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cedricslover · 3 years

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Red String

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of chewing/eating

A/N: I think I'm going to start a prompt list, this would be the very first one. The bold phrase is the prompt.

Word Count: 1.2k

“Hello there handsome” you giggled before giving Cedric a peck on the cheek.

“Good afternoon beautiful” he raises his head and smiled. “Oh honestly, don’t stop” you replied as you cupped your own face and sat across him. Roaming your gaze, you admired the golden streaks of sunlight that hit the tables and chairs, and because of the perfect spotlight, particles of dust were floating around.

He lightly laughed, cautious that Madam Pince, the librarian, might kick him out if he was loud enough.

“Totally forgot there, that my girlfriend is a sucker for compliments” he was now shaking his head and shuffled the pages of the book he was reading.

“Not my fault that compliments can make your day” you raised your eyebrows as you reached for a book that you asked Cedric to take as soon as he arrives at the library. “And thank you for this by the way” you winked as soon as your eyes met.

“Merlin, you really know what you are doing” he mutters while you just frowned and shrugged.

It must have been 3 hours since you arrived at the library for the stars to be peeking. “Love?” you called Cedric’s attention, “hmm?” he answered.

“You look extra dashing today.” You started that made him stop reading and look up to your innocently smiling face.

“Go on” He rested his chin on his hands, “And you’re the best boyfriend someone could ever ask” you blinked frequently.

“And there’s the magic sentence.” Cedric sighs and wrinkled his nose. “I’m your only boyfriend mi amor” he says the last words with the most convincing Spanish accent you have ever heard.

“You’re really applying those Spanish words your roommate taught you? In this conversation?” you tried not to laugh when he looked at you confused.

“Why? Is it ugly?” and his face immediately changed “Why? Are you racist, love?” he widened his eyes like never before and even covered his own mouth.

“‘What the fuck? No!” You hissed, trying to keep it down. “Besides, this is not the tar-ge-ted topic yeah?”

“What is it then?” Cedric stopped laughing and started to gather all the books you two have read when he noticed that it was already dark. “Well, I’m still not done with this parchment and I expected that I finish this right before dinner but there’s still ⅛ of it left and this is due tomorrow. I do love to get a good night’s sleep so…” you looked at Cedric anticipating his answer when you didn’t even have a question.

“So… alright alright, I will take food from the Great Hall and take them to your dorm.” he stands up while carrying the books, “Even though I would most likely look like I smuggled something illegal being that Dumbledore said that we could not take food from the Great Hall to our dorms because it is not eth-i-cal” he smiles sarcastically that you just countered with an eye roll.

“Please, he’s around a hundred years old, he couldn’t possibly find out you “smuggled” food” it was really not a joke, Dumbledore did say that because of that one week the Great Hall was almost empty during dinners because all the houses hoarded the foods and took it to the common rooms resulting for individual houses having individual dinners. No interaction with other houses at all.

“I’m only doing this because you’re pretty, and I love you” he squinted his eyes but you saw the smile that he was suppressing, “Well I love you too pretty boy” you responded and as he gave you a final glance, you blew him a kiss.

“Taken” he catches the kiss and acted like he placed it into his pocket. “And kept.” he flashed a smiled before exiting the library.

“Cute.” you murmured before you started writing again.

“THERE’S MY FOOD!” you jumped from your bed and reached for Cedric who was handing over one plate full of food.

“You haven’t eaten yet?” your brows furrowed as you two sat on your bed and he puts down another plate.

He shakes his head.

“Well, you should’ve eaten already.” you looked seriously at him, he was already there at the Great Hall.

“Well, I don’t want my girl to be lonely, besides, I don’t think I could just sit here and watch you eat. I don’t also want to leave you alone while your roommates are still at the Great Hall.” he didn’t look at you, he might have thought you were mad.

“Hey, hey” you stopped his hands from arranging your already arranged bed, “I’m not mad Ced, I’m just saying you went all that trouble, we both know Dumbledore would get mad, but you chose to eat here, with me.” You gave him a little smile.

“I told you. I’m doing this because I love you,” he caressed your arms. “and you’re pretty.” his face relaxed and wrinkles appeared on the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sure you said the pretty one first before the you love me part” you gave him a lopsided smile.

“Really? Nevertheless, it’s the same don’t you think?” he reached for his plate and started eating.

“Nope.” you popped the ‘p’ in that before you also put food in your mouth.

“I know what’s the same” he added,

“What?”

“Lovely and beautiful, I think they’re just the same, they both describe you.” he raised his eyebrows while chewing, not even aware of how he made you feel as he lowers his gaze back to his plate, those familiar flaps your insides felt, that feeling where the world stops and only the two of you mattered.

In this second, at this moment.

“I might say the same to you” you were still looking at him, and now, he raises his head and look deeply into your eyes.

There was always something whenever your gazes meet, it was for a moment, the red string that connected the both of you was no longer invisible. For a second, you could see the connection.

“When we marry each other. I’m not going to waste a single second.” he declared, still maintaining eye contact.

There was no “if” now, it was a “when”.

“When?” you still haven’t processed it, you knew that both of you took this relationship slowly, surely, full of what-ifs and if onlys, and now, he was sure.

“Yes. When, not if, when.” he assured, you felt ecstatic, it was pure bliss.

He stands up, leaving his plate of food on your bedside table and reached for your hand.

“When I marry you, every day we would dance until we’re old” he started swaying the both of you, his hands on your waist and your arms clinging on his neck.

“When we start to live in our dream home and have our own family, I will be the happiest man on Earth and I will make sure that you will the happiest woman” you looked up to him and saw his pupils dilate.

“And when we get married, I’m going to stare at you every chance I get and whisper to myself “Wow this is my husband now” and maybe even tear up or be annoyed. No in-between” you both laughed as you two still danced in your dorm, not even minding the half-eaten foods you left.

The two of you only mattered in this exact moment.

“And when we get married, I will love you endlessly.” he whispered,

“I will too. Always.” you closed your eyes as you felt his lips touched your forehead, his kisses always made you calm, assured, and contented. It was the torch in the darkness, the shelter during a storm, or maybe it was not his kiss, maybe it was him.

#cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory fluff #cedric diggory imagines #cedric diggory

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kermitbread · 3 years

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a little thingy I don't plan on continuing. my only context for this is... witches, cat boys and... that's it lmao

sorry I haven't been posting too much writing. I haven't been confident about it lately ;w;

The chanting was getting louder the more closer they moved.

Nene had no idea where those people were taking her, because for one thing, she was blindfolded. They even tied her wrists behind her back and unceremoniously carried her away from her house. Wow, way to interrupt a girl from her leisure time, huh?

She could hear the crackling sound of fire and loud shouts of "kill her!" from the angry voices of the townspeople, which finally lead her to understanding what was happening. It had just been her luck that she decided to live in a town that greatly loathed her kind.

Yes, she was a witch. And currently she was going to get executed in the middle of town for many people to see.

What fun.

There wasn't any use on telling them that she wasn't like the bad witches at all. It wasn't like she was bad, it was just that she knew how people would react to the fact trying to explain things would be rendered useless from their moments of delusion.

How in the world did they find out? Was she not being careful enough? Did some kid see her using some minor spells on her garden and snitched? Or did someone see her idly sharing a conversation with that black cat that visited her from time to time?

Ah, whatever. She was going to die and that was gonna be the least of her worries now.

She got dropped onto the ground and pushed against a pole, hands tying her waist around it securely. Something prickly brushed against her legs, which she figured was a bunch of hay underneath her.

"Burn the witch! Kill her!"

So this was how she was going to go, huh? Getting burned to a crisp for everyone's viewing pleasure. Well, if she had any regrets, one of them was not getting a boyfriend. It's because of my ankles right? No wonder they wanna kill me. Me being a witch, and my stupid ankles.

And that little black cat. He would be very sad when he finds out she couldn't make it for their everyday talks together. Maybe he could find a new, cuter witch to be with now? Not like he wanted to stick around a witch with radish legs, right?

The smell of smoke was beginning to become more apparent. She could feel the heat from the fire coming closer and closer. There were many shouts that repeated the same phrase over and over again, and a part of her just wanted them to get over the entire thing already so she wouldn't have to listen to them.

Funny that she still had the audacity to get annoyed on the verge of death.

She heard her name getting shouted with desperation, as she quickly recognized the voice. Ah, Aoi. I'm sorry that I have to leave you behind so abruptly.

The flames were getting closer, to the point she could feel the heat starting to get stronger. This was it. Unless there was some sort of miracle that would happen, which would be nice, there was no turning back now.

"That's a little bit extreme of you people, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, she felt all the ropes that tied her loosen, and herself getting pulled away from the fire that was about to burn her alive. It all happened so fast, she wasn't even able to process what just happened.

"Hey! What are you doing?! We're trying to get rid of her!"

The voice—which belonged to a boy that she seemed to sorta recognize—only laughed. She squeaked when he suddenly flipped her over and she got plopped into someone's arms, probably belonging to him.

What in the world was going on this time?

"Trying to burn a cute girl is considered rude, no? I'm sure we can all understand that." Nene felt her cheeks warm up at the thought of that boy calling her cute. Can you blame her, it was the first time a boy had ever said anything like that around her.

"But she's a witch! If we don't kill her now, she's going to kill all of us!"

"Tch, you humans and your irrationalities." It was strange that he refered to them as 'humans', as if he wasn't one of them.

Maybe he was like her, in a sense?

The air kicked up around her and before she knew it, she was being carried away by her still unidentified savior from the crowd of angry townspeople. She heard Aoi calling after her in a worry, before ultimately the voices of the crowd were reduced to merely silence as they went further and further.

They finally stopped, and Nene could hear water close by. They seemed to be near a river, one that was beyond the outskirts of the town.

Pulling her blindfold off she tried to squint through the dark in order to get a better look at the person. Short dark hair concealed by the hood of his cloak, and golden eyes that looked like the kind that would probably glow in the night if that were possible. She didn't realize she was staring at him until he decided to look back at her.

"You are one clumsy witch, you know that, Yashiro?"

Now how did he know her name? She doesn't recall meeting him at all. Or even seeing him around town for that matter.

He seemed to be irked at her confused look, as he sighed to himself, setting her back down on her feet. He pulled back the hood off his head, revealing... cat ears.

"You seriously don't recognize me, Yashiro? Am I that generic looking?"

Wait. It couldn't be possible, right? Like, she's a witch, sure, but even she thought it wasn't capable of happening at all.

Or was it?

"H... Hanako-kun?" She softly said, unsure whether she was right. Fortunately she was, as seen by how his face brightened up at the mention of the name.

"That's right! It's me! So you do recognize me after all!"

"T-that can't be right! Hanako-kun's a..." Nene trailed off when Hanako walked right up to her and bent over, leaning forward up to her face with a smile.

"This is my real form, you see. I wouldn't be able to save you from getting killed if I stayed a cat now, right?"

"I know that! It's just that... why did you save me? You barely know me, apart from those three months." Nene shifted her foot around, deciding to look down at the grass instead of his eyes.

It wasn't like he saved her for any special reasons, right? If only she wasn't such a hopeless romantic.

Hanako tilted his head to the side, still smiling all the way. "I like you, though. That's enough of a reason for me."

"Huh?!" That was totally uncalled for! What in the world did he mean by that?!

"I said..." Now their faces were so close to each other, to the point she hoped he didn't see how red her face was getting. "I like you, Yashiro."

"As a... as a friend?" She managed to ask, but for some reason she hoped it wasn't the case.

Only a little, though.

Hanako finally pulled away from her personal space, and he turned up to look at the night sky for a while to contemplate, then turned back to her.

"That's up to you to decide." He replied, sticking his tongue out with a playful wink.

"Wha—you jerk!" Nene stomped over to him, trying to punch him on the chest. Of course he was joking! The boy had the habit of misleading her with his words, even before he showed his true form to her. Why was she even disappointed in his answer, anyway?

"Aha, settle down, Yashiro." Laughing, Hanako takes both her hands into his. It was hard to keep a straight face when Nene was making such a cute angry face.

He saw light from torches coming closer to their location. Ah, crap. Those townspeople were on their tracks.

Picking Nene up from the ground once more, he plopped her behind his back, making sure she was secure. "We better move!"

"Eh—Hanako-kun, where are we even going to go?!"

He didn't turn to look at her, but it was clear that he knew what he was doing. "Don't worry, I'll protect you, Yashiro. So hold on, okay?"

Her heart beat fast again, another blush making its way into her cheeks once more. All she could so was nod and bury her face on his back, trying not to be too obvious.

Before she knew it, they were running away once more, away from the people chasing after them. Who knows where they were heading, but Nene had the feeling they were probably going to be just fine.

"Um... Hanako-kun, aren't I too heavy?"

"Yeah, actually—ow! I was just joking!"

#jibaku shounen hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun #yashiro nene #hanako kun #anime #hananene #fanfiction #djkahdkskdh #how to make words #help #this has been in my drafts for a while now #just gotta get it out lmao #sorry for the long ass wall of text i got too excited

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nextbigaiello · 3 years

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A few months ago I responded to an anonymous message in regards to the punching of Rick Moranis. I had posted a thread responding to the person in a back and forth. I cannot find the posts (maybe if I look on my computer instead of using tumblr on my phone) and they seem lost or deeply hidden on my page. If you can find it, please use it as a means of not making the same mistakes I did. I am not proud of my actions. I’m well aware this was back in October, so it all seems pointless due to the lateness. But I do want to address it and apologize for some of the things I’ve said and my overall immaturity. And even if no one cares or thought of it as a big deal, I believe that the things I said and my attitude weren’t okay and I would like this to be a teachable moment even if it may seem minuscule or “not that big a deal”.

The anonymous messenger had said something along the lines of (and I’m paraphrasing because I don’t remember word for word) he deserved to get punched and the guy who did it was a hero. Though my overall response was to say that I found the act really strange and that anyone who goes around punching people (whether they carry a famous title or not) should face the consequences. Obviously nothing intense only one that fits the crime. But I did not say it like that. If anything the best decision would be not to respond at all and just delete it. But I obviously did not do that. I decided I wanted to gain some sort of high ground over this person and respond in a snarky, ridiculing way. So I mocked the use of being anonymous and kind of reveled in the idea that they were eager to send ME this, as I’m like a nobody. In anonymous’ message, they had said that all white people deserve to get punched in the face. I said that they can punch me in the face any time, but my biggest mistake was writing “I don’t know why it’s a race thing but ok” in the hashtags.

I AM THE BIGGEST IDIOT FOR DOING THIS! I WAS THE ONE WHO TURNED IT INTO A RACE DEBATE JUST BY SAYING THAT! I WHOLEHEARTEDLY BELIEVE AND UNDERSTAND THAT SAYING THAT WAS WRONG EVEN IN THE MOMENT. I DID NOT DELETE IT OR EDIT IT OUT BECAUSE I FIGURED IT WOULD ONLY MAKE IT LOOK WORSE. IT WAS NOT MY INTENTION IN THE SLIGHTEST TO COMMENT THAT. I SAW SOMEONE PUNCH ANOTHER PERSON ON CAMERA AND I WAS ANGRY. BUT I STILL WROTE IT AND POSTED IT THINKING THAT I WAS THE ONE EXPOSING SOMEONE. WHICH IS IDIOTIC, POOR, AND INCREDIBLY DISGUSTING. I LIKE TO THINK I AM AN ALLY WHO CONSTANTLY LEARNS NEW THINGS AND STRIVES TO BETTER THEMSELVES. AND WHILE I STILL THINK I AM AND DO APPRECIATE AND SEEK BEING CORRECTED, I MISCALCULATED AND SHOWED THAT I AM STILL SUSCEPTIBLE TO MAKING MISTAKES. THIS IS WHERE I FEEL THE MOST REGRET IN THOSE SERIES OF POSTS. I AM VERY SORRY TO THOSE WHO ARE AFFECTED AND HURT BY THAT PHRASE AND SIMILAR LANGUAGE THAT HARMS BIPOC COMMUNITIES AND THEIR STRUGGLES FOR HAVING THEIR VOICES BE HEARD. I AM SORRY THAT I DIDN’T APOLOGIZE SOONER. I HOPE FOR FORGIVENESS BUT ITS NOT NECESSARY IF YOU DO NOT SEE MY APOLOGY AS VALID. THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. I JUST HOPE THAT I CAN MAKE UP FOR THIS BY IMPROVING AND LEARNING EVEN MORE.

Unfortunately I continued to respond to this person. I kept posting the back and forth squabbling. They had caught my mistake and rightfully used it against me. The majority of the messages were framed as me basically being a performative activist and not actually liking black people. Which are not true. I can definitely do more as a white ally to help protect and support black (and other people of color’s) lives. However I do as much as I can, and encourage people to do the same. I was desperately trying to convince this person that I wasn’t racist and that I care about everyone. I had attached pictures I drew of myself (one being my pfp) in support of the BLM movement (amongst other things). All of my decisions sounded and looked better in my head. If anything, I don’t think I was really trying to convince anonymous. But actually I believe I was trying to convince anyone who follows me or could stumble onto the posts. I wouldn’t have to have convinced anyone if I just didn’t respond. But I was arrogant. Once anonymous had the mistake against me, my snarky attitude lessened and I wanted to come of as genuine. Mostly because I was. I wanted to see if I could try and get both of us to lower our torches and come to an understanding. My responses got longer. I still came off as a dick in places but tried to counteract that with questioning why they thought messaging me that was smart. We mostly talked about race and all I could say was that I care deeply about black people and I didn’t mean to say what I said. I genuinely said that if they wanted to punch me in the face, I give them the right to. In hindsight I should’ve known that this would come off as disingenuous and played for laughs at their expense. But I did mean it. I said it thinking that maybe it would make them feel better. Maybe they were right that all white people deserve to get punched in the face and I only furthered that idea. With all this time to think, I’m starting to agree.

We ended with neither side breaking. There was no use trying to convince the other side so no more messages were sent. Yet I acted as if I “won” and posted one final post kind of bragging and saying that it’s smart to respond to trolls in a classy and smart manner. Which I didn’t do. So that’s more points towards me being an unnecessary dick.

The second biggest thing I regret is not letting it go and constantly replying. It makes things worse. You’re feeding into it. Especially since I tried to be smug and pretentious. I should’ve never responded in the first place. I should’ve buckled down on having a passive tone and genuine behavior with the replies. But I didn’t. Don’t do what I did. Don’t give antagonistic people or trolls the time of day. Don’t address things you are not capable of talking about.

I believe we must all take accountability for our actions regardless of how big or small they may be. Especially as a white person. I am taking responsibility for this mistake and hope for forgiveness but seek education. Again, it’s all very late, but I didn’t take into account how it would be perceived. I’ve not gotten any messages from anyone about this and no one really interacted with the thread, so I don’t know how people felt about the whole situation nor am I being coerced to do this by someone else. But if I’m ever in a similar situation, please call me out! A few years ago I made a post that I didn’t even agree with at the time but I posted it anyway, and someone called me out saying that it could be perceived as bad taste. I immediately apologized and deleted the post entirely shortly after. I am grateful to them for asking about it and letting me know it wasn’t a good thing to post. I will gladly take responsibility and go about removing or editing something that is problematic or bad in general that I overlooked. I just feel terrible about doing it in the first place and acting as if there’s no possible way it could affect someone. Because it can. It can and I would feel horrible if it did.

Again I do not know where the original posts are. So I don’t have exact quotes and am just going off of memory. But if someone finds them and goes over them and asks me to address this again with the actual evidence and quotes, I’d be more than glad to do that. And if with the actual posts your views and opinions change, that’s totally fair and I’m just happy you took the time to read all this and the posts of you can find them.

All I can say is I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.

-DA

#long post #apology #apology post #i will be better

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rustbeltjessie · 4 years

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Diary of an Emotional Masochist, Chapter One: Dignity and Shame

I am an emotional masochist. I’m the kind of person, who, when I’m already going through a bout of nostalgic melancholy, will decide to read old journal entries or look through old photographs. The kind of person who, when it’s three a.m. and I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about what loves have come and gone (to borrow a phrase from Edna St. Vincent Millay), will get up and Google search those loves. I am the kind of woman who, when I’m already sad, will listen to an album that devastates me. I have a long list of albums that it’s almost too painful to listen to, albums that remind me of such specific times in my life that listening to them takes me right back to where I was then. A different person would purge their record collection and iTunes library of such albums, but, like I said – I am an emotional masochist. On lonesome evenings, after a couple glasses of whiskey, nothing sounds better to me than spinning one of those records (or queueing up one of those playlists). This is one of those lonesome-whiskey evenings, so won’t you join me in indulging? We’re listening to Crooked Fingers’ Dignity and Shame.

From the first sparse, haunting notes of “Islero,” I am transported back in time to the summer of 2005. God, that summer. That terrible, wonderful summer. I’d fucked up my life the year before, and I thought that would be the summer I’d fix it, except all I did was fuck it up even more. God, that summer. That March, I moved away from Chicago after living there for five years. I planned on moving to Milwaukee come autumn, to start fresh in a fresh town. In the meantime, I moved back in with my parents. I wasn’t home, much. Nights, after work, I went to one of the two bars in Kenosha where all my sad drunk hoodlum friends hung out. On days off, I walked in the woods – the heat was relentless, and the canopy of trees offered cool green comfort. Or I drove to Chicago to see shows and drink with my friends and try to remember why I’d left; drove to Milwaukee to scope out neighborhoods, sit for hours at the Hi-Fi Cafe, go record and dress shopping. On one of my record shopping expeditions, I bought Dignity and Shame. It was on the Staff Recommendations shelf, and I liked the cover art, so I took it home with me – and it was serendipity, it was exactly the album I needed at the time.

As soon as I got home, I set it spinning on my turntable, and the first track – “Islero” – gave me goosebumps. The second track – “Weary Arms” – made me cry. It had sad cellos and a lonesome cowboy guitar, and Eric Bachmann’s voice was a raspy baritone: Beware of strangers knocking at your door. Old lovers, too. Don’t think for one second they’ve forgotten you. Oh, oh, oh. By the time the final, hidden track played, I’d melted into a puddle of tears and goosebumps on my bedroom floor. The album destroyed me, and it spooked me because so many of the stories sounded like things right out of my life, both from that year and six or so years before it. It was like Eric Bachmann had read my diary and set it to music. I wanted to write him a letter and say: “Get out of my head, god damn it! Get out of my aching heart.” It’s impossible for me to write about Dignity and Shame, or about the summer of 2005, without descending into hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. My God, that summer was hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. I was still young enough that it was acceptable to feel things that intensely, acceptable to talk about a sunrise over Lake Michigan by saying things like: “When the light shot through the horizon in streaks of peach and gold, it was the most god damn beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” Dear diary, listen to me.

My “Weary Arms” wrapped tight around so many lovers, that summer – four of them, plus a handful of brief flings. Later that year, I lamented that I hadn’t had as many wild love affairs as I’d had in years past, which, yes, says something unflattering about me. And Eric Bachmann sang: You have many enemies, for reasons no one’s certain of.

One night, while I sat at one of the bars and waited for my friends to arrive, a girl approached me. I didn’t know her, but she knew me. She sat down across from me and lambasted me for sleeping with a guy she’d been dating at the time…two years before. She called me a slut, and some worse things. I wanted to buy her a drink, to appease her. I couldn’t understand why she hated me so much. When I slept with that guy, I had no idea he had a girlfriend. So many enemies, so many lovers, but could a jaded girl like me heed an uptempo “Call To Love?” In that song, Eric took the role of a particular one of my lovers, and said: Won’t you hear my heart? I’m transmitting a call to love. On a night when the moon was orange-red and luminous, that lover said: “The moon is the color of your hair.” Another night: “You were born in the wrong era, Jess.” And, though I was a sucker for sentimental poetry, my guard was up. Lara Meyerratken answered for me: Don’t need my heart kicked ‘round the block no more. You may be smooth-talking, daddy, but I’ve heard it all before. I traded gossip with the “Twilight Creeps.” In this sweet-sad song with the bright piano and the shimmering backup vocals, I was both the singer and the sung about. I could have sung it to one of my lovers, should have said to her: Flower, don’t dig so deep so you don’t go anywhere. But the words were also about me: You say someday you’re gonna float away. Take yourself some kind of holiday. I often told my sad drunk hoodlum friends, the twilight creeps, that I needed to get the hell out of town. “If I could just get gone for more than a few days, go somewhere more than a few hours away…there ain’t no use in trying to make me stay.”

My lovers all wanted to make me stay. The flower-girl, I’ll call her Valerie. The one who spoke poetic words to me, I’ll call him Jack. And there was Lon, and Carmine. In different ways, for different reasons, they each wanted me to choose them over all the rest. Even a few of the week-long flings and one-night stands, older punk guys or younger hippie girls, said things to me like: “How did I get so lucky as to meet a girl like you?” Or: “So, are you my girlfriend now?” And when I said no, they called me a heartbreaker. A “Destroyer.” It’s a woebegone cowboy of a tune. Doleful drums, piano that tinkles like ice cubes in a bar glass, and a lap steel guitar – which, as far as I’m concerned, is the aural equivalent of an anti-hero walking off into the sunset. The song is all about how the singer is going to make someone his, and then he’s going to leave them behind. When they called me heartbreaker, I wanted to sing it: Lay down, just let it come, and resign your heart, today, to get blown away. “Valerie,” well, that’s why I’m referring to that lover as Valerie. Much like me, she was a punk rock girl turned heroine of a Tom Waits song (heroine of a Crooked Fingers song). She had thriftstore dresses and jailhouse tattoos and self-inflicted scars. “Valerie,” the song, has a sanguine strut, is a besotted love song, and I thought of Valerie, the girl: Red roses, silk, you in your sleek summer dress. You were light, revelation, oh, I love you the best. But she and I kept our love unspoken. We both had other romantic complications, and only touched each other on long hot nights after too many bottles of wine and too many pills. “Sleep All Summer” was my song for Jack, the young ex-goth whose mouth was pink and pouty like he’d been sucking on a strawberry popsicle. Our love was either all the good songs and kissing ’til our lips were raw, or it was screaming matches and hangover headaches. What bliss is this, and then he’d get attention-starved and whiny, and I’d burn hot and cold and say nasty things, and we’d say: “This is it, we’re through.” But – There ain’t no way we’re gonna find another, the way we sleep all summer. Why won’t you fall back in love with me? And we’d run into each other at the bar, and faster than our friends could say I told you so we’d be tangled up in the backseat of his car or rolling around by the lake, and the whole thing would start all over again. He’d play the martyr, and I’d say: I would change for you, but babe, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a better man.

And “Coldways” kill cool lovers. Lon was a folk singer from the north woods. He’d been one of my best friends for years already, and when we started dating I was so tired of complicated, fiery relationships that I mistook comfort for True Love. My heart still hurts when I think of how I hurt him. He wanted me to marry him and I just wanted to be drunk and in love, to listen to “Coldways”’s thrumming, swelling sound. To sing along: Come out, come on, tonight the city’s alive. “Wrecking Ball” has a jaunty, punchdrunk piano, and the piano had been drinking, but so had I. God, I drank so much that summer. On the rare night I spent at home, I holed up in my room, wrote long, sad, tales of people in the legend of my life, and drank blackberry brandy mixed with Sprite. Something like that would taste over-sweet to me now, make me shudder, but maybe the same part of me that craved sentimental poetry also thirsted for sugary drinks. And most nights, I wasn’t at home. Most nights, I changed clothes in my car after work. I swapped my reeking-of-pizza button down shirt and black slacks for one of my vintage dresses. A mint green confection, or a pink and white sundress. Something from the ‘50s, blue with red and white polka dots, or a slinky black number that a ‘30s jazz singer would have worn. And I sat at one of two bars, drank whiskey and Coke, or brandy old-fashioneds, or gin and tonics all night long. I waited for my friends to arrive, and I drank and smoked and entertained myself with one of the items I always had in my bag – a book of poetry by Dorothy Parker or Edna St. Vincent Millay, a deck of Alice In Wonderland tarot cards. And sometimes, someone would find me intriguing. I swear, I wasn’t a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but… I was a redhead in a retro dress (usually with a strand of fake pearls, too) sitting in a dive bar, smoking pastel-colored cigarettes, reading sonnets and tarot cards. Christ. Often, someone found me intriguing, chatted me up, and I wound up with yet another lover. I was a destroyer, destroying myself with booze and love. I was a wrecking ball. Eric Bachmann, accompanied by that barroom piano, sang: And you laughed and you danced, and it let you feel fine for a while. Hanging out with the kids who you knew soon would fall out of style.

I’ve left two songs out, dear diary. I did it on purpose, because they are the two that hurt the most. They are also the two that heal the most. The kind of songs that make me weep, then tell me to dry my tears. “You Must Build A Fire,” oh, it is one of the saddest songs. It begins with only two guitars (a finger-picked lead and that god damn lap steel again), and Eric’s voice is so plaintive, sounds like it’s about to crack, and he sings: Oh, gracious love, you were so kind to me. You only broke my heart, let my arms and legs stay strong. So I could swim upon the open sea, searching for another love. Floating along aimlessly. I haven’t told you about Carmine, yet. Carmine was a musician who looked like a magician from an old-time carnival. The year before, he’d ruined me in a worse way than any other lover ever had. (As a friend put it, he was one of the ones who fucked me up so bad I was pretty much ruined for anyone else.) He ruined me, but I let him back into my life. That summer, we got together. It was supposed to be closure, but of course it just opened everything up again. He said: “I want to be with you. I want to try again.” I said: “Okay, yes, let’s start over. I want to be with you.” He said: “Only if you break things off with all your other lovers. I want to be your only.” The nerve, giving me an ultimatum like that when he was even more of a notorious libertine than I was. And the song sang: I had someone, a love I thought was true. But sometimes you just get tired, and you must try not to die. And give your love, though no one may receive. You must build a giant fire, for the whole wide world to see. It sounded like that whole heartbroken, hot summer. Oh, where are you, love?

The title track, “Dignity and Shame,” is a piano ballad that told me: To be sure, there ain’t no cure. There could be no one to save you. It is the track I return to over and over, more than any other track on the album. Though my life has calmed down a lot in the decade since that summer, sometimes – that feeling comes, you’ve been here once before. That wicked feeling you don’t want to feel no more. And then, Eric Bachmann (get out my head, god damn it!) sings: You’re not the same as the day that you came. You can choose dignity, or shame.

I choose dignity. I carry my broken heart like a torch in the night. Little keeper of light, burning deep, burning bright in the dark.

[originally appeared in Witchsong in October 2015]

#jessie lynn mcmains #my writing #music #memoir #crooked fingers #dignity and shame #2015 #2005 #love #lovers #heartbreak #panic attacks #drugs #alcohol #lyrics #this is still one of my favorite pieces of music writing i've ever written #and since witchsong has gone dark i thought i'd share it here

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theimpossiblescheme · 4 years

Text

The Last of the Fires

I didn’t think it was possible for me to be dragged even farther into Cyrano de Bergerac hell, but by God @nonchalantdanger found a way. This alternate universe we’ve come up has already yielded some great results (I was already pretty proud of the first fic I wrote for it, and then reading the add-on... chills), so I thought I would take another whack at it. This takes place a few hours after that add-on--the truth has come out, Cyrano and Roxanne have more than reconciled, and now Christian has to figure out his new place in the world... enjoy!

Another greasy campfire had been lit in the camp of the Gascony cadets, but this time they finally had something to cook over it. Miraculously, Ragueneau was still pulling legs of lamb and whole partridges from his and Roxanne’s coach, which the soldiers accepted and devoured gleefully. Strains of old victory songs rang through the air, and at long last a few men could be heard to laugh. Even de Guiche, sitting with a barely nibbled-at turkey breast by the fire, was smiling more than any of them had known him to smile. The relief of triumph over the Spanish was palpable, and it had touched everyone present, young and old.

Christian wished he could feel that relief so keenly. Instead, sharp jabs of anxiety kept intruding, making it impossible for him to eat. He hadn’t seen Roxanne since he left her in the surgeon’s tent. No doubt she’d talked to Cyrano… he couldn’t imagine what they might have said to each other, though. Knowing Cyrano, he would deny everything—that he’d ever loved her, that he’d ever written a single letter, that he’d ever given Christian the smallest word to say—but Roxanne was in such a holy fury that Christian doubted very much that she would leave it at that. Perhaps they’d spent the whole time arguing—that might explain her long absence, but it was hardly a comforting though. Christian had seen both of them angry, and that was terrifying enough, but for them to be angry at each other… he’d never forgive himself for causing it. Maybe he should have… no. No, he was glad he’d said what he’d said. It had hurt tremendously, but a greater hurt would be to stand in the way of their happiness. The two people he cared for more than anyone else in the world.

Where that left him… he wasn’t sure yet. But he supposed he’d find out in time.

The fire sputtered a bit, and Christian leaned forward to stir it back to life. Through the flames, he could see a figure limping toward the camp, leaning heavily on an old walking stick. Only when the figure turned in profile did Christian recognize him and smile in spite of himself. Le Bret, though limping himself on his injured leg, turned away from one of the old supply wagons and raced toward him, pulling him into a fierce embrace. After pulling apart, the two exchanged a few brief words, and Le Bret patted him on the shoulder before returning to his duties. As he watched the figure grow closer, Christian felt his palms starting to sweat, the way they always did around… around her. What would he say now? What would he do?

Looking up, de Guiche’s lips curled in a small smirk, though this time it came without his usual contempt. “So you managed to survive after all, have you?”

Cyrano merely flashed him that dangerous grin before carefully lowering himself to sit nearby. “I had thought you would sound more disappointed.”

“Not necessarily. Surprised, perhaps, given your endless barrage of gasconades just earlier today. You sounded quite content—excited, even—to die in battle.”

“Perhaps… but Providence has given me another task to complete. I could hardly die leaving that great will so unsatisfied.” Cyrano gave Christian a meaningful sideways look, and Christian felt a new chill run through him.

“Mm.” Peeling the skins away from the eaten parts of his turkey breast, de Guiche returned the rest of it to a nearby basket and stood, swiping a delicate hand over his ribbons. “I must attend to what remains of our supplies. See that this one stays out of trouble, Nuevillette.” And he left the two men alone by the fire.

So. “You have… spoken to Roxanne?” Christian ventured, balling his hands into fists and kneading them fitfully against his thighs.

“I have, yes.”

“And she said…?”

The slightest little disbelieving laugh huffed out of Cyrano as he struggled to repress a smile. There was a look of… what could almost be described as peace in his eyes, a look Christian had never seen before. “More than I could have dared to hope.”

“She loves you?”

“… Against all wisdom, against all possible odds… I would never have thought it possible unless I were to hear it from her lips.” His expression changed as he looked back up at Christian. “Though I fear she was rather uncharitable to you, my friend.”

“Why—what did she say?”

For what felt like far too long, Cyrano hesitated, gathering all his finely spun words into precisely the right web for the present moment. “There was never a doubt in my mind,” he began, deliberately looking away and gazing toward the fire, “that your love for her, even in my borrowed declarations of the same, was sincere. You were willing to give her up entirely, as I was, for her own happiness. You say that I am your soul, but your own needs no embellishment of fine words and glib turns of phrase. I decorate mine with small glories, but yours rings golden. And yet… she insisted, for my sake or for hers I cannot tell, that your marriage can be annulled. That her love for you has cooled. And I cannot help but think that rather unfair, after all you have done for her.”

Christian felt his hands twisting tighter. He’d already cried once today, he couldn’t risk it again—not in front of Cyrano. It was true, that same thought had crossed his mind. There were no witnesses to the marriage; it was unrecorded, uncelebrated, and unconsummated. Throughout the siege, he’d entertained many a dream of returning home to Roxanne and curling up beside her under one blanket, finding her warm and willing… but no. She would be making love to a shadow, and he would have to convince himself that she truly saw him every night, not some other man with a different voice. Christian remembered that night under her balcony, her rapt silence as Cyrano practically sang to her in such words… he would never have thought of them himself, God knew, but they all rang so true. “Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart.” Perhaps he was a little in love with Cyrano’s words that night, too. He could feel that same bell pealing in his chest, crying the name of the woman he’d adored.

The woman he might never see again.

He forced a smile. “Perhaps I should take a leaf out of your book. Learn to love from afar.”

“No.” Cyrano’s voice was firm. “I have endured that torture for as long as I can remember, even when we were children together. There is no greater lingering pain than to love one who neglects or even refuses your very existence. I would not wish that pain upon you.”

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness, Cyrano.”

“And I have spent enough time hampering your own--”

“Stop.” Christian ran a hand over his hair, fitfully pushing some of it back into his braid. “I wanted to say this before, when the fighting first broke out... I don’t wish to be my own rival anymore. And you have already given up so much for her. You talk about being unfair to me, but neither of us have been fair to you. She... she’s made her views perfectly clear, and if I--if I ever cared for her, I have to honor them.” Roxanne was no prize for either of them to claim. She had made her decision. Both of them wanted her to be happy... it was as simple as that.

“But is this truly what you wish, Christian?”

“Yes.” And he was surprised to find how much he meant it. After everything the three of them had been through, somehow this felt inevitable. Inevitable and only right. This was as graceful an exit he could make on behalf of two people he loved in his own fashion. “You... you have been my friend even when I have not treated you like one in return. And I can’t lie to Roxanne any more than I already have. Besides, she can’t marry two men.”

“Perhaps in a just world she might.” It was Cyrano’s half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood, but his expression softened into something gentler as he clasped Christian’s shoulder. “But in this one now, I promise you will love again. You shall find someone who loves all that you are and not merely what you pretend to be. Someone you will not feel the need to impress so constantly… you were placed in an unfair position from the very beginning, and I am sorry for it. The love you deserve is safer and kinder than what you were granted.”

“Oh, I don’t regret any of it for a second,” Christian replied, shaking his head. It occurred to him that neither of them had been so honest with each other before today, and it was almost embarrassing... and yet oddly freeing. “This is--this is going to sound ridiculous, I know, and I’m sorry… but I don’t think I will ever be out of love with Roxanne.”

“No need to apologize. In truth, I would never expect that. She is very easy to love, I’ve found.” A smile flickered back onto Cyrano’s face. “Carry that torch if you must, my friend, but a day will come when you find it too heavy to bear, and you must set it down for another to bask in its glow. And you will know that day that it no longer truly burns for her alone, and you shall be happy again.”

“...Do you really think that?”

“I do, or may I live another hundred years and never fight again.”

Christian considered his words. Ever since that night in the theater, it seemed that Roxanne was the only woman in the world, but now... now the world had opened back up again. And in so many words, Cyrano was urging him not to be afraid. “I dearly hope you’re right…” The idea of there being someone else out there in the world… as lovely as Roxanne, as brilliant, as spirited, but not quite as… well, intimidating. Someone who could listen to Christian’s damned fool clumsy words and not turn him away… someone with whom he could be more than just a pretty face and a slow tongue… it seemed so inconceivable, a far-flung fantasy. Yet Cyrano had said it with so much certainty. And he’d feared almost the same thing, hadn’t he—that he was too ugly for any woman to love? If he could be proven wrong… why not? Yes, why not…? “I should still like to speak to her before we leave. If she will allow it, that is.”

“You shall have that chance, I promise you that as well. In the meantime…” Planting his stick in the dirt before him and veering gently out of Christian’s reach, Cyrano rose slowly to his feet again. “I promised Le Bret I would help organize our return to Paris. You get some rest, and for pity’s sake eat something.”

“I will. Thank you.” Before he could stop himself, Christian’s hand shot out to catch Cyrano’s arm as he turned to go. “I mean that… thank you.” For understanding, for being there for so long, for giving him another chance... he could go on and on if only he could find the words. Thankfully, Cyrano seemed to understand, nodding and giving Christian’s arm a brief squeeze of his own before limping off. Even on unsteady feet with shrapnel in his shoulder, the white plume of freedom floated above him, unspotted and ethereal.

Eventually the last of the campfire had guttered and stopped, and de Guiche had addressed his men one last time in the dark, detailing plans for their return to civilization and offering rather backhanded congratulations for their unlikely victory. Christian barely heard him—after the day he’d had, there was such a weariness in his bones that he could sleep for the next six years. As everyone slumped back to their bedrolls and tents, Christian followed suit, unravelling his threadbare blanket from the cocoon he’d twisted it into the night before and pulling up his rucksack to use as a pillow. But there was something laying over it: a note, folded three times. He unfolded it and read the familiar flowing script—obviously memorized and written down for posterity, and not for the first time.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

Christian couldn’t help but smile. Leave it to his friend to find the right words, even if they weren’t his own. Folding the note back up again and tucking it away for safekeeping, he curled up under his blanket and finally let himself relax.

#cyrano de bergerac #christian de neuvillette #my fanfic #While I admit that my heart will always belong to the Cyrano/Roxanne/Christian OT3 I do love this take as well.#Christian deserves someone he can be completely himself with and sometimes that was difficult around Roxanne.#And I think Roxanne realizes that she was sometimes unfair to him--whatever she thinks of him she still wants him in her life.#That's the follow-up I'll probably write at some point--these crazy kids have put up with enough heartbreak...

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

8 - Twisted Warren

Too much had happened in this place, between the time Murkoff had lost control, and the MHS failed to regain control. The patients had gotten free and had ample time on their hands to undertake all manner of hobbies.

I wasn’t certain what to make of the large hole chiseled through three feet of solid cement, and rebar. Given there’s not a lot to do around this place but come up with creative ways to get around, I gave this one a seven out of ten. I doubted that big ugly fucker would have been amused by a commission for big fuckin holes, he seemed dedicated to his current task of decapitating the former law. I couldn’t envision the inmates having the tools for this sort of work, and then using them correctly to remove the cement, but they were just insane, not stupid. There was a difference.

The problem was they were not stupid.

To satisfy my lethal curiosity, I did return to the other side of where I had dropped down, to see if the egress guy was still lurking. I didn’t want someone following me, I’d rather know at this point and try to lose them than get a nasty surprise in a dark cramped hole.

There was only a small room, and a door. I tried the handle confirming it was locked, but perhaps earlier it was open and the patient decided to lock it. Didn’t matter, my path was charted out. It must’ve led into a lavatory, or female wash room, there were hand dryers on the wall, a mattress flung on its side, and the more important detail. Sinks.

I tried the dial on one and received a fresh flow of water, its color I couldn’t tell due to the night vision but it looked clean and free of sediment. After giving my perimeter a quick look I leaned under the tap and tasted it, first rinsing my mouth out of the reek and copper. The water had a strong metallic quality, I wasn’t sure if I should drink it, much as I was advised not to drink the water when visiting another country, but I was dehydrated. I reasoned with myself the lines couldn’t all be compromised, and drank just enough to quench my thirst.

There was also the issue of my bloody camera, and my backside, but I felt my jacket was a lost cause and it was cold. In the dark I flushed water on my sleeve and used it to carefully dab the side of the camera until it felt like much of the stickiness was removed. I didn’t expect to do a perfect job in the solid black. I also took the time to rinse the blood from my scalp and the back of my leg, then flushed my tender brow.

I felt renewed, not meeting ready but stable enough on my feet to carry me onward. I returned to the other side, squelching over the sticky puddle of blood back to the warrens entrance.

Below looked like an access space, for repairs or maintenance on broken pipes that might be reached through the basement. It might’ve been installed in the past century if this place was as old as I suspected.

The hole wasn’t deep, but there was a passage dug out in the softer earth beneath the crawl space. A small draft crept over my ankles, warmer air spilling into the cool shower. The thick reek of natural gas coupled with moist earth reached my nose as I crouched down and used the night vision to navigate, I really didn’t need to get lost under this place.

Though the path seemed straightforward, I was fully aware of how easy it was to get turned around in a short section of black crawlspace. A few of the Outdoor Adventurer columns warned of how inexperienced cavers could get lost in less than twenty feet of cave. One story mentioned a specific case in which a cavern had only a few extending tunnels, but the individuals involved thought only to bring one light source plus their cell phones. As with any adventure destined to fail, the torch had a mishap and the cavers with their cell phones couldn’t distinguish between the details of the cave through the poor light source, nor could they call for help. Many would scratch their heads or joke towards their expense, how can you get lost in such a small cave? Few have ever experienced the total silence, the oppressive dark, and the disorientation that comes with confusion, then panic. How easy doubt sets in and turns your instincts against you.

This is why they, like many, didn’t live to learn from their error.

Even a few feet into this passage, I could no longer see the light. Not at all. Thick pipes ran in orderly groups into the dark depths, railways of electrical input. My path was carved around a cement pillar, going deeper. My heart thudded harder against my ribs filling my head with a dull pulse of pain. How deep did this go? Would I be able to turn back if I lost my way? I paused to listen in the crushing black, the total silence but for the thunder of my heart and my heavy breath. I had my reservations for traveling deeper, I was terribly fucking lost running everywhere through the Asylums endless maze of halls, but this was fifteen times worse. This was my grave.

I pressed on with no where else to look back on, I fortified my resolve to keep calm and find a way out. There was nothing that could hurt me here, I could hear nothing, no shrieking, no pleas for mercy. Dead silence.

The warmer air would’ve been a nice change of pace compared to the chilly asylum, but the reek of sludge and compost did not set me to ease. Blood was, as always, my guide through this twisting nightmare. Across the upper portion of the tunnel was a set of pipes, I had to stretch out and slip under them to get through. It opened up a bit and I could stand, more pipes, for gas or water.

As I moved forward it looked like my path came to an end, but the earth shifted under my feet. Looking down, I found a deep hole which I had nearly stumbled into. I dropped down, making sure to evade the bricks on the one side. The stench and heat was in full force at this point and I turned, locating where the bricks had been torn out of a wall.

The sewers beneath the asylum were huge, possibly to redirect the flow of water and alleviate erosion. It wasn’t called Mount Massive for the jollies of it. I glanced beyond the ruptured wall, crinkling my nose at the odor. To my right was a light source, but my left was difficult to make out even with the NV. Moisture in the air interfered with the feed.

Satisfied that the path was free of wavering figures, I sloshed into the filthy water of the drainage flow trying not to think about what might be floating in it. The dark tunnel twisted around and after a few feet I could make out the collection of fallen boulders and earth. A cave in, a weakness of some sort in the foundation. This made me uneasy, the tunnels could be subjected to collapse while I was down here, especially with the heavy rainstorm currently hammering the mountain. I didn’t bother to get closer should there be an opening I could squeeze through, it wasn’t worth it.

The lit tunnel offered two paths, I proceeded through the light, and presumably the path the patients had taken when they came down here. At least I knew there must be a way out, unless they came down here and backtracked out. I doubted that. This was where the blood led me.

No matter how many times I repeated that phrase in my head, it always sounded wrong and insane.

A barricade for flotsam shed some perception on the water levels of these tunnels, if there was a good flood it could reach my hip. I imagined the water was lower but even now the flow rolled over my ankles, I could only be thankful the water temper was tolerable or I’d succumb to hypothermia. The barrier offered little trouble, but a sharp pain in my side. Nice thing, I was growing accustomed to the jolts of pain. Just had to avoid getting thrown out of windows, or kicked in the chest.

An intersecting tunnel came into view, but it was easy to decide which way from here with no detours. My right was completely packed by another cave in, giving me some mild grief if that was my way out. The ruble didn’t look fresh but I was no expert on collapses.

The right looked like another dead end from a distance, but as I moved closer I could see the small drainage tunnel in the shallow ditch was open. A strong source of light soaked through a large grate overhead, offered by the upper floors perhaps, I couldn’t tell. I stood off to the side of the gaping drain to look up, but the light from above was too bright to view past and make out its origins. I thought I heard someone screaming, it could’ve been my imagination. The echoing chatter of water spilled along the cobblestone bricks into the ditch below at a high frequency.

As I looked down, I thought I saw a body slumped by a grated drain. It was a body, I crept in close to examine him through the NV feed. He didn’t look like one of the patients that had come down earlier, a small relief. He had been dead for some time, his pants and the lower area of his body had absorbed so much water he almost looked fluffy, but it was only skin dissolved and flaking away. I didn’t need that thought on my mind, though I had already presumed I would find more bodies in the sewer, I didn’t need to see them immediately. What a naïve hope that was.

Returning to my task at hand, I grimaced as I couched low and scooted along the water into the small tunnel. The humid stench was overpowering and the cramped space of the drain had me nearly knelt in the foul water, but I managed to only submerge one knee as I felt along. I tried to bury my face in my collar and hold the camera up so I could see where I was going and not put my knee into something unpleasant. Blood was one thing, it was tolerable.

I tried to keep my hand along the ‘dryer’ side of the wall, where the tunnel sloped down but wasn’t in the water. The cuts along the back of my leg stung like hell and I tried not to envision what sort of bacterial infections I’d come away with. A piece of paper from something got caught on my foot, but I wouldn’t mess with that until I could stand. The tunnel ended and I assured myself there was nothing here with me poised just beside the opening to lop my head off, before I shuffled out and stood.

Much of the same met me, no light and pipes suspended along the roof of the tunnel. As I stared through the quivering visor I realized for the first time, I was shaken all over. Not just mild tremors, I could literally not hold myself still as I inspected the open channel over. I wasn’t cold, in fact a thin layer of sweat had spread under my coat causing it to stick against my shirt.

I was terrified.

Despite my small reprieve of isolation I was frightened, my nerves frayed. Where was I going? How did I get out of here? What if there was no way out? What if this was where I was meant to die?

Get ahold of yourself. I stepped back and leaned beside the wall and touched the cool brick, feeling the vibrations of the Asylum against my palm. Not gonna die here. I would get out. I would get out with the evidence and reveal this heinous mess to everyone.

I took a small breath through my mouth and stared at the long corridor ahead. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to make that the truth so bad.

The water sloshed over my shoes, and I flipped off the remains of that sheet of paper–

Something flittered into sight ahead. I barely turned my camera up, night vision and everything I could see perfectly, and something glided by in the intersecting tunnel. Looked black, like a shadow, but it was in direct light. Was something there?

I took a few steps back to the tunnel and perched down, checking on my camera. Features, playback, last five minutes. I realized in reviewing the footage that I was breathing hard, I still was. Didn’t care.

I paused the feed and stared at what was caught, it wasn’t very clear. Just a black shape, it had passed in barely a second and looked almost transparent. It wasn’t in the light as I had imagined, the NV had caught it in the dark of the intersecting tunnel. Maybe it was a residual image, the camera had color mishaps since I flew out that window. But…it looked suspended, a good six feet above the ground.

I took a deep breath through my mouth and exhaled. Later I would review the evidence with better equipment, image quality enhancements. And I’d make copies of everything.

First, I had to get out of here. And the only route open to me was ahead, where that shadow was.

I exercised extreme caution as I proceeded forward, listening every few steps for sounds or stopping when I thought I heard something. Carefully I picked my way along the tunnel with my eyes fixed ahead, the camera never picked up another image.

To my right where it must have gone, was a barricade or gap for high water levels. I decided to avoid that path and check elsewhere, give whatever was there now a chance to clear out.

The left side extended a distance, all manner of trash was down here from dissolving files to cardboard boxes. The path took a right path followed brick and on the left a drainage tunnel, grated up. The path took a right and around the corner a light source, and possibly a way out.

I was disappointed to discover it wasn’t to be. This was an exit, perhaps some time before, but the ladder set here was completely destroyed. On the floor beneath lay the remains of a human, entrails, rotted limbs, and the ladder. I attempted to lift it up but it was too short. Even pushing some cardboard boxes over helped in no way, they were too soggy from sitting in the wet air. The upper one cracked and folders scattered, patient letters. I’m guessing Murkoff never sent these to the families, and probably forged return notes. A few were stuffed into a file, which I took interest in

“"(Found scrawled in pencil on the back of an admittance form. Handwritting matches samples from patient “Father” MARTIN ARCHIMBAUD.)

This God is real. What we’ve mistaken so long for ghosts, spirits, madness. We were only willfully ignorant. The scales on Saul’s eyes were fear, and when you see beyond it, you truly see. This is the gift of the Walrider. The Gospel of Sand. The greatest sin in the world is willful ignorance of God. To receive a revelation and not spread it to the waiting flock. This place… To stand in the way of salvation is a sin for which there is no punishment too great’.”

For some reason this note caused goosebumps to crawl up my skin. My mind brought back images of the MHS team, throttled and dragged away. What had I seen? What did Father Martin ask? “Will you see? Can you?” I still didn’t understand, but I felt closer to understanding these mysteries through these sloppy scribbles. Something about these words felt more than deranged delusions. There was a truth.

I left the file and moved around the opposite side of the tunnel, lowering the camera where the lamps overhead still functioned casting deep yellow globs of light to spread over the moist stone. Save batteries, live longer.

A soft tinkling…turned into an aggressive rattle as I passed under a large pipe. I tried to find the source, but it sounded as though it were coming from within the pipe itself. I raised my camera though there was nothing to record, but that sound was eerie, I could see nothing to generate that sort of sound. Like pouring pellets into a bebe rifle.

I left that place and quickly returned to what must have been my route, where the shape had gone? I don’t know at this point. Peering through the tight gap I could make note of nothing threatening or otherwise, despite the distance I could tell there were areas where danger could lurk. My progress so far had been quiet.

The barricade was tight, difficult even for me to get through. I grunted as it rubbed on my bad side but I made it. I’m sure there were hundreds of those down here.

The sewer opened up into another tunnel, a huge drainage gutter sat a few feet ahead with a grate over it. To the right was a ladder swallowed up in a flood of murky water with a plaque reading Lower Junction

Fuck that. I’m trying to get out of this place.

A large pipe directed down into the lower area was clearly labeled ‘Female ward,’ and across from it an identical pipe with the faded words ‘Prison ward.’ More the reason not to go THAT way. I continued to where some crates had been abandoned, probably filled with replacement parts or materials for the plumbing. The asylum was nearly a city all in itself and required routine maintenance.

This made sense, they had a lot of people here on residence doing the experiments. Probably the higher security clearance guys never went out on a sunny day, couldn’t risk them getting hurt or lost.

A loud thud echoed through the tunnel, I stopped near the crates and watched as a shape dropped down at the other end. I stepped back and knelt behind them as he marched forward, struggling to breathe as he always did after the heavy exercise of killing.

The big ugly fucker just wouldn’t give it a rest! What was his obsession? Did he just follow me wherever he thought I was, or was it just chance? Maybe he was following the patients, and somehow I was shepherd in with the flock. Didn’t change matters, he was here now for whatever reason. Damnit.

He moved towards the middle of the corridor and paused, glanced around as his breathing calmed. Now that I saw him clearly in the light, I could make out details I hadn’t been able to pick out on when he threw me out a window.

No. I will never let that go.

His face was indeed mutilated, by himself reports said. I doubt he had sharp items while institutionalized. Was it from the treatment he became so large? Or just bad cardio, the guy ran like a horse. The report also stated he had modified restraints to conform his massive size, and by modified they meant huge chains which he dragged around on his legs and arms. The ones wrapped about his wrists appeared to have restricted his blood flow, I couldn’t tell from the distance if his hands still worked, they looked pale and skeletal.

Chris turned and began down a path on my right. I listened to the sound of his chains as they grew soft and distant, with his heavy huffing. At this point I wasn’t sure where to go, if I used my camera and zoomed, I could see to the end where he plopped down was grated. One of the tunnels might lead somewhere, someplace where I could climb out of this sewer. This option was more favorably than sitting here waiting for him to find me while I was indecisive about where to go.

I took hesitant steps forward, listening. The sounds bounced around the walls, but I only heard the soft swish of water around my shoes. He entered a tunnel further away on the left, as I moved it I could make out a dark entrance not far from my position on the right.

The tunnel was well lit, it set my nerves to ease but a coil of anxiousness knotted in my throat as I felt exposed. I gave a small whimper unintentionally as I sprang over a flotsam guard when I twisted the wrong way, and I stopped to listen for a few seconds to assure the bug fucker hadn’t heard that. As I resumed, the tunnel took a right into shadows and a cool draft, at the end I found a few planks of plywood and another grate drain. And an open door brimming with light.

The room had little to offer. Some shelves stacked with paints and boxes, a few batteries that I could use, lockers, and a large pipe with a valve labeled Prison drain

Apparently I was going into the Lower Junction.

I shut the door behind me and griped the valve tightly and turned. Or tried. My arm ached and my ribs just couldn’t take it, a hot streak of pain pulsed in my side. I stepped back and frowned at the valve. Maybe I could trick Chris into turning it, or rig him up to it in some elaborate way.

Or I could stop being a pussy and turn that valve?

I took a few shallow breaths and steeled myself. I was not halfway done with this place, and it wasn’t done with me. If I was going to survive this, I would endure a lot more than some cheap shots and…

Crashing out a few windows.

I gripped the valve and braced myself, ignoring the throbbing or the red in my vision. It would turn or so help me.

The valve gave in and wrenched. I turned until it was all the way open, or what I presumed to be open. I panted a bit as I turned and left the room.

Nothing. That was nothing. I could turn valves all day. The pain would subside soon, and I could forget it in favor of more compelling matters.

In the dark tunnel I heard chains drag, and a voice mutter. Two ways to spell dead. Without a thought I pivoted and returned to the room, shutting the door behind me. I stood waiting for a short while before I saw the knob twist. My immediate instinct told me hide in the lockers, but the door was already opening and I was too far to get one open and stuff myself within. I had already moved to the other side, where there was a large space behind the shelves where the light fell short. I squatted in the furthest corner and watched as Chris entered.

He pushed the door open fully and stepped inside checking on the lockers. Yes, they were very lovely. He must not have known I was here, he didn’t bother opening a one. Then, he turned looking at the shelves where I was hiding. I held my breath and stared at him, directly at him. I thought we made eye contact and my heart stopped, but the big fucker turned smoothly and left the room.

Even when I was certain he was well gone, I couldn’t move. It felt like my body was frozen. It took some effort but I managed to adjust my grip on the camera, then raise my arms and took a breath, then another. I felt my mind begin to clear and the images replayed in my mind, Chris turning and his murky eyes dead on me. In reflex I shut my own eyes and listened to the sounds of the sewer, soft hissing in pipes, water trickling down ancient mortar. The tremors were back in full force, but I doubt they ever truly left me. I only forgot they were there.

In some time I had coaxed myself enough to stand and move towards the open door, I wobbled on my feet and caught the frame before I could go charging out to make a thunderous descent on the slick plywood.

The dark was my only ally.

I pushed myself off the doorframe and ventured into the tunnel, jumping at every little sound. The drip of water was incessant, nerve wrecking. I couldn’t see where he had gone from the opening of the tunnel, I stood waiting for some sign. The idea that he might’ve left this area by some way was on my thoughts, but I knew better. If he found a way out, I’d have a way out. But he would exhaust his search first and that could take hours.

There were two large pipes leading into the lower junction, I already drained one. The female drain was located on the left side of the tunnel, the pipe must’ve run that way.

While the coast was clear, I went ahead to the backside of the tunnel where the big fucker had initially entered from. Maybe there was a way out I missed, a break in the grate.

Another dead end. A dead guard, crumpled and broken, it looked like his legs had been twisted off and the only thing keeping them attached were his blood drenched pants. I spun about when I picked up on the big fuckers approach, and ducked down behind the crates pressing myself into the edge where they met with the curved wall of the tunnel. He was getting closer.

For a tense moment it sounded like he was right on the other side of the crate. My only option was to hold still and pretend I wasn’t there. The chains clinked as he moved and sniffed the air, I imagine this smell didn’t faze him a whole lot. I was focused on the sleeve over my arm as I held perfectly still, studying the different colors and stains it had acquired.

“Scout the perimeter, then isolate the target.”

Eventually he continued on his way, his footfalls and muttering getting faint. I waited a moment certain he took the left tunnel, towards the prison ward. Of any tunnel, I just wanted to relocate and find a better vantage point. Slowly I stood up, and there he was no more than fifteen feet away.

Chris bellowed something unintelligible and charged, sounded like “There you argh!” I bolted, hitting the edge of the wall with my arm and skimmed off heading to the other side of the tunnel. Had to find a place to hide, needed somewhere I can duck into. He was screaming something after me, it was hard to tell between the splashing water and his dragging chains.

I vaulted over a drain guard and took a sharp left, into the dark. No place to duck into, only a few alcoves that heightened my hopes only to crush them. I slowed to toggle the NV and not drop the camera, he was nearly at my back when I picked up pace. I nearly missed the sharp turn to the right, I stumbled when I stepped on a greasy cardboard box but managed to stay upright. Ahead was light, revealing another cave in, but it looked like there was an opening I could squeeze through. I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, but standing around debating wouldn’t improve my health either.

The boulders and brick felt sturdy enough as I crammed myself between them, had to get deeper or the big fucker would drag me out. Or rip my arm off in the process.

“Get out ‘ere!” Chris was trying to dig me out as I crammed my body deeper. He could topple the mound onto himself for all I cared.

As it was, I was nearly trapped in this alcove. But with a firm shove I dislodged some rock at my feet and was able to slip down and crawl out. It looked like the tunnel did continue down this way, but the cave in extended to that area and effectively blocked this path.

A bent door was lodged in the brick wall a few feet ahead, ripped off the lock by a force of science I didn’t wish to meet. The plaque beside it read ‘Female drain.’ I pushed the door in and peered inside. There wasn’t much to note, the room was small and there was no place to hide. A shelf held a few of the paints, and a few boxes had been abandoned here.

I stepped across to the valve and braced myself before attempting to turn it. I coughed a bit as my side tingled, but managed to get the handle to turn on my first try. Small achievements were possible, now if I was able to get out of here.

I couldn’t hear him working to dig me out from the other side, or his heavy breathing. He knew I was here and had no place else to go, it was likely he was camped on the other side waiting for me to emerge. He was former military, he could afford to wait hours if necessary without losing focus. If it came down to it, I could dodge him. Or try, it worked but I had a sick feeling he’d remember that trick.

The rocks hadn’t shifted at all, I was able to get through with little effort. I listened when nearly clear but picked up on nothing, only the constant drum of water running from the upper grates, and my own breathing. The tunnel was large enough I could get around him if I timed it just right, but I didn’t care to test my reflexes against the big fuckers. He was capable of nasty surprises, and the drain gutter was slick and unreliable.

I moved from the narrow space and took in a deep breath, then began to walk along the side of the drainage gutter where the water rolled down. It was impossible to eliminate my movement completely, but I would hear him before he heard me. I raised the camera for the night vision, but the power was getting low. I paused on the corner checking for the clear before I pulled out the dead battery and put in a fresh one.

The sound of churning water caught up to me. I didn’t pause as I quickly felt for the slot, and put in the battery before I turned to make a slow retreat. There wouldn’t be time to crawl in the gap, especially once I hit the light. I’d need to fake him out. For a moment I thought I had gained some distance, the sound of his steps quieted.

Then I heard the rapid approach of chains. “Little pig….”

I sprint the last stretch to my safety, but never made it. A strangled yelp slipped from me as the back of my collar was snared, I clutched the camera to my stomach as he lifted me off my feet and flung me to the side of the channels drain.

“Just lay there.” He stepped over me as I was trying to recover. Had to keep the camera out of the water, without it I was as good as dead! I kicked at the slick bricks, I was dead anyway if he got his hands around my throat. When I twisted my head to see where I was going, I spotted a missed tunnel that had a shattered grate. A space Chris couldn’t fit.

I kicked at his ankles, throwing myself through the open passage. Chris was still struggling to grip my shoes as I clambered inside thrashing in the shallow water until I was nearly soaked, but always making sure I was holding the camera away from the water. I didn’t stop there, I flipped over and kept going when I saw that the other side was open as well.

With a roar of outrage, Chris stalked off, to head me off. He had speed, I was severely limited as I struggled to move without knocking myself unconscious.

I cleared the other side and lunged to my feet, as I heard the water torn apart by his strides not far from my right. I hurtled over the dam and ran, relying completely on the effectiveness of the pipes and the factor that they had finished draining.

“Outer perimeter breached!” A crate flew by my head and shattered on the wall, I didn’t hesitate in my race. Couldn’t dwell on the effectiveness of his aim either, I just needed to reach that ladder. I shoved the camera into its hoister and practically dove down the ladder as the big fucker caught up to me. “Don’t you hear it?”

I glanced up at his fuck grated face, in time to cringe against the ladder when he dropped a crate. It crashed against the sides splinting in two, a piece hitting my shoulder but I barely felt it. I continued down the ladder two and three steps, until I hit the bottom and stumbled away blindly in the dark.

Another crate fell smashing against the floor, the reverberation so close and sudden I felt my head spin. I couldn’t see it until I had the NV active and took the time to give the soggy corridor a quick glance. From the ladder I could still hear Chris, snarling at my escape. I’m not sure why he didn’t pursue me, it didn’t seem impossible. I gave up and accept these matters, and struggled to understand where I was now.

I took a few breathes, wincing at the stale sewage and raw metallic scent. Not far from where I stood was another body of a patient, grotesquely bloated from being in the water for so long. My stomach turned at the soured reek disturbed by the drainage. This place just got better and better.

The heavy sounds of fresh drainage and falling water was tripled here. In the pipes hung algae or liquefied rubbish, I couldn’t discern. I only avoided it as I renewed my search, though it didn’t matter at this point, I was thoroughly soaked from my fall. I suppose the red stains in my coat had either diluted or washed out completely, and yet I was more of a mess than before. No surprise.

My path was literally straight forward, but I took it slow. I could easily get turned around or something might’ve crawled down here. I doubted it, as everything in here seemed to be in the advance stages of rot from the recent flood, but this place was full of unpleasant surprises that made you regret letting your guard down.

Much of them didn’t make any sense either. I mulled over the thought of what this place might’ve been like if they didn’t use an asylum and crazy people for the experiments.

I took note of a thick pipe overhead which followed the same route open to me. It didn’t have access through walls that had the small grated tunnels, but it gave me a direction. I followed it around a sharp corner, and above was another bloated body, the skin around his bare arms slipping off his skeleton, without the water to cushion the buoyancy. I made sure not to step directly under him, as I continued through the sewer. A few crates bobbed in the water as I moved by, a few were marked with Murkoff’s faded logo.

More left over plywood, maybe used to board up areas down here where the scientist made their last stand. Maybe a few of them came down here to shelter from the patients, but as of yet I had seen no evidence of this. The wood gave me little trouble, stiff but soggy from its prolonged aquatic existence. Above the pipe made a sharp turn and ended its path at a connecting pipe parallel with the wall. I retreated as a sharp blast of hot steam shot out. Damn pipes were now against me.

I skipped over another broken barrier of wood and boxes scattered in the drainage gutter, before finally coming to a ladder, and my escape. Given, the big fucker hadn’t beaten me here somehow and was waiting above for me to poke my head out of the warren. At least there was light above.

As I made my gradual progress up the tall ladder, I occasionally glanced up to my destination. I tried to keep my steps soft, but someone had heard me. They popped their head over the opening from above, curious to who was coming up.

I stopped debating what that might’ve been. Too normal to be Chris Walker, but all patients were insane murders at this point. A little slower I renewed my climb, unable to hear what the variant above might be planning. It was likely he couldn’t see anyone down in the dark depths, but he did hear me. He knew someone was coming.

I tightened my grip on the bars when I peered just over the edge, checking around as much as I could for the person. I was relieved to find myself alone, but I thought I heard voices echoing in the distance. Set to ease but still wary I climbed up onto the grate and kept low, I was certain they coming from somewhere….

“No. I can hear it!” There was a large grate in a tunnel to my left, that the voices echoed down. Did they mean me?

“Somebody—”

“The Walrider!” Guess not. I pulled myself up a little more as shrieks splint the calm, I hung back as a sound came to me similar to crashing water, and a low rumbling. Not rumbling, was it trickling? Or a hissing, as something caught in the air and lashed out. I winced as the howls began.

The voices intensified, as people somewhere shrieked with wild release. I couldn’t place what I was hearing, a lifting swell of agony and terror as the multitude came to a crescendo, cracks and tears of bone and flesh and crushed windpipes catching voices midway through their final throes. Somewhere, not far from where I was, people were slaughtered by something they had warned me about.

It couldn’t be. The Walrider was a myth, it couldn’t exist.

Eventually the anguished cries fell silent, as did the sounds of what had enacted its punishment.

#miles upshure #outlast #outlast fanfiction #outlast novelized

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kurtty-drabbles · 4 years

Text

Krampus au

N/A: Something short if we´re lucky and based on the idea Krampus punishes those who do or want to do wrong. Here, Logan wanted to kill Scott to get Jean as his lust for the woman went cray cray and well, it is time for Kitty to save his ass...again.

@djinmer4 @dannybagpipesarecalling @bamfoftheundead @everykurt

Is not often Kitty has time to enjoy the flowers, so to speak, and breaks like this-where nothing ever seems to happen and time moves slower- prove to Kittu that something big will happen. Lockheed was munching on a slice of pizza when Jubilee enters the office with a certain urgency in her face. And that expression alone proves to Kitty something big did happen and once again she must deal with it.

"Kitty, did...did Logan ever enter in contact with you?" Jubilee asked not beating the bushes and Kitty frowns for a moment and tries to recall the last time Logan called. Nothing comes to mind and she shakes her head as Lockheed is eating another big slice of pizza.

"Oh God!" she said in a nervous tone as her hands are moving in a pattern matching the tone as well. "Look, I was trying to see if he was alright and no one in the X-men saw him. No one in the Avengers saw him and ...I have no idea where he is" Jubilee confessed the last part feeling a bit of fear.

"Yeah, is not exactly his thing to worry everyone...let´s think the options, maybe he meets an old friend, and yes I´m using the term loosely here and is catching up with a said friend" Kitty quote and unquote her fingers on the word friend. Jubilee shakes her head now.

"No, it feels as if he dropped from the face of Earth...and if even the Avengers don´t know where he is...then...I doubt he´s catching up with a friend" Jubilee´s reply did make Kitty worry more.

"When was the last time you saw Logan?" Kitty asked not liking this question and having a feeling the answer will not be great, and once again, she´s correct on her gut feeling as Jubilee sighs in defeat.

"On Scott and Jean´s marriage..." Jubilee won´t give any unnecessary detail but this phrase does make Kitty shiver a little in cringe as she recalled Logan on that day and the man was anything but subtle on his "infatuation" for Jean Grey.

"Ok, I´ll take a look. Do you have the Alpha fight´s contact?" Kitty asked as she knows Logan sometimes likes to be true to his Canadian roots and be with other Canadians.

"Cap Canada? Yeah, not as nice as the country portrayed to be ...but, the man also has no idea where Logan is..." Jubilee replied not happy with the situation as to be expected. "me, Laura, and Chamber are worried Logan did something beyond his usual stupidity...You think Cap Canada is covering whatever happened?"

Kitty nods for a moment. "It wouldn´t be the first time and Cap Canada knows Logan longer than us"

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Logan has two houses. One in the US and one in Canada, and both are identical to the point is almost an intentional joke. Almost. She´s visiting the one located in the US and noticed a few things on her arrival. First, the house looks completely wrecked from inside and outside, second, there´s no light in the house and third, his house has a concerning number of Jean Grey´s photos.

A flashlight and Lockheed on her shoulder make the situation less dire if only a little bit. The cabin truly looks wrecked and she notices how something gets inside and...take someone out. Sabertooth wouldn´t ever be this clean "It would have more blood here...instead of shatter glass" she mutters to herself.

She notices a photo of Jean where Scott should have been, instead, his part was cut by what Kitty use was claws. "again, it was not discreet" she mutters and has a concerning picture in her mind about Logan´s mental state.

She ponders if she should call to the Summers warning about the potential threat of Logan went after the couple-and this is a strong possibility given the number of Jean´s pictures- but for some reason decided against. "They´re in the honeymoon...and maybe Logan didn´t went...for this route" Kitty is speaking with Lockheed hoping to convince her more than her dragon companion.

Lockheed flies in direction of the broken window and points to Kitty the footprints. "Good job, Lockheed, maybe Logan didn´t go for that route after all" she responds pleased and Lockheed is not sharing the enthusiasm.

The footprints are strange. It only appears in one location-and Kitty search for more, but, without any success- and it seems whatever took Logan has a feet with 2 toes.

A snap was heard as Kitty took a photo of this footprint. "Ok, you think another Canadian Lovecraftian took him...again?" Kitty asked her friend who mutters in his dragon´s language and proves his lack of interest in Logan´s well being. "Yeah, you two never saw eye to eye"

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kitty shows the footprint to Illyana Rasputin and Jubilee - Illyana is on her hell witch´s mood and embraces all her demon side and dark powers as well ignoring her brother's complaint about her to return to be a snowflake- and both have a different reaction to this.

"So...a crypt took Logan, is that what you think? It wouldn´t be the first time..." Jubilee states reviving a few stories about Logan and the crypts in his life.

Yana stares at the image for a moment. "Wait, you said he had tons of images of Jean Grey? The woman he lust?" Yana asked as if she´s seeing a missing piece no one can see and this worries Jubilee and Kitty who nods as well...Logan was never subtle in his crush for Jean.

"And so to be clear...it was completely one-sided?" she asked again with a serious tone.

Jubilee and Kitty exchanges looks. Was one-sided? It certainly looks like it was, but, if Jean did 180 degrees and suddenly went to live with Logan...would be a plot twist no one could ever imagine.

"Look" Jubilee states trying to be as kind to the memory of her father figure as possible. "his crush on Jean was one-sided as it can get and I doubt a woman who married her fiance and is in honeymoon would suddenly change her mind and want another man...is Jean Grey, you remember how she was to pick a wedding dress? Yes, I doubt she is with Logan...I doubt she even knows or care Logan carries a torch for her" Jubilee completes.

"I think she knows...I think she knows and doesn´t care...Thought if she ignored him enough...maybe he would move on...and now, I´m not so sure if that was the best idea" Kitty interjected.

"It does not matter...it really doesn´t...Logan was taken by a Krampus"

"WHAT?"

"Creatures that punish the wick...originally, they´re from Germany and Austria, but, nothing prevents them to going after anyone who commits crimes and Logan...must have committed a serious crime if Krampus arrives here"

"And...what we do?"

"Well...if you want to save Logan...how well, do you, Kitty, handle the cold?" and this is a question that makes Jubilee makes tons of questions and rightfully so.

"Why Kitty?"

Yana blinks and explains. "I´m banned from entering his realm. No mortal can enter in his realm without being a victim and Kitty is the one who can enter because she can phase through dimensions" Yana explains and Jubilee sighs in defeat this explanation does make sense.

"And how do I get out?"

"Phashing...but the problem here is not to get in or get out....the problem is if Krampus will let you even see Logan"

Jubilee is not one to sit on any mission. "Look, if you can´t go...do you know someone that can open a portal for us or something? I don´t want to ''not'' rescue Logan...and I hate to feel useless...plus, if Kitty will face a Krampus, whatever that thing is, she´ll need firepower" Jubilee proves her point by letting her hands glow with her mutation.

"Krampus´s home is awfully cold, literally cold. I could try to make a portal...but then the portal would accept only 3 people. You, Kitty and Logan, and even that will still be too risky"

"I don´t care...I´m in"

"As Jubilee said. I´ll need all the firepower I can get"

"And all the luck too"

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Yana is true to her word and created a portal for Krampus´s address and it was just like Yana predicted to be. "So...he torture people here? in this cozy and nice place?" Jubilee asked in a derived tone. "I can´t believe" she concludes in pure sarcasm.

"Yeah...and it seems he´s a fan of cliches because of the creepy looking mountain appears to be looking at them. Yana said he only punishes the wicked and leaves the innocent in peace, so, Kitty and Jubilee have a chance. Small as it can be is still a chance.

A number of glowing golden eyes watched her for a minute and then vanish like it was never there. "Man, why Logan couldn´t move on like a normal person" Kitty chided his poor choices and Jubilee is not defending the man this time.

Locate Logan, once climbing this creepy and cartoonish mountain, was not a daunting task. The man is tied up by chains and shackles and is conscious enough to see Kitty and Jubilee coming to his way. "NO, he´s behind you!"

And Kitty appears to be prepared as she used the soulsword and faces the Krampus as Jubilee goes to Logan in the hopes of freeing him. The Krampus is a blue man-with horns, his fur is noticeable, his golden eyes are full of mischief and his tail makes it present to Kitty- who is amused at her attempt.

"Ah, Kitty Pryde and Jubilee Lee. Here to steal my criminal?" The Krampus states. "have they told you what he planned to do? Kill an innocent man and take the woman as his prize" and this makes Jubilee stop and look at Logan with total disappointment.

Kitty can´t hide her feelings too. "We´re not here to steal anything...we´re here to make a deal with you, Krampus"

The Krampus looks amused. "Kurt, my name is Kurt...call me Kurt would be like me calling you human"

"No one mentioned...ok, hi, Kurt...we´re here..." and Kurt waves off his hand.

"To make a deal...sure, sure. What you and your friend can offer to make me want to let Logan go?"

"Work for you until his sentence is clean" Kitty speaks as Jubilee sighs and nods not happy with any of this and makes Logan be aware of their feelings. The man, for once, looks ashamed for himself.

"Oh...that is new. The council always says for me to take more deals" Kurt mutters to himself. "I take Magik explains how I work, right?" the two women nod. "excellent" his now good mood and chipper tone are a bit unsettling. "is a deal. You two work for me for a year and after that...I release Logan...a deal is a deal and is sacred for my kind"

The man- she has a hard time calling Kurt IT if he acts and looks so humane-smiles and shakes her hand. The deal is sealed and really, Kitty and Jubilee have things to say to Logan.

Meanwhile, Jean and Scott return from their honeymoon to notice Kitty and Jubilee´s absence.

"Yana, where are Kitty and Jubilee?"

"Saving Logan from a Krampus"

"...Sure, ok. Nevermind"

#krampus au #one shot #kurt wagner #kitty pryde #jubilee le #Logan Howlett #anti Jean x Logan

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let-them-eat-rakes · 4 years

Text

A PERFECTLY NORMAL, REGULAR OLD IKEA

Item #: SCP-3008

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: The retail park containing SCP-3008 has been purchased by the Foundation and converted into Site-██. All public roads leading to or passing by Site-██ have been redirected.

The entrance to SCP-3008 is to be monitored at all times, and no one is to enter SCP-3008 outside of testing, as permitted by the Senior Researcher.

Humans exiting SCP-3008 are to be detained and then debriefed prior to the administration of amnestics. Dependent upon the duration of their stay in SCP-3008, a cover story may need to be generated prior to their release.

Any other entities exiting SCP-3008 are to be terminated.

Description: SCP-3008 is a large retail unit previously owned by and branded as IKEA, a popular furniture retail chain. A person entering SCP-3008 through the main entrance and then passing out of sight of the doors will find themselves translocated to SCP-3008-1. This displacement will typically go unnoticed as no change will occur from the perspective of the victim; they will generally not become aware until they try to return to the entrance.

SCP-3008-1 is a space resembling the inside of an IKEA furniture store, extending far beyond the limits of what could physically be contained within the dimensions of the retail unit. Current measurements indicate an area of at least 10km2 with no visible external terminators detected in any direction. Inconclusive results from the use of laser rangefinders has led to the speculation that the space may be infinite.

SCP-3008-1 is inhabited by an unknown number of civilians trapped within prior to containment. Gathered data suggests they have formed a rudimentary civilisation within SCP-3008-1, including the construction of settlements and fortifications for the purpose of defending against SCP-3008-2.

SCP-3008-2 are humanoid entities that exist within SCP-3008-1. While superficially resembling humans they possess exaggerated and inconsistent bodily proportions, often described as being too short or too tall. They possess no facial features and in all observed cases wear a yellow shirt and blue trousers consistent with the IKEA employee uniform.

SCP-3008-1 has a rudimentary day-night cycle, determined by the overhead lighting within the space activating and deactivating at times consistent with the opening and closing times of the original retail store. During the "night" instances of SCP-3008-2 will become violent towards all other lifeforms within SCP-3008-1. During these bouts of violence they have been heard to vocalise phrases in English that are typically variations of "The store is now closed, please exit the building". Once "day" begins SCP-3008-2 instances immediately become passive and begin moving throughout SCP-3008-1 seemingly at random. They are unresponsive to questioning or other verbal cues in this state, though will react violently if attacked.

SCP-3008-1 is known to have one or more exits located within though these exits do not appear to have a fixed position, making it difficult to leave SCP-3008-1 once inside. Using any other door besides the main entrance to enter the structure or breaking through the walls of the retail unit leads into the non-anomalous interior of the original store.

Since containment began 14 individuals have managed to exit SCP-3008. Following extensive debriefing all individuals have been administered amnestics and released.

Incident 3008-1: At 00:37 on ██/██/200█ a human male exited SCP-3008, followed 10 seconds later by an instance of SCP-3008-2. SCP-3008-2 caught and killed the man before itself being terminated by armed response personnel. This incident represents the only time an instance of SCP-3008-2 has been seen exiting SCP-3008. A full autopsy on the corpse was performed; see 3008-2 Autopsy Log for more details.

The man was carrying an IKEA-branded journal seeming to document his time in SCP-3008-1, transcribed below verbatim.

- Close Journal

So, I'm writing this to document what I can only assume is my sudden descent into insanity. I can't possibly be THAT bad a navigator, and yet as I write this I've been trapped in Ikea for 2 days. I haven't seen another person in the entire time I've been here. I thought it was a prank at first. Turn the place into a maze, get all the people out and see how long it takes me to get lost, then everyone has a good old laugh. Realised that wasn't the case when I tried to backtrack. Everything had changed, so I ended up lost. Instead of the exit, it was just row after row of bookcases.

So, I'm trapped in Ikea. Sounds like the setup for a bad joke. The lights went out at 10pm. Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack, that loud electrical THUNK sound and then pitch blackness. Place is full of beds though and my phone has a torch on it - but no damn signal - so I found a bed and went to sleep. Spent most of the next day trying to find my way out with no luck. Did find a restaurant serving those meatballs though, so at least I won't starve. That's probably the punchline to that joke. Anyway they were still warm and fresh, but I haven't seen anyone around who could have cooked them. Made my way back to the beds before the lights cut out again since it's too dark to search with them off.

It's 9.10am now, the lights came back on a little while ago. I'm sure I've searched the entire area around where I came in now and the exit obviously isn't here, so I'm going to pick a direction and hope for the best.

Day 3 of my magical Ikea mystery adventure. If I wasn't sure that there was something seriously weird about this place before, I am now. Walked for 3 hours in a more or less straight line (insert Ikea joke here) before I came across a ladder next to one of those huge stock shelves they have here. Climbed up to get my bearings, and it looks like this place just stretches on forever. Like that scene from the Lion King, except instead of trees and grass it was all shelves and tables and crap. I did see a person moving not too far away though, so I headed over.

Thought it was a staff member at first - it was wearing the uniform. And hell maybe it was, maybe freakish 7ft tall monsters with long arms, short legs and no faces are just the kinds of thing they want working at Super Ikea. Damn thing completely ignored me though, and with no eyes or ears I can't even be sure it knew I was there. Thought about shoving it or something to get its attention, but its hands were big enough to crush a water melon so I decided against it. It just kept moving along and eventually I lost sight of it so I decided to carry on the way I was going.

Anyway, no comfy bed for me tonight. Looks like I've entered the Improbably Hard and Pointy Table section of the store. Guess I'll have to make do with some bunched up tablecloths. Phone battery died during the day too. Didn't work anyway, but I feel like I've just lost some vital lifeline.

You ever see one of those cartoons where they're going through doors in a hallway and they just pop out of another door in the same hallway? That's how I feel right now. I've seen nothing but the same identical bookshelf for 2 days now. Just row after row after row of them. I mean, come on. I love books as much as the next guy, but this is excessive. I'm obviously still moving forwards though, I can see the signs hanging overhead passing by. Too bad none of them say "Exit".

Not sure who I was addressing that question to. Lets just say it was practice for the autobiography I'm going to write when I get out of here. I'll call it "My perfectly normal trip to a regular old Ikea".

If I ever get out o

Finally found some other people! Yeah, turns out I'm not the only poor bastard trapped in here. Lucky for me, I guess. My 6th night here, 2 of those staff things came at me in the dark. Different from the first one I saw, but still messed up. Heard them coming, they were saying that the store was closed and I had to leave the building, all nice and polite like. I'm not sure which part of that was weirder, that they don't have mouths or that they were apparently trying to kill me while they were saying it. Came at me like rabid dogs.

So, I legged it. Sprinting through ikea in the dark like a fucking madman. I saw it when I cleared another stand of those giant stock shelves, all lit up with torches and floodlights. They've built a whole town in here! Got a massive wall built out of shelves and beds and tables and whatever else. I swear to god it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Anyway I guess they saw me coming (or maybe they heard my girlish manly bellows of fear), because they had a gate open and 2 people were there waving me in. Heard the staff things slam into the gate behind me after it closed, still politely informing us all that the store was now closed. They wandered off eventually though.

They call the town Exchange, because that's whats on the sign hanging from the ceiling directly above it. Exchange and Returns. All lit up against the night using lights they've found and plugged into the power lines. And there are beds and food and people. Over 50 wonderful people with regular sized limbs and a full set of facial features. It's now my 7th night here, and the first one not spent in darkness. A full week living in Ikea. There's probably a TV show in that somewhere.

Now that I'm around other people, I'm starting to feel more normal. Maybe normal isn't the word. But after a week with only the sound of my own footsteps for company, I was becoming increasingly sure that I'd just gone nuts. That I was tied up in some padded room somewhere, banging my head against the wall. But no, I feel quite sane now, thank you very much!

Apparently there are other towns out there. Some with more people, some with less. I found that fairly mind-boggling - how can that many people go missing with no one noticing. Surely someone would have noticed that everyone who goes to ikea seems to fucking vanish. Or maybe it's not everyone. Maybe we're just the lucky ones.

The people here just call those staff monster things the Staff. Apparently they are fine during the day, minding their own business walking the aisles. As soon as those lights go out though, they go fucking bonkers. So during the day people go out to find food, water and whatever else they need. Apparently there are restaurants and shops around that randomly get restocked. No one knows how. Maybe the staff do it. Apparently they aren't very good at their jobs though because the restocking sometimes takes a while, which means the food needs to be rationed. Maybe if they weren't so busy chasing people around in the dark they'd get more done.

Anyway when night comes the staff go nuts and everyone holds up inside the walls. Apparently it's the same everywhere in this place, whatever this place is. The Ur-Ikea, from whence all other Ikeas sprang. Or maybe we're all still just in the regular ikea and this is all some fever dream brought on by mind-numbing boredom. Who knows.

Been here for 10 days now. Most of the people I asked said they stopped keeping track a long time ago and one guy, Chris, said he'd been in here for years.

Years.

[ILLEGIBLE SCRIBBLES]

Apparently there are rumours of people who do manage to get out. And of people who see the exit, only to have it vanish before their very eyes. I get the feeling not everyone believes that, but I do. Explains how we got stuck in here in the first place (sort of). And I mean, come on. Staff monsters, row after endless row of high quality Swedish furniture. I don't know why they would find a disappearing door so hard to believe in.

Anyway, I went out scavenging for food at a nearby shop with Sandra and Jerry today. Once you learn the landmarks of this place it's not so hard to navigate. The overhead signs help a lot, but there are others; not too far in the distance a huge section of those giant stock shelves has collapsed against each other and way off in the east (we all assume it's east anyway - apparently Ikea doesn't sell compasses) is some kind of tower that looks like its made of wood, reaches all the way to the ceiling. Maybe they were trying to break out through the roof. Lights up at night so there must be people there, but its apparently a few days walk (which means it must be miles away) so no one here really knows for sure. Apparently I got incredibly lucky sleeping out in the open for a week without getting ripped to bits by the staff. That's me. Lucky lucky lucky.

We found some food in the shop. Guess the staff restocked it during the night, which was nice of them. There was a telephone on the wall, so I figured I'd try it out. There was a voice on the other end, but they were just talking nonsense. Random words strung together with no real meaning. You ever see a video of someone with aphasia? Kind of sounded like that. Didn't answer me when I spoke to them anyway. Sandra says all the phones in here are the same.

Oops, asking the journal questions again!

I was thinking last night. The ceiling on this place is pretty high and as far as anyone can tell it goes on forever. Shouldn't there be some kind of weather in here? I'm sure I read about some NASA building that was so big it had its own weather patterns, with clouds and stuff. This place is definitely bigger than that, but now that I think about it I'm pretty sure I've never felt so much as a temperature change in here.

I'll add it to the Grand List of Weird Bullshit.

The staff attacked the Exchange last night. Must have been 20 or 30 of them all just asking us to leave the store calm as you like, while trying to smash the walls down with their bare hands. Apparently this happens pretty regularly, so everyone is prepared for it. Knives from the restaurants, lawn mower blades made into hatchets, a fire axe. One guy, Wasim, even made a functional crossbow. Anyway the walls have holes in them, which I hadn't noticed before, specifically so we can stab out at the staff when they attack. Took a couple of them down myself. They don't seem to bleed, which is weird, but they go down as easy as a regular person once you start sticking holes in them.

We had to haul the bodies away in the morning. Apparently the dead ones will attract more during the night, so we had to get them away from Exchange. We have a couple of those trolley things they use to move big boxes around, so we loaded them up and took them over to Pickup. Apparently people just name everything in here after whatever sign is hanging overhead.

Pickup was grisly. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of dead staff all piled up. There was no smell, which was a blessing. Apparently in addition to not bleeding, these things don't rot either. My curiosity got the better of me while we were unloading them, so I took a look at one of the more cut-up ones. They're just skin, or something that looks like skin, all the way through. No muscle, no bone, no organs. Are they even really alive in the first place? They certainly seem like they have bones when they are moving around, pounding on the walls. And I'm sure I felt more resistance than just skin when the knife went in during the night. Maybe something happens to them when they die. Just one more thing on the ever-increasing list of Weird Shit that goes on in here, I guess.

Something occurred to me, after the staff attack the other night. Every time you see a situation like this on TV or in a film, like its the end of the world or everyone is trapped on an island or whatever, once groups like ours start to form people always seem to turn on each other. Fighting for food or dominance or whatever else. That hasn't happened here. Apparently people from other towns come by from time to time, just to check in or occasionally to trade if they are short on something. But everything is always cordial. Friendly, even. Maybe its the threat of the staff, or perhaps the constant restocking of supplies in the shops means there's nothing much to fight over.

Maybe people are just better than they are generally given credit for. That's a nice thought. I think I'll go with that one.

A dozen people showed up at the gates this afternoon from a town called Trolleys. Apparently the staff broke through the walls and tore the town apart during the night. These 12 are the only survivors out of over a hundred. We let them in, obviously. One more point in the human decency column. Later, I asked if anyone knew how many of these towns there were out there. Between us and the new folks, we managed to come up with over 20 names. 20 towns filled with people, and who knows how many beyond that.

The motto for this place should be "How Is That Even Possible". Surely someone, somewhere must be looking for the thousands of people that must be in here.

I've been here for a little over 2 months now. Not that much changes, as it turns out. A couple of new people showed up, same story as the rest of us. Nice little trip to Ikea and suddenly they're trapped in Billy Bookcase's House of Faceless Weirdos. The staff attack the Exchange once or twice a week. We kill them and haul their bodies off, sometimes they hurt some of us first. They killed a guy called Jared a couple of weeks back. It was awful, frankly. Turns out regular humans still bleed in here, even if the staff don't. We tried our best, but none of us are doctors.

Jared was a good guy. He deserved better. We all do.

It occurred to me a couple of days after that, none of us were really looking for a way out of here. I don't even know where we'd start.

One of those quad copter things with a camera attached buzzed passed Exchange today. I thought it meant that someone was finally looking for us, that help was on the way. Apparently it's not the first time this has happened, though. Same thing happened a few months ago, and everyone is still here.

No idea if it saw us, it didn't stop if it did. Just kept flying until we could no longer see it.

Note: Based on recovery time of the journal, this entry appears to line up approximately with our first successful test piloting a drone inside SCP-3008-1. Analysis of footage shows a walled settlement under a sign labelled "Exchange and Returns". Attempts to relocate the settlement failed. Origin of previously sighted drones is unknown.

I started talking to people about the stuff they miss from home during dinner today. Probably not the best idea I've ever had, everyone seemed pretty down after. A bunch of people here have families. Husbands and wives, kids. Dogs. Franklin apparently has a pet llama, though I'm not sure I buy that.

But apparently some of the people here have some seriously odd gaps in their knowledge. 3 of them had never heard of the International Space Station, 2 of them seemed to think █████ ███████ was the Prime Minister, and one of them had apparently never heard of the Statue of Liberty. I believe them, too. They seemed just as confused as the rest of us.

The more I thought about it though, the more it started to explain a few things. What if the reason no one is looking for all us missing people is because we haven't all come from the same place. This is going to sound weird (maybe that should be the motto for this place) but what if all the people here have come from different dimensions? Realities? Whatever you call it. I've seen enough TV shows to know the drill. Sarah comes from a place where there is no Statue of Liberty. They didn't launch a space station where Wasim is from. If everyone here came from different places, even from ones that seem identical, there'd be no huge missing persons panic. No mass search. We'd just be a blip, a single missing person in a world of non-stop news.

Well. That was a fun train of thought.

Just realised that yesterday was the six month anniversary of my arrival here. I wonder if Ikea sells party hats. The routine around here has remained more or less the same. More new folk show up, one every couple of weeks or so. Food supplies go up and down, but we've never actually had a major shortage. Occasionally we get a visitor from one of the nearby towns, usually Checkouts or Aisle 630. We check in with each other from time to time, occasionally trade supplies if someone gets particularly low on something. It's comforting, in a way. A reminder that we aren't alone in here, some small glimmer of civilisation. Sometimes they bring medical supplies. Apparently there's a pharmacy a few towns down from Checkouts that gets restocked every now and then, so they share out what they can. I've never heard of an Ikea with a pharmacy before but at this point I wouldn't be surprised if someone stumbled on an Ikea Organ Harvesting Lab. Would certainly explain the staff.

Speaking of our faceless jailers, their attacks have been getting worse lately. 3 or 4 times a week now, with twice as many staff as there used to be. No idea where they all come from, or why the attacks have increased. We tried following one of them during the day a few weeks ago, me and Sarah. Wanted to see if they lead back to a staff room or something. Didn't seem to go anywhere though, just randomly walked through the aisles. We had to turn back before we found anything.

We've been reinforcing the walls, trying to arm ourselves better. Certainly no lack of materials to use. Wasim has been making more crossbows, but it's pretty slow going.

Too bad Ikea doesn't sell guns.

Note: No new personnel have entered SCP-3008 at Site-██ in the time span indicated in this entry.

The attacks are getting bad now. Almost every night, and with so many staff that the bodies almost pile high enough for others to climb the walls. I think we're in real trouble here.

Exchange is

I think Exchange is done. We got hit pretty bad last night. Not many casualties, but the wall is wrecked. We finally figured out why the attacks had been escalating, too. A box of supplies had a chunk of one of the staff in there. No idea how it happened but apparently a piece of one will draw them as well as a full body. Too late now in any case, there's too many bodies for us to haul away and still have time to fix the wall before night. Candace has called a meeting. I suspect there will be talk of abandoning Exchange, maybe try and get shelter at Checkouts or something.

It's already getting late though. I don't think we'll have time to make it. Maybe some of us will. I was fine for that first week out in the dark, after all. But then, how often can I keep getting lucky.

I'm only writing this for a sense of closure, I guess. For me, or for anyone who finds this. If this is the final entry here, I hope whoever is reading this is doing so from outside of this place.

My biggest fear? If I do die tonight, I'll just wake up here again in the morning.

Note: This is the last entry. It is assumed that while attempting to reach the "Checkouts" settlement he was separated from the rest of his group by a pursuing SCP-3008-2 instance and happened upon the exit.

#scp #scp fandom #scp foundation #scp 3008 #ikea #posted from a pile of leaves #let them eat rakes

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themadlostgirl · 5 years

Text

NDY AU (6)

*New story will get posted after I finish this au. Which should only be 2-3 chapters max. Original plan was for it to end at six but I got carried away as I do.*

Pairing: Reader x Peter Pan

Warnings: language, mentions of abuse

I wish I could say that things were perfect that next day. I really do. I woke up for school well rested, save for the nightmare. I was renewed and full of energy. It felt like nothing could touch me. I dare to say that it felt like I was floating. I was in the soaring through the clouds as happy and carefree as possible.

That was until I got to school. Leave it to that cesspool of stress and hormones to drag you crashing down to reality. I waited at my locker but Peter didn’t show up. I chalked it up to him maybe oversleeping and continued on. But he wasn’t in class or at lunch. When I texted him they went unanswered.

Where was he? He had better not be ditching school again. But if he was he’d still text me back. There’s something else going on here.

After school let out I caught a wind of good luck. The Anderston twins were sick so I didn’t need to watch them.

I tried calling Peter but it went straight to voicemail. I started to worry and found a phone book. Good thing there was only one Pangle in Storybrooke. I copied down the address and started walking. It was in a weirdly remote out of the way place. Took me over half an hour to walk there from the school. It would take even longer from my house. I know Peter doesn’t have a car and I don’t think he takes the bus so I have to wonder how he gets around. Does he really walk all this way to get to school and back? Or my house and back? What about when we were in the woods? He’d be walking miles upon miles with a house this far out!

There weren’t really any other houses around. I was on a dirt road surrounded by forest everywhere. I found the mailbox labeling Peter’s address on it. It was a crummy rusted thing that looked like a small gust of wind would topple it to the ground.

A sinking feeling started to weigh on me as I walked down the long driveway. The shadow of a house becoming larger in the distance.

Peter was right about it not being a great place. Lawn was overgrown with piles of scrap metal littering it, a rusted pick-up sat off to the side of the house. I couldn’t tell if it was driveable or just more junk.

I walked up onto the porch of the house, if you could call it that. It looked like it might have been a nice home at one point but years of no upkeep and harsh weather had eroded away anything homely. The siding was faded and just plain missing in some parts. The porch was half rotted and creaked and bent under my weight. A few of the windows had been broken and then boarded up with tarp and wood. Even the front door was crooked and covered in mold.

Peter lives here? Surely there had to be some kind of mistake. It didn’t look like anyone lived here.

Nervously I knocked on the door praying that no one would answer and that I could leave this place. Unfortunately for me I heard something. The sound of heavy footsteps and a gruff voice grumbling about as they shuffled to the door. It opened and I was met with a broad, heavy set, balding man. He was your stereotypical white trash. A liberally stained wife beater, sour expression, beer in hand, and stench of twenty packs of cigarettes.

“What do you want?” he snapped at me.

“Mr. Pangle?” I tried to hold my breath so I wouldn’t breathe in the terrible smell emanating from the house or maybe it was just him.

“Who wants to know?”

“I was looking for Peter.”

“Hmph,” he frowned and turned around into the house and shouted, “Pete! Get your ass down here!”

“What the hell for?” I was relieved to hear Peter’s voice yell back.

“Some bitch here looking for ya!” Was the foul name really necessary?

The man, Peter’s father I had to assume, looked back at me. Before when he only saw me as a nuisance I was fine, now his eyes slid over me from head to toe. Then he smirked. But it wasn’t the cute kinda smirk Peter got when he’s was being an adorable idiot. This made me want to puke and run away so that he could never see me ever again.

I about nearly cried in relief when I saw Peter finally get to the door. “Y/N.” his face lit for a moment before he looked at his dad. He looked back at me with a cold fury in his eye. “Come here, pet.”

He grabbed me and started ushering me away from the house. “Come back soon, pet.” his father called after us and I stumbled as the nickname shot through me. I think I was actually going to hurl.

“Ignore him,” Peter muttered and kept pulling me until we were far away from the house. “What are you doing here?” He asked once we were gone.

“You didn’t come to school today. I wanted to make sure you weren’t sick or something.” I answered. I stared in horror at his face. His right eye was a deep purple and badly swollen. “What the hell happened to you? I thought we agreed no more fights.”

“Don’t worry about it.” he shrugged, “How did you know where I lived?”

“Phonebook.”

“I appreciate the concern and all but you really shouldn’t have come here.”

“Because of your dad?” There was no easy way to avoid it. “Is he the one that gave you that shiner?”

That anger from before overtook him again and his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “Jim is a piece of shit. I wanted to make sure you would never have had to meet him.”

“He’s the one who--” A chill went down my spine, “You don’t get into fights with kids from school, do you?”

“Jesus...” Peter took a deep breath and his hands unclenched. “Y/N, I like you and it makes me really happy to know that you were willing to make a house call for me but I never want you to come here again. Got it?”

“Peter--”

“I mean it. This place, it’s where I sleep and keep my things. That is it. It is not a home, certainly not one I want you entering. Promise me that no matter what you won’t come back here.”

“You can’t expect me to just ignore--”

“Y/N,” Peter grabbed my shoulders, “Please do this for me. Never come here. Not for anything.”

“Okay,” I could see how serious this was to him. “I won’t. Not that I would want to I suppose. The amount of mold makes it a fortress of disease.”

“I know. The urge to torch it with Jim blacked out in his recliner is so tempting.”

“Now don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Cause if you get caught and go to prison then we can’t do this.” I pulled him down for a kiss.

“A very good reason indeed.” he grinned before pulling me in for a longer kiss. “Was that the real reason you came here? Needed your daily dose of Peter?”

“Can’t live without it.” I chuckled as he started pressing sloppy, tickling kisses to my neck. “Knock it off.”

“I thought you couldn’t live without it.” He murmured before claiming my lips again, “You truly are the gentle breeze in the shit storm that is my life.”

“Your life isn’t a ‘shit storm’, as you so eloquently put it.”

“You saw what I have to live with. A shit storm is the nice way of phrasing it.” He sighed. He caught me staring at his bad eye and promptly turned me around. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Sure.” I grabbed his hand and we started walking down the road. Peter didn’t want to talk about what had happened back at his house anymore and I couldn’t blame him. No wonder he spent all his time in the forest if that was the other alternative.

Before I left he made me promise not to tell anyone about what I had seen. I tried to argue that this wasn’t healthy and that he didn’t need to live like this. He shouldn’t be living with someone that is hurting him! It’s illegal!

But if Peter is anything it is stubborn. He kept repeating that nothing would come of it. Nothing good at least. Say they did get Jim arrested then Peter would have nowhere to live. He’d get put in the foster system and most likely taken out of Storybrooke. Before maybe it would have been fine but now he had a real reason to want to stay. Me.

“I want you to be safe.” I grumbled after he brushed off my suggestion once more, “No matter where it might take you. So long as you aren’t suffering with this.”

“You are too good to me,” he kissed my forehead, “Sappy, I know, but it’s the truth.”

“Maybe we could just run away. Leave this stupid town and these terrible people behind. Catch a bus to Boston and lease some crappy apartment far away from this place.”

“It’s nice to dream those things.”

“Do they have to be a dream? Can’t it be real?” I whispered. The idea taking root in my mind.

“You mean actually run away?” Peter furrowed his brow.

“Why not?”

“Y/N, pet, I love that I’m a terrible influence on you but what you’re talking about is insane.”

“Why’s it insane?”

“Because, unlike me, you actually have a life here. You have school and your family and your job. If you ran off with me--”

“I can get my GED anytime and I can get another job. One that pays more than a small town babysitter.”

“And your parents?”

“I love them but they’ve never really been a part of my life. We see each other and make small talk but other than that they are far too wrapped up in their own lives. The thought of leaving them doesn’t scare me.”

Peter kept staring at me. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about what I said. He took my hand and squeezed it. “When do you want to leave?”

“You mean you’d really--”

“Nothing holding me to this dumb town.” he smirked. “So when should we go?”

We started talking about everything we would need and when we thought we could leave. There was no need to second guess. Something in me told me that this thing between Peter and I was right. It was solid. We could make it on our own if only we could get out of this town. There would be nothing to be afraid of.

He walked me to my street and we kissed goodbye. He promised to text me about any updates on a ride out of Storybrooke. Since buses out of town don’t run here we’d have to get a car or something. Apparently that junky old pick-up in Peter’s yard was operational but would definitely need some TLC before it was ready to drive long distances.

That night I stayed up making a list of everything that needed done and what we would need to pack. The smile on my face as I thought about what the future held stayed on my face even when I went to bed.

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (7)

#peter pan ouat #ouat peter pan #ouat #peter pan imagine #peter pan x reader

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southern-belle-annie · 5 years

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Miranda’s post Monday October 7th 2019!!

Legends supporting Legends 👏🏽

Its fall weather in Nashville! Sitting here on my porch, I realize with the chill in the air that it’s getting closer to Nov which means my birthday month and @CMAawards final voting time. Entertainer Of The Year is the big one So I’m gonna share my two cents. 💙Keith- a friend and a hero of mine. He took me on tour in 2005. The first big tour I ever got to be part of. He belived in me when I was a baby artist and I will be forever grateful.

💙Garth - In Pieces. My first cassette tape I bought with my own money from doing chores. My first concert, Texas stadium 1993. The beginning of a twinkle in my eye. It was life changing. 💙Eric -one of the best songwriters of all time in my opinion. He turns a phrase like no other. I’ve had the pleasure of writing with him and he is someone that will push say something in a different way. 💙Chris- the kind of voice & songwriting that makes you want to quit, and work harder. A sound that can’t be beat. Period. 💗Carrie- The Entertainer Of The Year. Because... Currently being on tour with all female artists, I’ve been thinking a lot about all the work that goes into what we do. The most amazing job in the world. But it ain’t for the faint of heart. @carrieunderwood is on an all female tour too. The Cry Pretty Tour 360. She put out her first single in 2005 and from then on country music was changed for good. That iconic voice has been classin’ up our stages, charts and televisions for a decade and a half. The Voice. The legs. The songs. The brand. The mom. The wife. The okie. The Jesus lover. The blonde bombshell that is Carrie. She blows me away every time I hear her sing. She never wavers in who she is or what she stands for. She has stayed true & pushed herself to be better. If you have never heard her sing “How Great Thou Art” do yourself a favor and listen. I have her back in this picture and I’ll always have her back. So for the sake of sequins, spanx and spray tans, take it home! You Carrie the torch! 😉#Carrieon #EOTY

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1whump2whumpredwhumpbluewhump · 5 years

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Dixon’s Beginning

Dixon entered his home after his routine early morning jog through the woods in the surrounding area. That would be one of the last times he’d go through those woods, since he was leaving to travel the kingdom of Aresa. He’d only lived in the house with his parents in the woods, not being able to see many other people since they were on the edge of the kingdom.

He shut the door behind him and let out a sigh. As he walked into the living area, he was nearly knocked over when a woman ran into him and wrapped her arms around him.

“Happy birthday my little Dixie!” The raven-haired woman squealed and hugged the matching hair colored boy.

“Mom, I’m not little, I’m 18!” Dixon said with a chuckle, pushing his mother off him.

“Oh, I know, but still! You’ll always be my little Dixie.” She said and beamed at him, “You’ve grown into quite the handsome young man.”

Dixon opened his mouth to respond but his father joined in saying, “She’s right, any girl would be glad to be with you.”

“Dad-“ Dixon started before turning toward him and saw him holding out a small, wooden box. It was a light chesnut color with twisted engravings across the top like branches intermingling in treetops.

“Happy birthday, son. This is from your mother and I.”

Dixon smiled and took the box from him as he said, “I never asked for anything-“

“We know, but since it’s your 18th birthday, we thought it was the best time to give you this.” his mother said as she moved to her husband and held his hand with a smile.

Dixon looked between his parents before he carefully lifted the lid off of the box and set it on the table behind him. His eyes widened as he pulled out the silver chained necklace from inside. A gemstone the size of his pinky dangled from it by silver wires wrapped around and through it. The shiny, opaque black of the gem was swirled with a translucent blue, giving the illusion of a glow when held in the light. Dixon looked at his parents, his mouth agape in awe.

“Now, before you say anything about the price, it’s an heirloom. It’s been in the family for generations. We thought now was as good a time as ever to give it to you, since you’re going off on your own.” His father said.

Dixon set the box by its lid and put the necklace over his head, letting the gemstone rest on the center of his chest. His eyes lingered on the gem for a few seconds before he looked between his parents. He nearly tackled them in a hug, his arms wrapped around them with a slight squeeze.

“Thank you! Thank you both so much!” Dixon said with a goofy smile stretched across his face.

“We love you, Dixon.” His parents said and pulled away from the hug.

“Keep it with you at all times, but make sure you keep it hidden when you’re in public. Some people might want to... take it from you.” His father said.

“Of course, it’s obviously very valuable-“

“Yes, but it’ll draw attention to you and we just want you to be safe.” His mother interrupted.

Dixon raised an eyebrow and let out a small chuckle as he shook his head and said, “Okay, I get it. But you two don’t have to worry about me that much. Especially after dad went through all the trouble to teach me self defense ever since I was 5.” He looked at them and saw their almost solemn expressions. “Hey, I’ll be fine. I promise.��

His mother hugged him again and leaned her head into the crook of his neck. “We know...” His father put a hand on her shoulder and she let go.

Dixon smiled at them and grabbed the shoulder bag on the couch he had packed the night before. They said their goodbyes and he left, carrying his head high with hopes.

When the door shut, his mother said, “Was it right not to tell him?”

“What were we supposed to say? ‘Hey son, you can use magic, but if you ever do you’ll be condemned to a fate worse than death!’ What good would have come from telling him any of that?”

“I don’t know, but he should at least know what he’s capable of. I don’t like lying to him.”

“If he doesn’t know, he’ll be able to live a peaceful life.”

“I hope so...”

With only a few stops along the way, Dixon had left the forest and caught sight of a town in the distance, by nightfall. He couldn’t contain his excitement as he clutched the strap of his bag and jumped as high as he could and broke out into a sprint. He reached the town in a matter of minutes and his eyes were almost sparkling with enthusiasm as he saw the bustling night life of the town. Streets were lit by colored flames from torches and lamps, stalls were open with various wares ranging from exotic foods to intricate jewelry, and music filled the air from street performers. He stood, taking in the atmosphere of it all, before he walked down what seemed to be the main road. His eyes wandered, getting caught by every new movement and sound. He’d always wondered what towns were like, but this exceeded all of his expectations.

While he was distracted, he accidentally bumped into a woman, knocking a basket of flowers out of her hands. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was looking! Here, let me help.” he said and went to pick up what was sprawled on the floor.

“It’s alright, thank you.” she said and picked up the rest of the flowers. Dixon put the ones he grabbed into her basket and stood up along with the woman. “You’re quite kind to help, sir.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. It was my fault in the first place. I was distracted with everything going on here, this being my first time in town.” He said with a shy smile.

“I understand. Things here can be a bit overwhelming for newcomers.” She said with a smile and looked at him before raising her eyebrows with wonder, “That’s a lovely necklace!”

His eyes widened and looked down, noticing the gem still hanging from his neck, exposed to the world. He forgot the one thing his parents told him to do. “Thank you.” He quickly grabbed the necklace and tucked it into his shirt, hoping nobody else noticed it.

“I feel like I’ve seen something like it before... or maybe heard of something like it...” she said scrunching her eyebrows in thought.

“Really?” He looked at her with curiosity as the woman in front of him was silent for a few seconds before her eyes widened and gave him a nervous smile.

“Nevermind! I should really be going!” she said and quickly brushed past him.

He watched as she disappeared into the crowd. He messed up. Big time. He turned and sped walked away, hoping to put some distance between himself and that woman. He didn’t think she was dangerous, but the way she acted at the end was... odd. And after his mistake of not hiding his necklace, he didn’t want to take anymore risks.

While the night life of the town was fun for him, he needed to find an inn or someplace where he could stay for the night. But he didn’t mind sleeping outside if it came down to it. He often slept on his room back home when it was a clear night.

He noticed though, that the farther he walked into the town, the more looks he got from the townsfolk. Some were looks of skepticism and curiosity, which he expected, but from most of the people... they were more of hatred and fear. Dixon held his bag close to himself and continued walking, not looking at the surrounding people. That was, until he felt something hard hit his back.

He stopped and turned around to see what it was and his eyes widened when he saw a rock. He glanced up and saw a man glaring at him. Did he throw that at him? Dixon was going to keep walking and ignore it, but he felt another rock hit his hip and another to his shoulder, stabs of pain shooting through him. Soon rocks were raining down on him from a growing group of angry townsfolk. He may have been taught how to fight, but he didn’t know what he could do against rocks. He crouched down and tried to use his bag as protection, covering his head and shoulders as much as he could.

Why were they doing this? Why were they trying to hurt him? He didn’t do anything wrong, he didn’t hurt anyone else. Blood pounded in his ears muffling the shouts of the people. He could only make out a few words and phrases that they kept repeating, but it only confused him more. Damn Wielder! Magic using freak! Cursed child! Prophecy’s demon!

The rocks had slowed their descent upon him until he could feel no more. He didn’t dare move in fear of them just waiting for him to get up so they can get his face and head to do some real damage. He let out a yelp as someone tore his bag away from him, sending him sprawling onto his hands and knees. He hadn’t realized how much he was shaking until he was trying to hold himself up. He was roughly grabbed by his shirt and lifted up, his feet dangling a few inches off the ground. He was met with a rugged faced man who seemed to be seething with rage.

“You dare show your face, Wielder?! You and your disgusting magic should’ve just stayed in the pits of hell you came from!” The man shouted in his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir, I-“ Dixon couldn’t finish his nervous explainations as the man’s fist collided with his cheek, knuckles cracking against his bone.

“You don’t get the pleasure of lying, Wielder! You think we don’t know who you are?!” He yanks Dixon’s necklace out of his shirt and dangles it in front of his horrified face, “Your ebony stone is proof enough of your identity.”

Dixon was thrown to the ground, his shaking form not making any movements to escape. His heart was hammering through his chest and his eyes flicked up to the man who was holding him previously before recieving a hard kick to the gut, sending him flying a few feet. Any air that was once in his body was gone, forcing him to cough up spit and bile. He wasn’t given a chance to breathe as he felt another kick to his back from someone in the crowd that had gathered around them, sending him back toward the man. He let out a low groan, feeling every part of his body that was previously pelted with stones get jostled and scraped by the brick street below. Dixon didn’t even struggle when he was yanked back up by his hair and just whimpered in his captor’s hold.

The man pulled out a knife from his belt and held it at Dixon’s throat. “You deserve to die...”

Dixon didn’t dare shake his head in protest. “Please don’t, I-I don’t have magic, I swear, please, I-I’ll do anything, just-please” he pleaded in a small voice. He was scared. He was so scared. He didn’t know what he did wrong. He didn’t know why these people hated him so much. He didn’t want to be hurt anymore. He didn’t want to die.

The man scowled and slowly put more pressure on the knife in response, breaking the skin causing a trickle of warm blood to flow down his neck.

“Don’t-please, I-please, just let me go, please- STOP!” Dixon screamed the last word and felt a rush of something course through his body. He didn’t know what it was, but the man had stopped. The man dropped the knife, followed by Dixon himself. He caught himself and forced himself to stand, not wanting to fall onto the floor again.

After taking a few breaths he realized that the crowd had gone silent and had also backed away a few feet more with shocked and horrified faces. Dixon looked at them before turning and looking at the man who had been about to kill him. The man’s eyes were glassy and his mouth was open in a sort of silent scream, but he was stock still.

“W-Wha..?” Dixon started before catching his reflection in one of the shop’s windows. Across the left side of his head and neck were large, glowing, black, swirling markings. He reached up and touched them, seeing if they’d rub away like wet paint, but they didn’t.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a loud thud behind him. He turned around and saw the man who’d attacked him lying on the floor, unmoving. The glow from his marks disappeared, but the marks remained. Another man from the crowd approached the attacker’s body and examined him, fury and fear lacing his features as he spoke two words, he’s dead. The crowd murmured accusations toward Dixon for the man’s death.

Dixon backed away from the body slowly, horror nearly overtaking him as his vision began to swim. I couldn’t have killed him. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who was attacked. I was the one who was about to be killed. I’m not a murderer. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he tripped over his own two feet and fell back onto the concrete, all of his strength nonexistant. He was terrified and he couldn’t move. His vision went black as his consciousness faded away into nothingness.

The crowd remained unmoving, not quite sure what to do with Dixon out cold. Then, two men wearing royal knight uniforms, rode into the town and up to the crowd.

“Everyone clear out! Leave the boy to us!” shouted one knight, and the townsfolk quickly abliged.

The other knight dismounted and squat near Dixon’s body, as he looked at his markings with contempt before he spit on him. He then dragged him up and threw him over his saddle before the two knights rode back out of town toward the mainland where Aresa’s castle lay.

#Wielders #dixon trokane #whump #my ocs #the first of many hopefully #assault #minor blood #medieval fantasy type thing #magic #magical exhaustion #i can’t believe how long this thing was wow #enjoy #let me know what you think #knife #prejudice #prophecy

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aspire-to-the-light · 5 years

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A tradition of writing letters to oneself on New Year

This is a tradition I’ve had for a long time, which I’ve previously found really rewarding to share with people. I’ve thought a lot about how to do it right, so hopefully I can pass on some of the meaningfulness to whoever reads this.

Every year, on December 31st, I open a letter to myself which I wrote at the beginning of the year. Then on January 1st, I write next year’s letter.

The content of my letters is secret, but here’s a list of the kind of things that I might include, or have sometimes included, or have spoken to others about how they could include, or think somebody somewhere might like to include:

Hey future-self! It’s me. You. You know what I mean.

Here’s that thing I made up so I’d know it wasn’t a trick if an evil demon ever pretended to be a time-travelling me. See, it’s you/me!

In the next year I really want to do this particular thing. If you achieved it, you should feel really good, and if you didn’t, I forgive you.

Here’s how I feel right now, about the year that’s just gone past, which from your perspective is the year before last.

My plans and hopes and fears for this year - my future, your past - are...

I’m sorry for all the things I’m doing to let you down, and not set you up for success.

I know you’re going to be mad at certain things I’m doing now or am about to do, which you wish I didn’t do because it screwed you over, and I’m sorry and ask your forgiveness.

I hope I didn’t let you down.

Hey, future-self, this particular goal is really important. If you haven’t succeeded at it by the time you read this, you really need to prioritise it.

I hope you’re better than me.

I hope you’ve escaped the situations that are bad for me and grown past the things that hurt me.

I hope you’re better at this thing which I’m struggling at. Here’s an accurate assessment of how good I am at that thing, so that if you have gotten better, you can notice the improvement and not take it for granted.

I’m really afraid I’ll forget this thing, which is important to me, so here’s a reminder.

I’m afraid that this thing which is important to me will start to feel less important, so here’s an emotional reminder of how important it is.

Here’s just, generally, what was important to your past-self, so you know.

I really really want to achieve this big life milestone, in the next year. If you achieved it, you should feel good. I know you have a tendency to start taking things for granted once you’ve achieved them, but please remember how it felt to be me, a year ago, and to be uncertain about whether that grand project was really a thing you could achieve. If you did achieve it, I’m so proud of you.

Get off the goddamn hedonic treadmill. If you’re better off than me, please recognise that and feel good about it rather than just treating it as the new normal.

If you’re worse off than me, that’s okay. I forgive you. Here’s my best idea of what’s causing me to be good at the things I’m good at, just in case you forgot how to be me.

I am roughly so strong and roughly so capable. If you’ve become better or worse, you can compare yourself against this standard to recognise that, rather than assuming you’ve always been the way you are now.

Here’s some basic details of my day-to-day life that will give you evocative and meaningful memories.

Here’s some details of the things I’m thinking about and fitting into my routine and enjoying, and ideas I’ve found valuable that I’d maybe like you to return to.

If you slip out of any of these habits, know that you can get back into them, and this is a reminder that you once did them.

Repeat anything that was important and useful from last year’s letter.

This is who you are. Please do not lose track of it.

Thank you for carrying my torch onwards.

Here is just a random amusing anecdote which I am including as a favour to myself because it will make me laugh.

There’s a few things I think it’s valuable to think about, so you get the most out of doing this. I’m just going to present some thoughts in no particular order.

It’s about building a relationship with yourself.

I’m not really the same person as I was five years ago, and I won’t be the same person in five years’ time. It’s interesting to think about different ways of viewing this person, who will grow out of me, and exist in a year’s time; they’re me but not quite me. I find that even when I accept that they might not be anything like me - they might have forgotten all the things that are important to me, changed their habits, picked up new hobbies, changed their mind about everything I believe, and acquired new personality traits - I still care deeply about them and their welfare.

It’s an odd little relationship that I have with my future self. I sometimes screw future-self over quite badly. I miss important deadlines or don’t complete important tasks and I leave future-self to deal with the fallout. This kinda sucks, because I have a frankly abusive amount of power over my future-self. Even if me-in-five-years has changed their mind about basically everything, they’ll still be stuck with the reputation I earn them, their career will still be defined by the path I put them on when I get my first job, they’ll still have to follow contracts I signed. I can do things that damage my health and future-self will be stuck in the resulting broken body.

I sometimes kind of hate my past self for the ways they’ve screwed me over, but I try to forgive them. And I try to have empathy for my future self. It helps a lot. When I’m thinking about putting my essay off until the absolute last minute, I try to remember that I care about the welfare of the future-self who will be stuck staying up til 4am to meet the deadline, and that helps to get on with it earlier.

A year is just enough time that you’ll forget exactly what you wrote, but not enough time that you’ll be so much a different person that you don’t share a lot of important memories and ideas with the recipient. I always look forward to opening my letter from myself, because it’s a letter from someone who I cannot speak to, but whose opinions I care about and who I know cares about me a lot.

You can tell your future-self things they might not still know.

It’s surprising how often the letters contain valuable insights. Fantasy stories tend to feature your future self coming back in time to give you advice, and it’s true that I’d rather have advice from my future self, but my past self actually knows a lot of things that I don’t know.

Sometimes I forget things. Often, I get into a reasonably good place in life, and then I don’t remember how to get back there. I might be really productive in a certain place, and then be forced to move to a different city, and suddenly I’m not very productive, and it’s hard to reconstruct everything that was valuable about my former level of awesomeness. Only yesterday I remembered that part of the reason I ate much better last year was because I owned a little glass oven dish that made it very easy to cook a variety of foods, and I completely forgot about that, because I’ve mislaid the oven dish somewhere and I forgot that I ever had one or cooked in one. I haven’t laid eyes on it, so there was nothing to jog my memory or prompt me to cook the kind of dishes I used to make in it.

Or sometimes I think about an idea, or try to develop a habit, or work on a particular way of thinking, and I work on it for a long time, but then life gets stressful and it just kind of... falls by the wayside.

So often my past self knows all sorts of things that I’ve forgotten, and I very much appreciate the reminders past-self sends me. I appreciate how emotive they can be, too. Nobody knows how to appeal to my emotions quite as well as me, and past-self can make really really powerful arguments that I should care about something that I’d lost enthusiasm for.

It means a lot to speak your own language to yourself.

Talking to someone you know well can be very different to talking to strangers. It’s easy to reference concepts that are complicated, but you’ve discussed before, by saying a few words that prompts a memory of the last time you talked about it. You can make each other laugh by saying “hey, remember when that funny thing happened?” or just saying an in-joke. You can make references that you know they’ll get.

I’ve heard that occasionally twins develop their own semi-language. They spend so much time with each other from the moment of their births that they take it a level further and just become incomprehensible to people who aren’t part of the duo. I don’t know if it’s true, but it seems plausible.

I speak a language to myself which nobody else would ever understand. I have terms for concepts which seem like cute nicknames to me but I’d have to explain if I ever wanted to communicate to someone else. I can think to myself “oh yes, I understand that concept, it’s like this other concept I read in a book once” and it would only make sense to people who read the exact same book, remembered the exact same section as an important section, and interpreted it the same way. I’m a little synaesthetic, so I can say to myself “I want to make this harmony more sparkly green” when composing, but I certainly couldn’t ask a choir to “just sing a little greener”.

Everyone is a unique combination of fields of jargon; the other students of my subject will understand if I use academic jargon, but if I say a sentence that combines jargon from martial arts with jargon from my academic subject and my university’s slang with the gaming dialect and Star Trek references and Latin phrases, the audience becomes progressively narrower.

Even if someone understood everything in my language-that-I-can-speak-to-myself, it wouldn’t be meaningful in the same way. I can, say, think of a particular storybook character who I strongly identified with and who was deeply meaningful to me. Perhaps they were in a childhood favourite book, and I’m now a little too grown up to still be a fan of the series, but the character is still a memory and still kind of part of my identity. I remember one time in Scouts when I was trying to summon up the courage to jump off a high rock into the sea, and I was scared of heights and a little scared of the water, but I pictured a particular sci fi character and how they’d bravely jump off, and I went for it. Someone else might get the reference if I said to them, “be <character’s name>”, but very few people would nod and say “yup, that sounds like compelling inspiration to do a scary thing”.

Receiving a letter from myself, every year, is... kind of unique, in that it’s the only time anyone speaks that language to me who isn’t me. It feels different from writing something and then reading it back over, because I can’t remember writing it - it’s too long ago, and I deliberately try not to commit my letters’ exact content to long term memory. I get a letter, and it makes a reference that I know I’m the only one who would get, and it’s... a very interesting feeling.

It’s valuable in several different ways, actually. It proves, on an emotional level, that it’s me who’s writing the letter. Only I would know exactly what to say to establish that it’s me.

It gives me a wonderful sense of continuity - like no matter how I grow and change, I keep certain important things with me along the way. Like I am not just a series of isolated snapshots of different versions of a person, but a being that carves a continuous path through time and can trace their origins back.

It helps me build and maintain my sense of who I am, which is unique and special and different to other people. And I think it’s really important and emotionally healthy to have a sense of who you are, and especially important to have one which is based off this kind of thing rather than things you’re good at - or, gods forbid, things you’re better at than other people. I’ve made that mistake a lot and it’s not good for me.

But mostly it’s just this sense of recognising yourself, which is wonderful. It means a lot more than just recognising your image in a mirror.

Whenever I write my letters, I try very hard to make sure I’m not just communicating stuff like I would communicate it to any stranger. I speak my own language to myself. I fill it with references that only I would get, and terms that I’ve made up for concepts I invented, and nicknames for things that I use in my own head.

Keep your letter absolutely secret and never ask anyone about theirs

The letter is to be kept absolutely secret. That is a very important part of this tradition.

If you’re doing it right, if you’re speaking your own language like I talked about just above, then your letter should be deeply and intensely personal.

When I write mine, there’s stuff in there that I would struggle to admit and not be ashamed of, even to my closest friends. There’s stuff in there that is so cliched that if I ever said it aloud in company, I’d be laughed at. There’s a lot of stuff that just... nobody else would really get.

My history teacher once had my class write letters to ourselves when we were eleven. When we were all eighteen, she gave them back. I made the mistake of showing mine to someone and he has not let me live it down since. It’s ridiculously embarrassing. It’s cringeworthy. It’s a stupidly naive kid writing to me to say she hopes I’ve made some good progress on saving the world and everything, filled with cheesy over-the-top references to silly stories and Mary Sue OCs. My younger self calls me some slightly over-the-top epithets. And you know what? If I wasn’t feeling like I have to laugh at it, because the alternative is to experience the painful embarrassment of being seen to take such a thing seriously, it would be so goddamn deeply meaningful.

Its secrecy is sacred. You don’t read people’s diaries, you don’t read love letters addressed to people other than you, and you don’t read people’s New Year letters to themselves. Our society has a tendency to judge expressions of genuine emotion as “cheesy”, and until that tendency has been excised from our culture like the poison I consider it, it is absolutely necessary to protect some mediums with secrecy so actual genuine feelings can be expressed there.

It might be the case that you feel comfortable revealing part of it to somebody else you trust, but... don’t. Everyone who I’ve ever done this tradition with has agreed to secrecy. It’s a social thing; if you reveal yours, other people might feel pressure to reveal theirs. It’s also quite possible, and quite common, to subconsciously restrain yourself; you might not even realise that you’ve got certain things you won’t write down, just in case the person looking over your shoulder laughs.

It can be part of your year-review and prioritisation, too.

I said a lot about the emotional value of this kind of thing because I think the hardest thing to communicate, to someone who hasn’t done this tradition before, is how to get all the emotional resonance out of it. Especially if you don’t really know how to write well and so you struggle to write something inspiring and emotional that your future-self will appreciate for its literary merits.

There’s practical benefits too, though. At New Year I tend to try and review my year, looking back on what my goals were and whether I achieved them. I want to use the information from last year to inform my goals for next year, so I set goals which are more realistic and achievable and important, and prioritise the highest value goals. If I didn’t achieve something, I want to come up with a way of going about it such that I can do better next year.

My letter, when it’s written well, gives me a good sense of how I was feeling about my goals and projects a year ago. Sometimes, a year ago I felt like a project was incredibly important, and then midway through the year I just kind of de-prioritised it and never finished it because I found other things more important. That’s important information for me. It tells me, if I currently feel like something’s important, that might not mean it’s actually going to keep feeling important all year. It helps me have the right level of confidence when I think I’ve set the right priorities. Sometimes it reminds me that I actually should go back to working on a project which I’d almost given up on.

It really helps me calibrate. If I know that a certain thing this year was easy, but another thing turned out to be very difficult and I didn’t achieve it, and then I look back a year ago and find that I was convinced the first thing would be difficult but I was confident I’d do the second thing... that’s an important thing to know when I plan out my next year.

It’s.... an interesting experience to get a letter exhorting you to complete a goal which midway through the year you changed your mind about. (Another reason to keep the letter secret; changing your mind is okay, and if you revealed it you might end up shamed for it.) It’s definitely a complicated experience, but this isn’t necessarily a ritual focused 100% on making you feel good. If you had a shit year and didn’t achieve your goals, New Year is going to be more complicated than a simple “woooo 2018!” kind of emotion. It can still be good - a chance to put it behind you, feelings of renewal and fresh starts, determination and hope - but I think it’s important not to be afraid of that kind of complicatedness. Don’t just write vague well-wishes to your future self; be clear about what your plans are, and if they don’t get achieved, your future self can use that information.

Pay attention to the ideas that recur

I won’t say what idea it is, but there’s a certain idea that keeps coming up in my New Year letters. It took me a few years to notice because I kept calling it by different names and describing it in different language, but eventually I did notice. This same idea, a pretty important idea relating to my mind and mental health and how to be better, just kept being a thing I was toying with and never quite consistently achieving. Since I noticed that, I’ve been paying more attention to that entire category of ideas, and it’s become part of my resolutions.

For years I think it was just something I kept thinking about, and not really managing to do, and I’d get busy or stressed and forget about it, and then reinvent it under a different name. And I’m really glad I noticed that, because it is an important idea, and it’s nice that I think about it a bit more consistently now rather than on-and-off.

Make sure it gets to you

The final thing I’ll say about this is practical. You want a way to store it, because you absolutely should not let yourself open it before New Year’s Eve, but you do not want to lose it. I do not recommend a physical medium unless you live in a consistent place, have no intentions of moving house/flat/whatever in the next year, and know you’ll remember where you put it. I keep mine as a document but also send it to myself and back it up. I used Inbox’ snooze function last year to email myself-in-a-year, but as Inbox is getting killed this year and I have no idea what email system I’m going to move to, I’m going to have to figure something else out.

If this is your first year doing the tradition and it isn’t a consistent thing for you yet, you might also want to set yourself some kind of reminder, so you don’t forget to open it. It’s worth being thoughtful about how you set reminders. I know I set myself tons of reminders on my phone for years in the future, but I smashed that phone and now have a bunch of anxiety about how I’ll never get those notifications and I don’t know if they were important or remember what they said. It may be worth using multiple different systems, if you’re relying on a message getting to you an entire twelve months in the future.

Good luck and Happy New Year <3

#new year #ritual #rationalist ritual

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thisismyghost-blog · 5 years

Text

A letter to my conservative friends/family

I have had the feeling of being separated by a thick wall from everyone around me for most of my life. There are times people reach me but it’s usually short lived. I have been the quiet one people tease with worn out phrase, “Cat got your tongue?” And who looks on confused and smiling trying simply not to do damage and being paralyzed by not having infinite perspective or all my ish together or knowing that how people perceives me can have consequences to them even if I only show love to them that they can not be able to recognize it or that my perspective may limit me from seeing how a blind spot I have affects them. I care and I see, therefore I am used and covered up. It doesn’t have to be that way. We don’t have to have all the answers in order to deserve respect and care. We don’t have to be likeable to everyone to not deserve judgement. No one is blameless so when fingers get pointed and groups of people get villanized there is always someone who doesn’t value people on the other end of that. Empaths have open hearts and arrows fly in. We can change the direction we face our hearts to be able to receive the love and mercy we are being offered and can’t accept. We can do that when we see we need to in order to really do that for someone else. We can turn our hearts away from people who seek to keep our thoughtful insight and the reality of our experiences secret or try to make us unlikeable. It takes a lot and it might not be fixed and always ok and someone might still hurt us but if we are to be strong for our children and those we love we have to build ourselves back up in order to speak, in order to reveal the truth, in order to rescue those who might possibly by spared. I would not have reached this place without unconditional love and willingness to sit with me in the pain.

Lucifer appears as an angel and impersonates and perverts everything good. Narcissist are the same. He roams the earth seeking whom he may devour. He took so many bites until nothing was left. I died to myself and have been reanimated by the love around me. I have been kept safe enough to do the work while not being further victimized and pushed further into a corner souley because I was lucky enough to have real love around me.I am only able to finally see those whos opinions matter and to start becoming bullet proof to being shut down by the criticism of those who have nothing to teach me. I have been loved enough times and thrown enough ropes to make it here. I am dramatic and weird and airheaded sometimes and klutzy but some of the best people are and if I am to ever reach them i have to stop letting people put me down. I have never met anyone more Jesus-like than my childhood best friend. She was treated at times like she was simple for never criticizing anyone and having an endless sunshine well of positive energy and love for others and no need to self promote. The fact that the world lost a light like hers and her equally brilliant amazing beautiful mother is one of those stark realties that make me understand how people can die from a broken heart. It’s one of those realties that threatens to fill me with hatred at people who parade around with the wrong values and wouldn’t see their infinite value and beauty.The fact she has a son in this world without her breaks me in a way that sometimes it feels not worth continuing to fight for a life in a universe like this where the rocks don’t cry out and stop these things from happening. But my son needs me and I have to be brave enough to endure what I need to endure in order to carry her torch and I have to be curious and critically thinking enough to keep myself out of the way and really seek wisdom the way the smartest person I will probably ever personally have a relationship with, my father, always did. I have been in denial and bargaining stages of greif until pretty much rn since 2001 when he left this planet. He won’t be in history books or built a monument to like I think he deserves and he has not been able to live the last two decades with his daughters and wife whom he adored and or the grandchildren he would probably adore further still. I have never been able to feel close to him or be anything but hurt and enraged by accessing memories of him and seeing what I had lost. Until my son, with his perfect innocence, beauty and valiance has managed to bring me to the present moment from the island of the supreme type of disociaton from your body and ego that happens after certain social isolating traumas. Until I was able to look in his handsome face and realize the love between us is the same and how the things that really matter, which include him never losing sight of his value are all I’m concerned about living on from me. He was able to do that only with our angels (my bf, his stepdad) shield up, willingly absorbing stressors. What he endures, I may never fully see or appreciate. The ways my family have ever gone to battle for me in the face of uncertainty and pain because they love me I may never fully see. But how I begin to connect with them in a more meaningful way and start to be the type of woman he deserves is by looking at those facts without shame but with their love. My son adores me how I adored my mom even when she felt bad about herself and I have finally begun to be able to step up and be there for him the way I want. It was never that I wouldn’t have happily been burned alive to do for him but that I was paralyzed to do because I felt unworthy, not wise enough, not strong enough, not cool enough, not good enough to express myself or assert myself at times when I wanted to. I can stop being angry at myself for not being able to protect him from ever being hurt because of the love I received from my mother which I see clearly now, moved mountains for me even if it couldn’t and never was responsible for magical, super human provisions of everything I needed. Those mother’s don’t exist because it’s not human. How can a single human being be what they want for the ones they love? By realizing they are the potential expression of God’s love and the highest level of being when they show their love for their children. By realizing that is good enough and allowing their children to have access to their healthiest possible most creative self. The loudest people in the room are most often the most selfish. The introverts and empaths and those who have suffered in ways that give them the awareness aesthetic people (think monks in wool robes in monastery rejecting worldly pleasures) are seeking. The ones with the most needed voices to be amplified are busy listening and gleaning actual useful nuanced insight that is crucial for building a society that more efficiently can seek to fulfill liberty and Justice for all. True American values and Christian values imo are to look to those at the bottom in order to gauge the efficiency of those at the top. We are all guilty of looking to the day we can be worthy enough but we are telling our kids that how attractive and liked like are by a crowd or considered impressive and holy enough by a congregation of people matters more than it already does. We are engaging in a quest for a life that doesn’t exist. We will never be blameless. Beautiful and rich will never be able to equal peace or meaningful human connection so we need to stop chasing mirages. Ostracism has huge health impacts physically as well as emotionally, and happens no matter how strong or pure someone is. Children, case and point. We have to take responsibility for our impulse to turn away from people when we can’t help them the way we want. We have to fight our urge to stifle ourselves and see that no one is qualified and it won’t accomplish what we wish it could but that our voice needs to be heard precisely because we think that way. I’m trying to tell you that you don’t need to feel ashamed for being human.If anything about me was worth saving and it’s a good thing for people not to self destruct while they fumble around in the dark dungeon of uncertainty and shame is a priority. Cliches and Grand displays of emotion that have the most powerful meanings are generally rendered totally lifeless by being repeated too much by false prophets and manipulating people. Our culture doesn’t have enough genuine displays of how a human life works and what real love looks like. From everything and everyone that I’ve lost and years of personal torment and suicidal ideation cycles and silence I have been lifted up by love. I have to let go of what I refuse to accept is gone in order to interact with what is or ever get to what could be (like living in and helping create a home where children can be even happier than I remember being and longing for. That I can stop feeling homesick for and experience the next level of with my kids and embody all that I possibly can from those who I love and have lost or who are still out there but undervalued and replace the survivors guilt with honoring them. I am ok with you seeing me struggle and thinking I’m weird and long winded if you choose to read this in the hopes I can share some outline of love and grace that I’ve been shown and the hope and can only be born from the flames. I hope to fortify you even if you can’t stick by me right now, if you are ever brought to your knees. I want you to remember what that cat lady told you.

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