minutes and which originate elsewhere. What this means 11: General Thoughts and Notes 4 December in section the first-decade artworks because Ulysses has and did a number of things in abstract terms instead of waiting for the quarter that is, or you can still go just make sure that they're integrated into it as being about nationalism as a lens to examine fewer texts in more detail, and apply for the foreseeable future.

You should indicate the sources of the overall goal is to pick out the issues that need to have grown out of time that way. You supported each other, he helps several police officers to solve crimes based not only against your own thought, self-identify as Irish is kind of claim you want to have particular places in my box in the front of the values currently seen as a section of Ulysses, Stephen mentions to Buck Mulligan that he didn't take it in then. Hi! Both of these as a section you have already missed three sections and you have any questions about plagiarism or how to override the defaults and produce a meaningful discussion about the text to which you can absolutely meet Wednesday afternoon that you won't have time to get back to you. I agree with you, I don't think that the professor topic is frightening, because I necessarily agree with you. Sixteen got 6 or below on section website, so it's unlikely that you'll get there naturally. I force you to do this. However. You dropped the phrase at the beginning of your argument's overall points. Provided that what your paper. Works for me to leave. How does commitment to sensitive reading and merciless editing as part of why this is a bit with this paper, is in many ways basically fair to the question of influence entirely; 2 provide additional information you are working. I. Quite well done. You've been participating fairly regularly, so if you think. You might enjoy John William Waterhouse's painting Ulysses and Godot very top of the course I quite like the Synge vocabulary quiz on John Synge's The Playboy of the end of the Anglo-Irish Literature Section guidelines.

That's it! Though it was written too close to this message. You should still let me know if you really have done some quite excellent. For the recitation assignment so you need to be written in a fully capable member of the poems you choose and which texts/issues you specifically deal with this phrase in the world are necessarily shared by all means pay close attention to the course is a good selection there. So.

Remember that the opportunities for movement and observation were affected by this narrative, which at least 86% on the midterm; c divorce is essentially impossible in Ireland for three generations, but neither is it history in the question so that I have to fall a bit more space to get back to you. So, for instance, this is a mark of sophisticated writing and its background. You picked a longer selection than was required, of course and scratch and claw for every point. One is to engage critically with reliable historical sources with a perfect score is calculated for the sake of being responses to statements and thoughts from other students in the context of the female monologues in Ulysses and use that connection is significant: ultimately, are engaging in an earlier discussion, since I've never done it well to the poem taken for that because the writing process, though it's also a Twitter stream for the difficulties that I can. You're in charge for those interested in completing the honors section, people might it will be worth a total of ten weeks this quarter, recite the lines that you write it, but I think that what you'll drop if you are writing or after class instead of responding verbally.

If you do an excellent sense of harmony and rhythm. 5% 137. Doing this effectively is to provide a sense of having misplaced sympathies that are profitable manners of digging into the ground when he did his recitation a painfully slow and clumsy performance of a letter grade being worth 10%, what do you see as being about nationalism. You could think about this before the third year in grad school. Are you talking specifically about your ideas out, it's not inevitably the case not just talking about Francie's level of comfort and interest, and the context of the classroom, but there are several alternate readings that you deserve to represent them even further. If you are one of her religion finds that to be leaving town. I am sorry for your research paper, or moonshine, because it's so centrally concerned with Irish nationalism are connected in rather interesting: the namby-pamby justice system has its hands tied by a bus or abducted by aliens, I think that a lot of ways, and so on the final! In these circumstances, you should definitely be there on time. Hi! I will hold up various numbers of fingers at the end of the scene come through more in section don't really start talking until nearly eight minutes into your own topic; I'm just trying to provide. I'll give it the burning bush of Moses. You demonstrated that you do have good readings of Croppies, of course thinking of a discussion of a text that you've got a good understanding of your interest in the assignment and may not arise to give everyone their preferred text/that week will partially serve as a whole, and gave a sensitive, thoughtful, engaged delivery, very good job of putting your texts well here, although there may be that your paper grade are the significant people in section we will have to mop up on my SoundCloud account and link to the perception of absurdity this is unlikely, because I think that what you're going with the small-scale issues and/or last, please leave the group; once when everyone introduced themselves, once when everyone introduced themselves to the aspects of the last lecture was recitations. I saw the email me a copy of this category. Spavindy means lame, in the play as a last resort are constantly hungry; c you have a fair number of points possible is 50 10% of your cancellation penalty for not following a specific analytical claim would distract you from being an important passage and gave what was covered earlier so that you're OK, and sometimes the best way to avoid departing until afterwards, even if you anticipate that you think. Of course, and next week in which Celtic myth there are several possibilities for discussion: performed: Oh I Do Like a S'Nice S'Mince S'Pie sung by Corp. Have an excellent lecture/discussion performance for the rest of the text s, but of the poem he is going to introduce some major aspect of Irish identity that are very very high score, wasn't enough to make selections that allow you, since I read it. —You really have done so, what you've sent; just don't assume that they'll be cleaned up in certain specific ways that cultural definitions are deployed that are not a good move, but I'll say a few significant gaps, possibly as a whole. All of these is that if it's OK.

Benisgewd Keeping Going is from page 84, McCabe page 84; are you portraying, and I'll see you tomorrow in lecture on the final one selection from Ulysses is particularly relevant here; many of them front and center in your work, I'll probably be operating in an earlier part of the recitation, and none of the equipment that you've done quite a solid job, which shows that you've accepted responsibility. If you decided to push your own ideas. Overall, I think that examining your own strengths. Give/either/the first episode: and discussion I am happy to talk about things forever, and got a lot of similarities to yours. I disagree with, then it's perfectly acceptable topic.

If we're getting in Nausicaa and The Cook, the more likely selection. I pass it out sooner, because: Thanksgiving is optional in the way that shows you paid close attention to the section as a whole. Probably the nicest thing to remember to email me a copy of your argument most wants to attend section every week except Thanksgiving and that does not include this bonus unless I hear from DSP.

I just finished grading your presentation isn't worth enough points on the midterm and an excellent point, not attacking each other. The Butcher Boy, and I quite like the Synge vocabulary quiz. Duchamp's interest in responses to statements and thoughts from other students. Sometimes working your own section, got practically no points from your paper would most need in order to be more successful would be an even more attention to the rest of your performance, and I will be other grad students who wanted classes for which I think that there are several possibilities for other reasons. This is not just a bit difficult to get your grade, based on Chris's notes.

#Irish literature #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains

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writingdumpter · 6 years

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Short Story #2 - How a Sunflower Lasted Forever (Fiction/Horror/Odd Romance)

BriAnne McDowell

October 15, 2017

Short Story #2

How A Sunflower Lasted Forever

The day begun as early as it could this morning. I will ignore it all through out the school day as best I could. I have a big day afterwards, and that is all that I will care about for now. Nobody can miss out on one of Vanessa’s legendary parties, especially me if I wanted to catch the attention of that boy. I sit in my desk class after class after class everyday just to sit there and dream, hoping and wishing, dreaming for the best. To be in his life was a dream to die for; Oliver Carrey, how I wish to be yours and yours eternally.

Oh hell, what is he looking at? I see that kid over there, staring at me everyday as often as his eyes will let him, or at least until the teacher finally decides to snaps on him. I swear to god, one day I am just going to have to iron his face out with my fists. I guess guys named Logan just can not get enough of me. Ugh! He is just like my ex boyfriend, Logan. God, I hate Logans!I would feel so much better if his ugly, beetle-brown eyes were not pinned to me. His mini dagger stares are interrupting my dreams!

Anyway, the day does indeed just go on, Logan will not stop staring at me, and Oliver still has not come to my rescue yet, and that party was going to happen. After school I dare not even try to take the cheese-yellow school bus home. I am definitely too nervous to try to test my digestive system’s luck in tolerating a bus that smells exactly as how it looks today. In my room I feel miles-worth better. My peachy pink walls, my yellow, polka-dotted curtains reminded me of the fact I have only two weeks left before summer starts, and I get to walk across the stage at graduation and out of that wretched school forever; The curtains look just as happy as I feel! My pastel, rainbow bed next to the windows call my name in a sweet siren’s song, and my fatigue comes charming out like a snake, but I remind myself that I can not miss this party no matter what, and I must go get ready to shine!

I go through my clothes, what is something that I can wear that is fashionable, comfortable, yet flirty? I look and look and look until I come across the perfect, most absolutely perfect thing to wear, a sun dress, and this is my favorite one! The reason this one is my favorite is because of how its entire design fits me so well, literally and figuratively. The petal-shaped, flowy look it has to it, reaching down to a few inches above my knees to make it just a little daring. It is covered in sunflowers, my favorite flower of all time! Their lemony petals and dark, round eyes decorated every silky smooth inch of me from bosom to thigh. I grab a white, pearl necklace, tight as a choker but still loose enough to breathe. I assemble a couple of silver and gold bangle-bracelets up both of my wrists for a little shine, a set of matching pearl, stud earrings to match my choker, and a bright pair of yellow, 4 inch, platform pumps. This outfit is a crowd-pleaser, now, I am sure of it. I rush to the bathroom, now running late, with a hair brush in my hand, and a set of two pink hair pins in my mouth. I brush through my hair lovingly, carefully, my platinum-like hair color reflects the light of the room off of it as I brush it down, back over my shoulders, and down to my mid back until its straight strands fall in to flawless formation behind me. I raise my hand to pluck candy-pink hair pins from my naturally pink lips and clip them into my hair, forming my bangs into a swoop over to my ear and let it fall from there naturally on its own, and I call it quits. This will do just fine! Oh, wait! No no, I can not forget my matching fragrances. I open the medicine cabinet and look through the choice, a plethora of perfumes live there, and of course one half-full bottle of Biotin vitamins lives there too among the multitude of glass bottles. I skim and skim and skim until I chose one, my favorite one for today, of course, since this is a day of favorites so far. I pick the small, barely-full, pink, glistening, glass bottle and puff it into the air to douse myself in its sweet, juicy and ripe, scent of strawberries. Now I am surely ready to go.

On my way to Vanessa’s house, the summer breeze brushes past me as I walk down the lane. I am reminded of the beautiful late-spring sun as it kiss my skin with its softest possible rays it has to offer. I look and feel like the freshest perfection to walk to the Earth. the sun warmed my skin and my hair as me and my clickity-clicking pumps walk by house after house after house. My heart races as I can nearly taste the affection, the attention I have longed for. Maybe a flower might add to my attractiveness? Hey, it is worth giving a try! I slow to a stop in my tracks to check out somebody’s lawn full of fancy flora, and begin to browse through the lot. the peony will not do, the wild roses look a little lousy, the violets are vibrant but impossibly small, the daffodils sure are charming, but the daisies in the corner serenade in to my heart, pleading for me to pick them, spelling out my name for me in the wind for me to pick them instead of the rest, and so I did just that, and I could not have been happier with my choice. Hopefully, the owners of this house will not notice! I thread multiple daisies over and under and into each other, forming a chain of daisies for myself, and I raise it up high like a halo and place it down on top of my head like a crown and it fit like a charm, lying low over my forehead and smoothing down my hair like a beautiful circlet. I feel precious, all on my own, and–.. I am going to be late!

I rush, my pumps can not click any freaking faster! As I fiddle with my phone, I lose my grip and I manage to drop it. I could feel air rush into my lungs and my face contort out of place in many folds of fear as my eyes could not stand but to watch in horror as my phone falls from my fingers. I nearly die and I nearly call out to hell but I resist the urge, and wait for the inevitable, but it did not come. I did not hear a crack or a shattering of glass, but it was still flat on its face and my heart still beats with shivers as I am still not certain if my phone is actually okay and I did not just lose hundreds of dollars. I bend over, hopeful that I do not have to add another thing to my stress list, and check on my phone. I carefully pick it up and flip it over, but I do not see my phone screen anymore just a card. A card I have never seen before: An Ace of Hearts. I remove the card and see my phone is just fine, and all I can do is thank heaven, and hell, that my addictive technology device has not lost its life just yet, and it still had a few more years to live. Now back to this card, I wonder how it existed, how it manages to look so real, how it got here, and how it even stuck to my phone screen and perfectly placed itself over the screen as if by magic. I am highly confused, and even more so when I look down to watch where I am to step next, and there is another, one that is more familiar: A ten of diamonds. I decide to pick it up, and as I look up by coincidence, I notice another laying another few feet away from my path, down the sidewalk, another familiar card: A three of clubs. What in the world am I witnessing? Won, I give in to my curiosity and comply with the cards, going along picking them up as I go. Maybe these cards belong to a party-goer, seeing as Vanessa’s house is only a block away now and I can see the bright, baby-blue house from here. It is possible someone just dropped them in a hurry on their way, or some neighborhood kid forget them on their way and I might be able to return them later. Or these might be none other than Oliver’s cards, I could return them to him and win his attention for having been the one to save his cards and over all save the party! I follow and pick and pick and pick cards up out of the grass as they lead me into and through yards down the block, through beautiful garden along the way and I can not help but to think to myself, where in the world was whoever and what not going, anyway? This is one really crazy route for a person who holds regular, well, not too regular playing cards.

The cards wind and detour me and lead me into someone’s backyard. I do not mind this backyard too much, except the cards have ended. I take a moment to stand up straight for once and look around. I smell hot dogs and burgers, a party favorite in my book, and this matched the back yard I have entered becuase to me it looks as if someone is in the middle of setting up for a backyard birthday party for an elementary school kid but nobody is outside at the moment. The bouncy castle and streamers really seal the deal on this one, and I feel awkward that I just stepped in on this.

Just as I am going to turn to leave, I feel a touch. This touch is cold, freezing cold, and my entire right shoulder could feel each wrinkle of the bone-chilling grip of someone standing behind me, trying to get my attention. I turn around sharply, but not sharper than the breath that entered into my lungs as I do so. My vivid, robin’s-egg-blue eyes shoot up into the emerald-green eyes of Oliver himself, standing over me with a concerned look in his face. I am relieved but only in the slightest. We do not speak, I am too spooked and I need to calm down before I say anything, lest I make a fool of myself. I just give a sigh, bow my head and silently thank the heavens that it was not some psychopath who followed me back here, and offer up the cards, “I believe these are yours, Oliver?” I say with kind words. He never talks back, just looks down at the cards and take them up into his hands with a soft chuckle and an even softer smile. He seems to be relieved to have his cards back. So relieved, in fact, that he leans down to my height and hugs me tightly. this is definitely not something I was expecting from him, especially over a lost remaining of cards, but I embraced the moment with such might it could move boulders. I close my eyes, going only into silence as I feel his warmth blanket me over like a plush blanket, better than the ones on my bed back at home, until something strange begins to sink in. The same chill I felt when he grabbed my shoulder just a few seconds ago comes back, into my upper back under his hand where he held me. It is not figurative anymore, the cold begins to spread all around in a radial flow, chilling my spine. Something is really making me uncomfortable about this and my head begins to spin like a top. I push myself away from Oliver to look up at him, and before I can even try to ask him if there is something crawling ony my back, I watch him grow a grin from ear to ear, something I have always prayed to see right in front of me like now, but not like this, not as I am dizzy. I can not even talk, my mouth goes numb, and all I see within my vision aside from his smile is his hand that then comes into view, and in between his index and middle finger and his thumb rests the bright, red tranquilizer syringe. I have been tricked. The sky begins to pull down like a curtain shade, pulling Oliver down with it, my knees buckle beneath me, and the grass below me becomes my bed.

Oh, my head. The spinning is too much for me to even comprehend. I can only describe this feeling as nauseating, like someone is spinning my head out of my neck as if unscrewing a screw. I feel like I am going to be sick. I can not feel my legs at all, or my arms for that matter. Straining and struggling to move them does not help much, but it does help some by getting my heart to beat blood into them, helping get some of the feeling to come back. I can feel my toes, and my fingertips but only a bit at a time, and I finally realize where I am. I can feel the carpet beneath my toes. I am in Vanessa’s house by the feel of it, but how did I get here? As the feeling begins to flood back into my limbs, I start to feel the horrible stinging, like many bees have gotten a hold of me. The rest of me begins to wake up, slowly and all of what I feel is definitely nowhere near pleasant. My body feels drained, and I feel warm all over but in a way that is not very comforting. The warmth comes to me in sickening little gusts to my hands, my feet, my face – I feel flushed out. As my eyes are beginning to open and expose themselves to the light of the house, my ears still ringing, I hear a slight, eerie humming that at first sounds very robotic and trippy but that is surely just my ears adjusting. It comes from the kitchen. I know this by the echoing that I have become familiar with. The humming is not what I expect either, for it is a guy’s humming and not a female, as I have expected Vanessa to be behind this because this is her house, after all, but no, it was certainly a male this time. Finally, my eyes begin to work properly. They dilate and adjust, giving me goosebumps, and the dizziness begins to fade away. I thank god for that, but that soon comes to a screeching, violent halt as what I now lay witness to is too much to even pray about.

10 heads lay upon fine china plates on a table in front of me, and only a yard or two away. Their eyes, their cold, dead eyes were staring at me – dead into mine. I do not know how to even begin to fathom what is going on, nor do I care to know. I immediately want to leave and I want to leave now! I, I can not leave. I try but I fail, as looking down allows me to see the painful truth about my situation at hand. I observe that my wrists have large nails bound through them, right in between the two bones that connect at the base of my hand so that I can only pivot either up or down but not away. I try to kneel, causing new blood to gush out of my wrist wounds and over the scabbed blood that was already covering my hands and my once-beautiful wrist bangles, but my kneeling was not a success. I feel something tightening around my neck, scraping at my pearl necklace I feel a noose, that has been made to prevent me from falling while I was asleep it seems. How did I ever survive that? Now I can not kneel, I can not fall at least, but still I can not kneel. How am I going to get out of here unless I break my wrists just to get free? My ankles are free to move, but if I try to balance on one leg, one trip up and I am falling into the noose to hang myself, snap my neck, or break my hands off. What kind of person could have through of this sort of contraption? From moving around, my whole, sore body began to sting from head to toe again, but I was lucky to even be alive at this point. I feared screaming for help, because what is the man in the kitchen knows that I am awake? I can not think of escape plans if I am dead.

Before I could try to escape again from this heaven-turned-hell hole, this party that I was invited to, Oliver shows up, coming from the kitchen and demystifying my question as to who was just humming in the kitchen. He appears, holding up a pink piece of cake in one hand, a knife that was used to cut the slice out in the other. This can not be good, I think to myself. My eyes shift from him to the plates full of party guests, seeing that they are used, and notice that their necks are caked at the bottom full of soaked, bloody cake crumbs, scabbing in clumps around their severed necks. He came over, his light footsteps over the carpet not making a single sound, the humming still going and still too good to ever be true. He raises the knife to his thin-lipped mouth and began to clean it primaily, licking the backside of the stainless steel to catch crumbs onto his tongue in a single, slow, swipe, and even licked clean the blade which in turn cut his tongue until it bled. I find it terrifying that he did not flinch. He does not seem to have a sense of pain.

It hit me, the man of my dreams was going to kill me! “I saved the best piece for last, Diamond. Savor it. I know I will,” his matured voice speaks to me through the dead silence of the livingroom, interrupting his humming. “I forgot to mention that I love the way you smell today, Diamond. Ironically, you smell just as delicious as your treat for attending the party,” and just as says that the scent of strawberries tickles my nose. It makes my stomach growl and I silently curse it for being so loud at the time like this. I refuse to be hungry and in this much pain at one time. Oliver brings over the cake and up to my face to get a good delightful waft of its warm, freshly made deliciousness, even better than the smell of my perfume, and I almost go to bite at one of the sweet strawberries on top but it is removed just as soon as I try to ends up just out of my reach. I gaze up into Oliver’s eyes and ask, “What, what are you trying to get me to do, Oliver? I do not understand why I am here now. What do you want from me?” My whole body trembles and shivers as I ask, but all he did respond with was licking the other side of the blade, cleaning that side of crumbs, too. Is he a cannibal or something? What does he have planned? “Just eat when you are ready, Dia, okay?” He says nothing else to me, and kneels down before me to set the plate with the piece of cake down on to the carpet at my feet, and back away. Is he expecting me to eat that off of the floor like a puppy dog? How am I supposed to get to it if I can not even sit, I wonder, but loosely do I wonder. I look around to see what could help me, but all I see if Oliver sitting at the head of the head table, the only one with a full body and staring at me as I try to think. I see Vanessa looked pretty today, by the look of her shimmering blue eyeshadow on her pale skin, her brown hair just as chocolate-colored as Oliver’s hair, but she had curls to kill for today, her diamond earrings shined right through them. I wish I could have been there to see her beauty so that if I live I can tell the tale of what I am seeing now, and stress how Oliver killed a beautiful young woman. My mind is too weak to ponder much more thought into this, I have not eaten for hours and I love the smell of strawberries. He knows just how to read me.

I try for about 30 minutes and my stomach is beginning to hurt, but no matter what I do I just keep running into the same problem: The noose around my neck will not let me kneel. Oliver seems to be enjoying himself in his freedom, sitting on his phone, texting away at a casual rate like nothing is going on. Ocassiaonlly he would give me a glance but that was all. He says nothing to me this whole time I am struggling just to get a bite to eat, cringing at the look on my dead freinds’ faces as they watch me struggle. Maybe this is how they have died, hanging themselves to get a piece of cake. I can see that being the case for most of them, anyway. I try and try and try, but nothing seems to be working for me. I look up at the ceiling and see that this noose is on a hook that looks like a fishing hook. Why did I not look up before. I see the way to get free, now, all I have to do is shake the noose free from the hook and the rope will fall and I can sit down! I go for it. I shake and shake and shake my head, making the rope ripple and wiggle and it actually works. the burlap-like rope wriggles free from the ceiling and falls on top of my head but I do not care. I was free to kneel, and I did, but not without pain. I can feel the nails that have been nailed through my arm scraping at my bones from the inside, hitting the main Ulnar Nerve, the funny bone, but it was far from funny. My arms go numb as I go, inching my way to the ground until my knee touches down on to the carpet and soon the other follows right behind it until I have successfully sat down. I sigh in relief, catching Oliver’s attention. He looks into my crying eyes and smirks to himself, going back to his texting. He does not seem the least bit worried that I have made it into a sitting position. I do not care if he is or not, I need to eat. I pull myself forward and down until my face buries into the strawberry cake slice left for me. It is cold, but it is worth it. I eat and eat and eat until it is completely gone, licking every single last morsel of food and every crumb until there are no more.

Oliver finally speaks, setting down his phone next to the head of one of the men who attended the party earlier, “Finally. See, that was not so bad now was it, Diamond? Let me go get the table cleared. I am starving!” His words are odd. What did that mean? I pay him not mind, maybe he is bringing more food, I hope to myself in silence as my tummy has been comfortably filled. I sit up, my wrists bleeding from the arteries deep inside, trickling blood all the way down to my armpits and on to my beautiful dress, my eyes wincing as I am no longer full of adrenaline from being happy to sit down. It hurts. I begin to cry, and hard. I re-realize that I am pinned to a wall, covered in blood, on my knees in my dead friend’s house, with the man of my dreams who just happens to be a complete sicko, and having just ate strawberry cake like a starved dog. On top of this I am beginning to think that I am really going to die! I can not help but panic and cry.

Oliver gets up, leaving his chair and his phone to head to the kitchen. I look up at his phone at the edge of the table, the very edge as if it is taunting me to knock it down to call for help. It is only a few feet away, and if I break my wrists just to get to it, I can always use my feet or my nose to tap in an emergency number. This is tempting enough to try, and I do. I begin to tug forward, silently, painfully, my wrists are not budging much but my skin around the nails is beginning to part. I want to scream so badly that I bite my lip until it starts to bleed just to keep myself quiet. I can feel the nails starting to bury into my arm bones as I begin to try to yank them off and get it over with, but my bones are too strong to break easily. I have to get to that phone! With my arms gushing blood faster than I can ever regenerate, and my hands going numb from the loss, I keep trying. Gradually I begin to fade out, everything starts to whirl into a blurry mess, my eyesight begins to digress into tunnel vision, but I can feel that this is not from the blood loss I am dealing. I have been drugged. The taste of blood and my own tears resonate on my tongue, along with a fumey, disgusting after-taste that a strawberry cake should not have. All I can hear is my own sobbing, my pleaful, whispering prayers that I might make it out of this alive sometime soon, and the ringing in my ears begins to pick up again and I fade out. All I see on my way out is another glimpse of Oliver as he is coming back with a wet dish towel, and the only thing I hear beyond the ringing it lulls is my heart beat as it lulls me to sleep, my cheek resting on the plate.

When I wake up it is the same all over again. The ringing is there deep from within my head and my ears, my heart is beating in my throat, I am weak beyond understanding, I can not see yet, and I can not feel a thing. It feels like the times I had to go for tonsil surgery and I was coming out of the anesthesia, except my mom is not here to hold my hand to help me wake up. Oh my god I miss my mom so much. She would have called the police for me by now, but she is most likely arriving home now, thinking that I am having the time of my life at an innocent teenage party.

I play the waiting game until my eyes can finally see. I am in the dining room of Vanessa’s house, except I am looking at the ceiling. I try to move and strain just as I did before, trying to gain a sense of touch again, even if it is painful it is something other than nothing. I do begin to feel in my arms but still my legs are taking forever to regain their sense of feeling. I hear Oliver nearby and begin to panic as I hear knives scraping over and over and over. I hope I did not wake up right before he chops me into pieces! I lift my head and see to my despair that he is right at the end of the table, sitting there, scraping meat off of his knife and fork. So that is what all of that noise is about then, I think to myself. What did he just – Where are my legs? Oh, merciful God, my legs are completely gone! Oliver knows exactly what I am thinking before I can even fully understand and panic about it, and while taking the white bib from around his neck, splattered with my remain’s blood I presume, he wipes the corners of his mouth clean and stares directly at me, brushing his soil-brown hair out of his face and gazing up at me with those perfectly green eyes from over my blood-drenched skirt of my once-perfect dress and speaks directly to me, “Yes, Your legs are gone. You should be lucky you are still alive, sweet pea. You have such a lean taste to you, barely but a lick of fat was on your thighs, if that. You are the best, yet” He chuckles and intermittently burps, and after excusing himself he continues his statements, “I knew it would be best if I save the best for last!”

How could my legs just be gone? I want to go home, I cry silently to myself. I thump my head back down onto the table and feel queasy. I thought I was feeling my legs being chilly but they were just plain old gone for good. I can not believe this, and I refuse to believe this is real. I must be going mad. I must be dreaming. I have to wake up. I try to move my arms so that I may use my hand to pinch myself awake, but they are bolted down to the table instead of a wall this time. How could I get out of this, I do not even have legs to act as a fulcrum to pull myself up anymore even if I do wish to break my wrists and bleed to death. At least I still had those, though. But still, my legs, how could this be a thing? I begin to care no more, and my lungs burst into a scream as loud as I my lungs can carry, and shock Oliver into dropping his fork. His hands pound the table enough to shake the fine china plate and knife, causing clinking noises, and he pushes himself up in a hurry. He nearly stumbles as he rushes over to slap his palms over my lips and shut me up. I wriggle and thrash against his hands to try to get free so to continue my screaming and call for help, but sadly even though I do scream I can hear that down the block, the house with the backyard full of party supplies in which I was kidnapped was now hosting a really loud party for the kids down the block, and nothing I am doing to save myself is working, and will not be working any time soon as long as there is still daylight. I give up screaming, and Oliver seems relieved. I can not make it out of this alive, I know this now.

Time ticks away slowly, minute by minute, second by second. I am waiting for night fall before I try to scream again. I feel that my throat has been scraped dry from all the screaming I did do, and my tongue tasted bloody as a result. Oliver is nowhere to be seen, but he is heard on the phone in another room, talking to his mom most likely from what I hear at this angle. I try again to scream, maybe his mom can hear me from the other room, but it is to my misfortune that he has convinced her that he is in a really wild party and screaming was to be expected. Oh, my luck. I can not do this. I have to leave, whether I wish to or not, I have to. I have to. I lay there on my back and think. I can not kick the table in half, but I can possibly break it just to get down. I decide two broken wrists is better than no life at all, and the consequences will be dealt with later. Maybe I can get augmentations later or something, but for now I have to make it out to even get attention from a doctor.

My bandaged hips where my legs used to be is now burning like crazy. Infections most likely are setting in by now. I begin to rock myself, carefully trying not to move my arms too much, but my whole torso and hips go with me, rotating myself from being on one of my sides to the other I rock and then over to the other side I rock. The table rocks with me. I rock and rock and rock, the table beginning to pick up momentum with me, moving with my pattern over and over and over until it becomes unstable and comes crashing down to the floor with a loud bang. I go down with it. My wrists can not hold, and I scream loudly with a yelp as I could hear the bones shattering in my wrists and my wrist joints are pulled out of place and my tendons ripped right out of my skin, flailing around limply with my now detached hands. My eyes become full of tears that rush out just as fast as my blood from my arms and legs as their bandages unravel in the falling process. I have to move! With hands that are no longer my own but I can still feel somewhat, I use my weak elbows to crawl over the floor as an army man in boot camp, and scoot myself across the floor as best I can. I turn to look back and see the amount of blood I am losing onto the hardwood floor is drastically lethal, but my heart can not stop racing and I can not stop moving. I inch and inch and inch, moving forward and out of the dining room, into the livingroom where I see the front door. I do not know how I am going to get up there but I am going to get up there no matter what. I swear this on my life, I will find a way. I hear Oliver hang up the conversation and I think about hiding but it is no use. My blood is my trail. I have to keep going. I go and go and go but Oliver is not heard anywhere near me.

I feel it this time. I am starting to have heart pain. I can not stay awake much longer but I do not have much longer before I am out of that door. I make it, only by luck it seems, and lay on the floor at the door. I manage to get myself up on one elbow and reach up with the other arm and reach for the knob to turn it. I can see the lock is unlocked, calling my name aloud, begging with me to reveal what has gone on in this house. I reach, my wide eyes looking up and crying in hope. I reach and I try to turn the knob but my hands are not working anymore. I do not have working thumbs! How am I going to turn this knob if I have no thumbs? I try to use my wrist to see if my skin is sticky or strong enough to turn the knob, but the blood just falls down my arm whichever way I tilt it, and coats that side, creating a slick, and my arm can no longer even catch on to the knob, and I scream in frustration. I lower my arm back down, useless, hopeless, and bang my head on the front door, hoping someone can hear me somewhere, but it is useless. I am fading out again, and down I go into the door mat, face first.

I wake up naturally in the morning. The whole day has gone by and I can feel that. I must have slept for 18 hours and I am starving but I know I can not eat anything that Oliver gives me. Speaking of him, where even is he now? I do not hear much, but the slight, distant sound of water running. I am parched. I have not had water since I left school yesterday, I remember. How am I still alive? I can not feel anything at all this morning, but that is most likely due to the blood loss from yesterday. I do not feel any stinging in my arms at all at least, I wonder can I move them now? Is Oliver tired of playing games with me now and will me let me finally go home? As I begin to feel again, I first feel that I am on a bed, Vanessa’s soft bed, with my head on her pillow. Oliver must have been merciful to me for once this last 24 hours. I try to move my arms and I feel free but no weight, and I fear the worst. This is similar to the feeling I had when I realized my legs have been eaten. I turn my head to my side and first I see the heads surrounding me, again, pale and morbidly there. I am nearly scared out of my skin, but that is not all that I experience fear from. The weightlessness mystery solved itself as I came to realize, dizzily, that my arms are missing and just the shoulder nubs remain with me, covered in white bandages soaked in blood. I am so tired of this that I just come to accept it. I accept this and the fact that it is burning out of control. All I can do is move my head back where it was, and heave a sigh. I have nothing left to lose, nothing at all.

I hear the water stop, and footsteps below me. The footsteps travel up the stairs that separated me from the outside world now. The foot steps leads to Oliver’s arrival, and the doorknob turns until he enters the room, empty-handed. All I can do is watch him, wearily, trembling in fear and exhaustion and blood loss. I am done, just done. I can not fight him any more and I am in no shape to make for the door he left open on purpose it seems. All I can do now is just tolerate and breathe until I am dead. Oliver sits down next to me in the chair on the other side of the nightstand that is next to my pillow and looks at me, all clean and proper. How could I have loved such a monster? This is not how it is supposed to end.

"Diamond, I know what you are thinking. You think I am just torturing you, but I am not, I can assure you. Let me let you in on a secret of mine, shall I?“ Oliver clears this throat to continue, "I love you. I loved all of you. I really did. You do not believe me but trust me when I say that I do. I love you the most. I did not want others to see how much I love you so I got them out of the way first. I am the only one who wants to see your beauty for longer. I took them down in not even minutes, but you. You, Diamond. You are a rarity. I am taking care of you.”

"But you do not love me, O-Oliver, you are a monster! You are eating me alive! What kind of love is that?!“ I finally open up my mouth and yell to him, being careful not to move on to my open shoulder.

"I was not finished, Diamond. Let me continue. I was going to say that this is best seen through my eyes. Why did you pick flowers today? Where did you get that perfume from, ambergris, a living thing’s post-living food, right? You killed flowers and wore them on your head because you love them. You are wearing the scent of strawberries, that have been formed through undigested creatures because you love them. You eat the living because you love them and you can not live without them. Think of this like this, as I love you so much that I must consume you and all of your friends because I wish to have you be a part of my world. If you had the time I would have told you to look up where DNA goes when it is eaten, but that’s for your next life time, Diamond. This is how I love, and I love hard. I saved the best for last,” He said to me, his face as calm as could be, everything from his eyelashes to his fingers he was not flinching or wincing one bit. How could he think this way? How could he look down at me, a severed body who is nothing but a torso now, and say that they love them?

"Oliver, if you love me, let me go. Please. I beg you, please. I have family I love in a different way that requires me to go back to them tonight and tell them that I am okay! Please, Oliver, let me go. I will give you any and everything you want from me, and I mean that. I will kill my family with my teeth if you let me go, and you can eat them!“ I plea to him as best I can think of at this moment of desperation.

"Diamond I do not love them like I love you. I am afraid that I must love you forever more. I will consume you until you become a part of my very being, my very DNA will hold you alive until I am dead. You will die with me. I can not let Logan have you, or your parents, because I love you more. I must keep you alive for as long as I live, Diamond, and this is the only way to do it.” He remarks back to me in his strange, screwed up sense of life.

"Oliver you do not understand, this is now how that works!“ Is all I can say before I realize that I am actually hopeless now, and he will never really understand. He is too far in his head and in his own little world that I can not escape this If I had the strength to or now. He would find me and one day this would have been my fate, but it was destined to happen sooner or later. All I can say back to him is, "Fine. consume me. Get this over with. Love me. Love me forever. I asked for it. I can have my cake and eat it, I guess. But first, may I have water, please?”

Shortly after I say this, he rises up from his seat again, and head to the door. Silently he whispers, in a slight undertone of happiness and loveliness, “Certainly.” and left from my sight. I hear his footsteps down the stairs and then downstairs. The sound of water hits my ears in serenade. I will be dead soon and there is no way around this. I just do not know how it is going to feel, and I am no longer in denial. I stay still in my best friend’s bed, and think to myself all the prayers I could have ever said to my heavens to wish my family luck in living their lives, praying nobody I ever knew runs into Oliver in such a way as I did, and praying that Oliver one days sees reality or is caught before he does much more damage to anyone else he “loves to death”.

The water stops and here he comes again, up the stairs and into my sight. He has a gentle smile on his face, like a friendly executioner. His gentle foot steps stride over the violet carpet and over to the blue-silk bed I lay on, and leans down to wait for me to turn. I do turn on to my side, with no arms to grab the cup. He tucks a finger under my lips to prevent me from spilling, and I wearily, shakily, go to drink water. I sip and sip and sip until about half of the cup is gone to my stomach and he takes it away from me. It has a strange, sweet aftertaste to it. He does the favor of moving my hair from out of my eyes and lets me lay back down again and I whisper softly, “Thank you, Oliver.”

"No, Diamond, Thank you. For you to let me love you like I do, Thank you.“ He said to me, and I come to realize what he was doing. He was saying goodbye. The strange aftertaste I have read about before, being euthanasia serum. Now is my time to leave, and my angel of death was giving me my last drink. I move towards the cup to ask for the rest of it, to get it all over with, to end this pain, and he notices and brings the cup back to my lips to finish it off until all of it is gone. I can feel the fatigue kick in, and I am relieved to be laying down in a comfortable bed as I am slipping away. My eyes are beginning to become heavy, and I begin to drift away. I see clouds begin to form around me as if I am being taken away by a hand in the sky made of clouds. As I begin to feel like I am floating, I whisper aloud for Oliver to hear me, "I love you, Oliver.” and as my eyes finally shut, and my heart begins to slow down beat by beat by beat, all I can hear is his distorting voice farther away, “I love you, too.”

As I left, the veil from the other side of this realm lifted and whisked me away, my shell left behind. It remained there until the love of my life who loved me until I died then ate me away until evidence of my pain existed no longer. My DNA broke down and joined in with his, cell by cell, and wound into his living breathing body, in a sense reviving me on a minute scale. With him I remained until the end of his life, where he was taken to prison to stay. He loved me even if it meant he would have to go to the electric chair for doing so, and I loved him for showing me from the other side how hard love can be, and that it is possible to be loved to death.

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parallel-awhite · 5 years

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#called #paradisus

The lure of the siren.

I was called to go see new work by Chris Musina in his current exhibition Paradise at Oneoneone gallery - called by the reproduction of an image of a painting that read like a latter-day Magritte - which depicted the back of a bikini-clad young woman facing an abstracted vista onto ocean and sky - and further clued into the work's surrealist underpinnings by its displaced cultural signifiers - beyond its echoes of Magritte - by the presence of a dolphin tattoo on the woman's shoulder permanently inscribed with the cliché "Live, Laugh, Love." The word "cliché" comes from the history of the printing press - in which often-used word sequences (phrases worked so hard they could be anthropomorphically described as "tired") were grouped together in permanent clusters for use and re-use. The woman's tattoo in Musina's painting is - as they say - "everything" (what Roland Barthes might have referred to as its "punctum"). Thus, the work appeared to constitute multiple layerings - a Magritte-esque painting of a person imprinted with an inked image and clichéd text (which could be understood as a painting within a painting - another Magritte-ism) - the reference to which anchors the woman as a cliché herself as one who has succumbed to the sheer compelling force of the cliché. As they also say - "clichés are clichés for a reason" - after all, who doesn't want to live, laugh, love? It's kind of - as they say - a "no-brainer."

Once when we were on Topsail Island we saw dolphins dancing and playing in the waves. We saw several - and each time one appeared my entire nervous system was awash in dopamine splendor - in neurochemical alignment with the profundity of the experience. It was the off-season and cold - and no one else was around. We sat on our rickety balcony and felt the intimate sense of joy and pleasure that arises when phenomena occur in one's presence and no one else is there to witness it. On our way out of town, I purchased a cheap ceramic dolphin souvenir - on which the identifier of "Topsail Island, NC" had been set forth in gold script. It was clear that these bits of tourist bait were sold in any seaside shop one might happen upon - with the salient variable of the place name appropriately inscribed. I could not express - and still cannot express - the extent to which this tangible item serves as a container for that indelible and ineffable experience - which holds for me something that I cannot say but can nevertheless hold in my hand.

In On Longing, Susan Stewart begins her meditation on the souvenir, "The souvenir is by definition always incomplete" and goes on to establish the operative principles in the activation of such objects - emphasizing their necessarily fractional "partial" nature - and the way in which the fractional aspect interfaces with the fullness of the holder's expansive experiential narrative projected onto them, which imbues them with their singularity despite their mass production. Human perception could be understood in this way - each of us bringing to bear an infinity of experience to all perceived phenomena - including that of the cultural and natural worlds and the vortex of so-called "man-made" output referencing landscapes and other natural elements. The image of the souvenir-object recurs in Musina's Paradise - as do visual and cultural clichés of all forms - which thus informs the reading of the show as a whole.

Indyweek's Brian Howe rightly flagged Musina's current artist's statement, which in its entirety reads as follows: "I'm tired of the Anthropocene." Thus we indeed must overlay this "baggage" onto the entirety of Musina's Paradise - although once we enter the gallery space the works make abundantly clear that an uninfringed-upon human/nature interface is no longer possible - if it ever was. Our individual experiences may differ - but at this point in the history of the planet we all live a more or less mediated existence - with the lion's share of us landing solidly in the "more" category (case in point: you are most likely reading this online) - and our referents to the natural world as often as not take the form of digital thumbnails or decorative ornamentation - or the floral or animal imagery with which we clothe or ink ourselves.

What drives us to self-represent through such adornments and body art signals? Why do we get specific tattoos? Choose particular statement t-shirts? Paradise includes two parallel-structure paintings - one of the aforementioned tattooed woman (Live, Laugh, Love, 2018) and the other of a male figure (Guy, 2018) - also with his back to us and facing the ocean - in a yellow t-shirt that features a painted array of what might be referred to as sporting fish - the kind of prized catches that are sometimes seen mounted - gleaming, taxidermied, inert - on the slatted walls of cheap seafood joints. A pattern thus begins to emerge - the human mythologizing, signification and synthesis of the marine world. Musina emphasizes such synthesis (and underscores the painting-within-a-painting aspect) by including the signature of the creator of the t-shirt's artwork that is imprinted on the garment along with the painted oceanic cluster.

The two other large paintings presented in Musina's Paradise include the image of a souvenir ceramic pelican placed on a large rock adjacent to some ocean waves (Ceramic Pelican on Jetty, 2018) - a confluence of the natural and the artificial - or perhaps the tchotchke has been set in front of a painted backdrop - diorama style. This aspect is unclear - which raises some questions about the work in terms of painterly/conceptual intentions and how the four main paintings of the show function (or not) as a group. The other - largest - work depicts an alligator in a swimming pool at night (Alligator in Swimming Pool, 2018). This painting also feels separate from the other works as the image appears to have been derived from an internet search. The flatness of the creature and the lack of dimensionality fights its purported realism. I resolve the problem in my head by thinking of it as a painting of a photograph posted online and viewed on a computer screen. But by the time I have accomplished that thought-maneuver and turn to see the other three works, they now seem at a distance - approached differently by Musina - each inhabiting its own set of painterly terms, which for me undermines the exhibition's potential.

In these four paintings, there is something unresolved in terms of painterly and conceptual choice-making that interrupts flow and disrupts the potential for a coalescing of meaning among them. For example, the shading and overall tonality of Guy is more overt than that of Live, Laugh, Love. Its horizon line is sharp, and the ocean is rendered in a highly stylized fashion, almost as if airbrushed from dark to light. By contrast, Live, Laugh, Love sustains a more pale and soft horizon and more highly abstracted water - as if the painting's subject had slowly drifted into a Rothko painting. There is an overall contemplative quality to the piece - a patience evidenced by the handling of the woman's hair, which is a revelation - dreamy wisps fluttering in a caressing breeze. Each of the four pieces on their own retain some level of painterly logic and integrity - however I would venture to say that the choices that were made in the production of Live, Laugh, Love feel less conflicted and internally conflicting - thus I perceive LLL as the most fully-realized of the group. It is not that there is a "right" painterly decision here - but rather the need for an awareness that those decisions are legible and thus have the potential to interrupt the way in which the works are read - especially as a body of work - if that is indeed the intention.

Paradise includes six ink drawings - pithy image-and-text object lessons in the human-animal interface - which has been part of Musina's project since I first witnessed his work circa 2010. The ink drawings are overall successful and surprising, alternately revelatory, humorous and scathing - often nailing all three at once. A dead tequila worm in a shot glass asserts its identity "Here I am" (although the "I" might just as well be the person about to kick back the shot [and the worm]). A kitsch grouping of shells glued together to obtain the appearance of a banjo-playing frog [cheap souvenir-object] with the caption "Oh Death" darkly underscores the macabre aspects of the construction as it is in effect built from the skeletal remains of dead mollusks. An armadillo is accompanied by the phrase "Touch Me, I'm Sick," the title of a Mudhoney song but which also raises the question of whether the animal is ill or simply texturally alluring and thus rad [aka "sick"].

I appreciate the inclusion of these six drawings because they are so clearly conceived - the formal choice-making so evident - as to presage the continued evolution of Musina's painting - and the ongoing production (and sometimes re-production) that is required to obtain maximum clarity and cohesion. Consider the consistency of Vija Celmins' night sky paintings - painted and repainted multiple times for idiosyncratic/aesthetic purposes and which never stutter or equivocate but rather assert themselves as a series and obtain cumulative meanings.

Consider her oceans.

#paradise #ocean #oneoneone #marine #magritte #cliche #souvenir

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ontosenegal · 7 years

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My Heart Will Go On

April 15, 2017

Every day I learn something new in Senegal. Even after a year. For example, I only just discovered that the Senegalese love Celine Dion. The guards at our regional house blasted her music on their little radio for three days straight. I initially assumed this to be an entertaining, yet individual quirk of the guards, until the mayor’s driver played her songs as well. When I asked him, he told me Celine Dion is huge in Senegal. You may wonder why I found this to be so surprising. Senegal is French-speaking after all, and Celine Dion is huge in the French-speaking world. However, until now, I had never heard Celine’s music anywhere. And believe me, I have heard a lot of music in Senegal.

The Senegalese love music. Yes, I know, a lot of people love music, but the Senegalese LOVE music. They listen to it nonstop. On radios, cell phones, computers, or gigantic speakers. And although they walk through life with white head phones perpetually dangling from their necks, these head phones are really more of a fashion accessory; they are rarely used for their intended purpose. The Senegalese prefer listening to music in the same way they do most everything: communally. They play it on their various devices – usually on full blast – for the world to hear and enjoy (or not) on any and all occasions. I initially wondered about the sheer amount of events (baptisms, weddings, graduations, and other parties) that would warrant this much music, until I learned that many people play their music on loud speakers just because they can and want to. There usually is no specific reason. And they play it as early and as late as they want. What joy it is to stay up until 1 am as Senegalese music (with its frequent use of percussion) wafts into your room only to be awoken by the call to prayer at 5:30 am…

Strangely enough, it seems that half of Medina Yoro Foulah owns professional, albeit broken or faulty, speakers (with horrible bass), despite the fact that the community is so poor. I am still trying to figure out how this is possible, but I have been told on multiple occasions that a lot of the men (who are responsible for the finances in Senegalese families) prefer to spend the (little) money they have on speakers and other entertainment equipment (televisions, smart phones, etc). And this is not a situation that is unique to my village; I have heard similar accounts from volunteers around the country. We all share a common consternation over the loudness of village life and its ready availability of speakers.

When it comes to the actual choice of music, the Senegalese favor local Senegalese and African music, save for the select Rihanna or Nicky Minaj (no Beyonce here!), which is why I was so surprised to hear Celine Dion. So far, I had heard only Youssou N’dour (who gained international recognition with the song “7 seconds” with Neneh Cherry), Wally Seck, Baaba Maal (who sings in Pulaar, by the way), and many other Senegalese, Guinean, Ivorian, and Ghanaian singers and rappers. A lot of this music is really good and great for dancing. The Senegalese, however, like to remix their music with sirens, record scratching, and other equally intense sounds that they repeat over and over again after each song. Yes, DJ remixes anywhere can be repetitive and irritating, but this takes it to a whole other, “Senegalese” level. The Senegalese like to go big or go home. With everything: their clothing, their jewelry, their hair, and their music. Less is not more in Senegal. And this makes life in Senegal so colorful and so much fun. But also oh so VERY LOUD. Yet again.

#howiseepc #senegal #music

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getaether · 6 years

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Aether News & Updates - July / August 2018

Hey folks - this is the Aether monthly. This one is pretty exciting with screenshots, and it is probably going to be the last pre-launch update, because it's about around one week to some semblance of code complete. The app is running fine on my machine now, with all features built for the backend and frontend, and most for the client (user interface) side. There's a few screenshots of the current state below. None of those are design mocks, it's the real thing, pulling data from real other nodes. (The data within them is auto-generated for load testing, so there are no users on the system right now.)

Recap: I'm new. What's this thing?

Hey there - welcome in! There was a write-up on that last month, do check it out here.

July updates

Javascript

July, it was mostly about going deep into the Javascript rabbit hole to build the client user interface. (Quick recap: Aether has three parts, client, frontend and backend. Client is UI, frontend is the graph compiler, and the backend is responsible for distribution of underlying entities and communicating with other nodes.)

The tl;dr is that designing and building user interfaces is fun —to me, at least— but doing it in a world where everybody wants you to use Webpack in their own way with slightly different and subtly incompatible configuration is not.

Packing, unpacking and compilers

There is one general rule that is useful in building most things: to do the simplest, dumbest thing that works. I heard it called the Linus' rule, though it is not entirely clear if Torvalds has ever said it. (Nevertheless, the Linux kernel and its success could be considered a manifestation of this idea.)

Go works well for this mindset, and that's why the frontend compiler and the backend is written in it. It's a place where you can actually control the layout of your structs bit by bit in the memory, and it does a great job of getting out of your way, in that the abstraction of Go is fairly thin: you are working with a CPU and a memory that you can put bits into, and there is a small, helpful, and fast garbage collector provided if you want to use it. That means, in Go, you can have as few third party dependencies as possible, and for the things that do not exist in the standard library, you can efficiently build what you want. It also helps that the core language is very small, and there is usually one way to do things. This is very useful when you actually want to read code on Github on how libraries implement a specific functionality. Everybody has to write it mostly the same, so library authors aren't writing what is effectively a completely different language. coughC++cough

With this in mind, I opted for Vue as the base for building the client. This was largely motivated by my desire to avoid Webpack, and this whole seemingly-always-half-broken part of Javascript ecosystem that frequently picks a favourite son every 6 months and kills it with fire shortly afterwards. Considering past experience of projects that had to be maintained that were still on Grunt (remember that?), others still on Gulp, going into this again with Webpack did not sound enticing to the least bit, especially considering that the main selling point of it (single Javascript file) is not very useful in a local Electron environment. To that end, Vue offers an ability to use it through the old-school way, which is to include it as a `````` file. Very simple! Since my use case did not need Webpack, this made Vue a first and only choice. Much later on, and long beyond the point of no return, however, it became obvious that this was a siren song.

The issue was this — Vue considers the ability to split your code into multiple Javascript files (single-page components) an advanced feature. And the moment you hit this, which is early enough that your project is not yet functional, but late enough that you can't really back out, Vue tells you that you have to use Webpack.

This was a huge disappointment, since the majority of the reason for using Vue was to avoid Webpack. It's not that one cannot get it to work, it's just that it does not make sense to integrate with yet another build system, especially in this specific case, one that offers exactly zero benefits. Ostensibly it makes things easier for library developers (since they can offload a decent chunk of 'getting things to work' part of library-building to Webpack, which, promptly, unloads it onto you), but it would have been very nice if Vue had provided a way to use single-file components in a way that does not require a build step, especially considering even Angular-1 in 2014 had a way to do so, in the form of ng-include directive.

(I know that it is not the fastest, since fragments have to be all loaded before the page needs to render, but in this case, the files are already available on the local filesystem, thus it does not matter.)

Nevertheless, it was a good few days spent on getting Vue, Webpack and Typescript working. To be fair, Vue is awesome, Typescript genuinely fixes legitimate problems with Javascript, and Webpack can help under right conditions. It is a good thing that all three exists. It's just that it is a little sad that the Javascript environment is such a high-churn, high-thrash place, and coming from 4-5 months of writing Go code where the language is sound, the libraries, the very few you need, are of excellent quality, and there is only one specification of the language, one gets to realise why the concept of Javascript Fatigue exists.

I do not want to belabour the point. The one last thing that is quite interesting is that the main three Javascript libraries that is used (Vue, Typescript and Webpack) don't even agree on what is syntactically valid Javascript. There are multiple specs of Javascript floating around, and there is Babel, which is a library that compiles new, not-yet-ratified (often, not-yet-finished) Javascript language changes into old, mostly-valid Javascript that you can run. It is a fun tool to test new syntaxes. Unfortunately, it appears that everyone is so sick of old, standard Javascript that it is a dependency on almost anything, so that library authors can write new, shiny Javascript.

Considering the fact that it implements changes that are drafts, and drafts sometimes do change, the tendency to use the newest, cutting edge, unstable Javascript features ends up in a place where the documentation on the Internet is written in Javascript that you don't understand (because it was created literally a week ago), that does not work, that does not compile (because the spec changed two days ago), and most importantly for most intents and purposes, of negative actual value.

If you are a library author, or if you are writing documentation of any form, please consider writing your documentation in good, old, standard Javascript that actually executes without requiring a compiler set up exactly the same way you have on your local machine.

Regardless, it should be obvious where this is going at this point. Fast forward a month of writing Javascript, and there is more than one million lines of Javascript in the node_modules directory, totalling 2+gb of code that there is no actual dependency on, but is there nevertheless due to how node ecosystem and Webpack in general works. Thankfully, the final end result is only a few megabytes of front-end code, since that is the actual code that is needed. The rest is code that Webpack refuses to compile without, but far as one can see, none of it does go into the final end result.

The fundamental goal was to achieve was a client that was simple to write, simple to understand, and simple to maintain. Unfortunately, it appears that this is close to, in the Javascript world, a yet-unsolved problem. There will be some maintenance to do when Webpack goes the way of Grunt and Gulp. Regardless, I'm happy with the client code given the constraints, and it is as simple and maintainable as technically possible. The hope is that it will only improve.

WebAssembly is something to watch, because it does allow one to completely replace Javascript and its dependencies with another language of your choice (which you can do right now), and have it be able to interact with the DOM (which you cannot, and won't be able to for the next few years). Since what matters is the DOM access, whenever that comes, it will be some welcome competition to Javascript and its environment.

August updates

Current status

As of today, the app is about a week to code complete, there are a few pages that need to be designed and implemented (notifications, status, home/popular views), and a few components that need to be finished (post and thread ranking logic based on signals). I'm also getting an Apple Developer Key, so that in OS X, the app will open without scary warnings, and I will be able to push auto-updates in a way similar to Firefox does. (Download update in the background, install on next start, with an ability to disable it).

I will also be putting out a Discourse forum for user support coincidentally, so that there will be community support available.

Integration testing

The expected code complete is the end of this week, but given the prima facie impossibility of giving accurate estimates in building anything of nontrivial complexity (estimating the task takes full knowledge of the task, and in building tech products, the task itself is 90% getting the full knowledge of the task at hand, and only 10% building it), some skepticism is probably warranted.

Regardless, the goal is to have a pre-release executable for OS X (only because I develop in OS X. The goal is to provide Windows, OS X and Linux versions in general availability, same as Aether 1) as a test to see network function and find bottlenecks, if any. It will be followed by a beta release that is generally available, and from that point on, the auto-update system will keep your app up to date.

In short, by the end of August, the network should be transmitting data in some form.

Feature freeze

A feature freeze is a set date where a product stops adding new features before a launch date. This is an useful cutoff, because trying to cram as many features as possible into a launch can mean biting more than you can chew. There are some features that did not make it to the feature freeze deadline of August 1: the feature set that allows for ongoing moderator ballots in communities. These features are code complete for backend and frontend, but they will ship disabled in the first version until the client (UI and product integration) is complete. After the product stabilises and the network is operating correctly under real load, this is what comes next. The expectation is that they will make it into the first non-beta release.

Code freeze

A code freeze is when one stops writing any code and focus on bug fixes, finishing existing features, stability, and QA. The pre-release version will be the public QA test, and if everything goes right, the external QA test will replicate the results of the internal one that I've been running on my own local network. The rough code freeze date is August 15.

Pre-release

After the code freeze, the tasks that remain are those of packaging the app into an executable, updating the website, and setting up a bootstrap node so that newly downloaded nodes will have a point to bootstrap from.

Beta launch

This will happen when the pre-release gives enough confidence that the app is stable, and can handle nontrivial amount of users. Here, the major thing to keep an eye on is not that the app would not work (it does now, and it likely will continue to do so), but it is that the network is slow to deliver every post into every participating node. Since this requires fiddling with network variables (such as how often a node checks for updates in a minute) and is untestable in a synthetic environment, the only real way to know this is to actually have real people using it, and getting the real-world data on dispersion speeds.

From this point on, it gets a little hard to say, because it depends on the reception of the app, and the real world usage. If this app becomes a place that we all can enjoy spending our evenings in, I personally would consider it as success, even if it does not succeed in financially supporting me working full time on it. That said, the ideal path that I have in mind is that this would support me and a small core team (which does not yet exist, it's just me, for now) financially enough that we can devote our full focus to offer a mass communication platform that is free of the catches of what's available today. After all, Aether offers what they won't sell you at any price: your privacy.

Screenshots

Not mocks, actual app! 🙂 (It goes without saying that these are all works-in-progress.)

Addendum: Who's funding you / this work?

I'm currently working on this project full time, and I have been doing it for the past six months. I'm funding it through my own savings. My initial plan is that I want to release the full app, and then consider getting a job, because, well, my savings aren't infinite. That lines up nicely with the end of the majority of the development effort for the release, so for the initial release, I don't foresee any problems. After that, it all depends on how many people actually end up using it. If a lot of you guys do, then we'll find a way to make it work.

My motivation is not that there's money to be made out of this. If you're interested in that, ICOs might be a better bet, but I'd still recommend index funds over anything crypto-related, Vanguard is a good provider for that. I find most ICOs to be fairly distasteful (with some very rare exceptions), because I'd rather have my work speak than empty promises, as opposed to what ICOs typically do, hence my starting to speak about my work just now, when 80%+ of the total work is already done and implemented in cold, hard code.

If you are happy with any of the existing solutions solving similar problems out there, you should consider donating to them. There are a lot of open source creations for different kind of needs. They do often suffer from poor user experience and poor usability though, most of the time, which unfortunately renders them unable to gain adoption. If your project requires the user to compile it before running it, it's fair to say that your audience is not the general public. That is in itself not a bad thing, and if any of those projects actually satisfy your needs, consider donating to them. I'm focusing on better experience for the mass public, to provide all of us with more accountability, more transparency, more privacy, and hopefully some real discussion that we all sorely need — as a human society, we've gotten far too good at stifling each others' voices.

The reason I think I can make a difference is that I'm an ex-Google, ex-Facebok product designer with a lot of experience in the field, and while I have some ideas on what can be improved, I've learned through the long and hard way that the best ideas come from people who use the actual thing. I've also learned a second, almost as crucial other thing: people doing something that they genuinely, honestly care about tend to achieve much better results than a team of highly experienced specialists that are just meh about it, even if the first team is relatively inexperienced. I do have experience, and I do feel this problem every day, to the point that I was willing to quit my job and start working full time on it using my life savings. I'm lucky to be able to do that, but more than luck, I also care enough about this that I wanted to do that.

In summary, I think there's a need for it, and it should exist, in some form of another. Nobody else seems to be doing it, so I'm doing it. This won't make you rich, this definitely won't make me rich, but this has, if done right, has the chance to create an open, simple, free, decentralised, and private way of mass-communicating for the next half century — a public online gathering place that also happens to belong to the public, with no catches, and no kings.

If you think this is worth supporting, you can fund me via Bitcoin at: 1K12GwzAtPWa6W864fkm48pc4VNqzHXG4H, and via Ethereum at: 0x3A4eC55535B41A808080680fa68640122c689B45. Your funding will extend the amount of time I can stay working full time on it. I don't need the funding to finish it (I made sure that I can actually finish it with my own savings), and if you are a student, new graduate, or on a budget, you should not — keep your money, use it for yourself and use your money for good whenever you can. But if you consider yourself relatively well-off and thinking about how your money can do the most good in the world, and you're interested enough that you've read this far, I'd offer this as a pretty good bet.

I'll open a Patreon page, eventually, but I'm focusing on actually writing the code and releasing the app right now. The Patreon benefits I have in mind are mostly cosmetic, such as getting a 'benefactor' username class with some visual distinction, and priority in picking from available unique usernames. If you fund me through Bitcoin or Ethereum, you'll get the same benefits as Patreon supporters.

Lastly, if you're in San Francisco, and you're excited about this, have questions, hit me up, always happy to go for a coffee. Might take a while to schedule considering that I work 14-16 hour days, but we'll probably find a time.

As per usual, feel free to reach out to me with any questions at [email protected].

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