#teaching victims their stories are nothing but pleasurable fiction

[atamascolily]

After Ursula K. Le Guin died, I made an agreement with myself I would read anything and everything she'd written as the chance arose. That said, Searoad: Chronicles of Klatsand probably would have been the last on my list, had I not stumbled across a paperback copy in a library booksale (in pre-pandemic times) in a "fill a paper bag for $10" sale and it languished in my TBR pile for months before I finally got around to it.

The reason? Genre snobbery, in reverse of the usual direction. Searoad is a collection of short stories published in magazines like The New Yorker, and fancy-sounding publications with Review in their names. Serious publications publishing so-called "literary" fiction, or maybe "realistic fiction" or just plain fiction--fiction that's supposed to tell-it-like-it-is, lay bare the inadequacies of modern life, and leave you feeling empty and unfulfilled after watching empty and unfulfilled people make poor decisions in futile attempts to fill the emptiness and inadequacies of their lives. Because that’s the whole point of literature, right?

Oh. Perhaps I'm generalizing. But so it feels to me whenever I dip into one of these publications. They are "literature", everything else is "genre": romance, science-fiction, fantasy, action, adventure, thriller, mystery, crime. "Literary" fiction is usually just plain old "fiction" in the library classification systems and in common parlance: it is assumed to be the norm, the default, from which everything else is a deviation. And I hate this. I've always hated this.

To write about petty modern people with their petty modern lives is one thing--we all have our kinks--but to disdain others for imagining different things, for epics and grandeur and you-could-have-anything-so-why-not-go-for-it always struck me as a deep failure of, and disdain for, imagination. Genres, like so much else in our lives, are social constructs: us and them, the have and the have-nots. Literary fiction are the "haves", everything else is the "have-nots". That's changing, obviously, and the boundaries aren't as rigid as they once were, but I still see that divide reflected in so-called "serious" publications, and I generally avoid them.

Ursula K. Le Guin has always hugged the boundaries between "pure" genre (aka trashy, flashy, unfit for serious folk in the eyes of the pedants) and "literary merit". She's been accepted and respected by both camps, although the "literary" folks speak of the sci-fi rather patronizingly in their reviews of her works. Le Guin, however, never disdained the sci-fi labels in the same way that Margaret Atwood--another boundary-spanning writer--has always done.

For this reason, I've retained infinitely more respect for Le Guin than Atwood, despite Atwood's considerable talents as a writer. Atwood wants to play with sci-fi tropes, but she doesn't have the backbone to stand up and be proud of it. Atwood wants to write science fiction but not be judged for it, and the easiest way to do that (since genres are a social construct) is just to firmly insist that it's not sci-fi at all--move along, nothing to see here.

Here's a blurb on the back of my copy of Searoad by Carolyn Kizer, a Pulitzer-prize winning poet from the Pacific Northwest:

"For a number of years, the only science-fiction I read was that of Ursula K. Le Guin. I don't read science-fiction any more, thought I wouldn't think of missing a book of Le Guin's. She has transcended the genre..."

How very generous and open-minded of you to only read science-fiction so elevated it “transcends” its genre entirely, thereby becoming worthy of notice. And this is supposed to make me like literary fiction? 

That said, the irony is that Kizer’s statement sums up my approach to non-genre stuff as well, although I would not have phrased it quite so baldly. More like “Okay, not usually my cup of tea--but if it’s you, it’s okay....” The genre transcending thing, as much as I despise the phrasing, works both ways here.

All this is to say I finally read Searoad, even though I had to coax myself into it by pretending that this was an alien society that Le Guin and I were exploring together in order to tell us stuff about our own, and that helped. It also helped because the stories were so damn good, and I got carried away, even though they are very literary stories, with ambiguous endings, the usual focus on unexpressed and/or self-destructive emotions of love, birth, and death, and no magic or wizards or dragons whatsoever.

(To repeat: I am a genre snob who has never understood why writing without dragons was inherently better than writing with dragons in it. I have always operated under the principle that dragons made everything better. And I have never understood why depicting the world as it is was a stroke of literary genius, if all you were going to do with it it is show people being unhappy in the usual old ways instead of unusual ways. Or even imagine something new and different!)

Searoad reminds me of Lake Wobegon a little, but that's only because it's a small town, with characters from one story popping up in others in the most unexpected places--just like small town life. After a while, it feels like we're constantly running into old friends, a shared world--real, but in a good way. The stories were published across a wide range of outlets from 1987-1991, yet flow into each other astonishingly well when read in rapid succession, or indeed, in any order at all.

My favorite is "True Love," which is all about ditching unsatisfying conventional relationships to focus on one's true passion instead:

For me, sex is sublimation. Left to itself, in its raw, primitive state, my libido would have expend itself inexhaustibly in reading.

And since I have been a librarian ever since I was twenty, I can truly compare my life to that of some pasha luxuriating in his harem--and what a harem! Half a million mistresses, when I was at the Central Library in Portland! A decade-long orgy! And during the school year, since I teach now at the Library School, I have access to the University Library. Here in Klatsand where I spend the summers, the harem is very small and a good many of the houris are rather out of date, but then so am I. My lust has lessened somewhat with the years. Sometimes I imagine I could be contented with a mere shelf of tried, true, and highly selected Scheherazades, with only now and then a pretty little novel to flirt with, or a volume of new poetry to make me cry out with excess of pleasure in the heart of the night.

And in the same story, Le Guin makes it clear she's one of us:

"Do you like science fiction" I asked her, because all I can really talk about is books. And of course, she couldn't talk about books. That had been knocked out of her years ago. We compromised on "Star Trek," new and old. She liked the new series as well as the old one. I liked the old one better. Antal stared, not at Rosemarie, only at me. "You watch it?" he said. "You watch television?"

I didn't answer. ... I was not going to let him try to shame us for our commonness.

"The one I liked best was the one where Mr. Spock had to go home because he was in heat," I said to her.

"Except, he never, you know," she said. "They just had a fight over the girl, him and Captain Kirk, and then they left."

"That's his pride," I said, obscurely. I was thinking how Mr. Spock was never unbuttoned, never lolled, kept himself shadowy, unfulfilled, and so we loved him. And poor Captain Kirk, going from blonde to blonde, would never understand that he himself loved Mr. Spock truly, hopelessly, forever.

Reader, I LOLed. Because it's true. You know it, I know it, and so does Le Guin. And she had the guts to say so in the Indiana Review, and the editors published it. LEGEND.

Like all of Le Guin's writing, the stories in Searoad are lyrical, elegant, soaring, and moving--sympathetic, yet unafraid to call out bad behavior and terrible things when she sees it. My other favorite story, "Sleepwalkers," is a brilliant example of this: it starts with a complaint by a privileged male playwright about the housekeeper at his summer cabin, only for us to quickly learn (if his tone and phrasing didn't give it away) that he's an arrogant asshole who sees only what he wants to see and misses what's actually in front of him. We then pivot to a number of other people at the little resort, and their views of the housekeeper, and we're left with an open question at the end: which view is more accurate? Which story do we believe? What is actually going on? Can any of us really know or understand the hidden depths within another person? It's so deep and lush and well-written, and even funny on occasions.

And there's also a diversity of viewpoints and perspectives and scenarios enough to keep me interested: a lesbian grieves the death of her long-time partner, a war veteran deals with PTSD, a college student runs off into the woods to secretly map illegal old-growth logging stands, a ghost appears in a late-night diner to a sexual-abuse victim. The ghost thing seems like it ought to fall under genre conventions, but doesn’t because of the framing, and yet it still works for me--another example of Le Guin’s skill.

Anyway, so Le Guin actually made me enjoy so-called "literary" fiction and that was unexpected and delightful. Regardless of my feelings about most "realistic" fiction, I'm glad I read this collection.  

#book reviews #Ursula K. Le Guin #searoad #fandom life #writing life

[vee-angel]

Non-consent Nancy (part 1, repost)

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2

WARNING: This story focuses on a lesbian black woman who fetishizes rape, misogyny, racism, and abuse. As such, there will be copious amounts of offensive language and themes, including the sexualization of victims. The story is fiction, and nothing written here should be taken as an endorsement for any of these view or activities. In fact, I wholeheartedly condemn nearly everything the main character thinks and does in this story. I believe that consent is a central tenet of morality, and violations of it are only acceptable in the context of fiction.

***

Introduction:

Nancy had grown up in a conservative, affluent neighborhood. Being one of the only black girls, she became a target for bullies and bigots at an early age. The fact that she dressed and acted like a lesbian before she even fully realized her sexual orientation certainly didn’t do her any favors.

Her mother worked hard to give her a better life than she’d had; as such, she could be a bit dismissive of her problems. When she was little, and informed her that she was being bullied at school, she simply suggested that she try to turn her abusers into friends. Taking her suggestion to heart, from that point on, Nancy always responded to cruelty with kindness. She want out of her way to accommodate bullies, to show them more kindness than she showed anyone else.

In middle school, she pressed her mother to tell her about her birth-father. After a long conversation, her mother finally admitted that Nancy had been conceived through rape by a man her mother had never met. She reasoned then, that her mother had virtually nothing to do with actually creating her. Her father was the one who took the initiative that resulted in her existence. Therefore, every moment of her life, every instant of joy or pleasure she took from being alive, she owed to a rapist. Her gratitude and affinity for rapists and abusers began to reach a level that bordered on worship, with those who defied them being, in her eyes, akin to heretics.

When she reached high-school, her views became even more extreme. She had internalized her affinity for sadists so much that she began to hate victims that tried to fight back. She felt as though they were dishonoring the blessing they had been given. When her best friend, Janet tearfully confessed that she’d been date-raped by a boy she had a crush on, Nancy insisted that she not tell anyone, convincing her that she must have enjoyed it and that she should call the boy and apologize for being such an ungrateful brat. She was proud of herself for facilitating the three-month abusive relationship that followed. Even prouder that she thought to secretly ask the boy out herself, allowing him to cheat on her best friend, as was his right and her honor.

Nancy loved how creative the young man was. He often had Nancy come over right before a date with Janet so he could fuck her and have Janet unknowingly suck her best friends cunt juice off of his cock. He liked to ask Janet for particularly humiliating naked pictures which Nancy insisted it was her duty as a good girlfriend to send him. She often assisted Janet with these photoshoots, helping her write humiliating words on her body, making sure she spread her ass far enough to make her holes clearly visible, ensuring that her tongue really was making contact with the inside of the toilet.

Their friendship ended after the boy mentioned to Nancy that her friend refused anal, and fought vigorously when he tried to force her. Nancy was appalled at learning of her friend’s refusal, insisting that she would help; that night, they stripped her naked and Nancy held her down and covered her mouth while the boy raped her ass. It’s no wonder she thrashed about so much, her barely-lubricated asshole was bleeding pretty badly by the end. Nancy made her apologize for ruining the boys sheets and made her give him money from her purse to replace them.

Janet didn’t talk to Nancy after that, which annoyed the budding rape-enthusiast. That left Nancy with the problem of how to distribute her former friends humiliating pictures as punishment for her ingratitude. Certainly she couldn’t allow the boy to be blamed for sharing them with their classmates. Hell, she would have happily lied under oath to ensure he didn’t suffer the consequences of taking what was his.

Eventually a solution became apparent. There was another girl in her school who always rejected the advances of the boys, a nerdy type who talked back when people made fun of her. Nancy eventually figured out that this girl was a dyke as well. She had no problem with dykes, per se, she was one herself. She had a problem with bitches who thought they were too good to be a plaything for cruel men. So she hatched a plan.

She pretended to befriend the dyke, and eventually the two of them became lovers. A few weeks later she broke up with her very publicly at school, making sure to loudly announce how bad her pussy tasted and claiming she was breaking up with her because she couldn’t stand the girl’s hardcore scat-fetish. This would ensure that the little bitch would be made fun of for the rest of her Senior year, and it would open the door to blame her for posting Janet’s humiliating pictures online.

When the authorities investigated, Nancy admitted that she’d helped Janet take the pictures (claiming that it was Janet’s idea, and backing up the boy’s claim that it was actually Janet who pushed for kinky sex, a story she’d arranged with him earlier). She said that the dyke must have hacked into her computer after she broke up with her, and distributed the pictures as payback. Nancy made sure to include a few compromising pictures of herself in the photo-dump just to make the story more believable.

The plan had worked, in one fell swoop Nancy had managed to humiliate that ungrateful bitch Janet, and teach that stupid dyke what she gets for refusing men their right to use her body. It was one of the great triumphs of her young life, but she only just barely got away with it. Nancy knew that she’d need to be more careful from now on if she wanted to continue abiding by her life’s mission to help all bullies, abusers, and rapists.

So when she got to college she reinvented herself. Publicly she was an advocate for every marginalized group. She went to feminist marches, she spoke at Black Lives Matter events, and collected donations for LGBT causes. This way, she could be seen as a champion for the abused, they would trust her. Never suspecting that she actually masturbated each night to the teary-eyed confessions by dumb bitches whose boyfriends smacked them around or sorority cunts who didn’t appreciate getting gang-raped when they were stupid enough to get drunk at a party.

A few years in, Nancy was majoring in psychology and volunteering at a rape crisis center as a counselor. This is when she met Darla.

Part 1

Nancy walked in that day with a button-up shirt and tie beneath her black vest. Her masculine fashion sense left little doubt to onlookers that she was a lesbian. It was form-fitting enough to display her slim body. Had she had her clothes ripped off in public, as she so often fantasized, observers would see a strong, athletic body with clear muscle definition beneath her smooth, dark brown skin. They would also notice the ample curves of her large breasts atop her six-pack abs, a contrast rarely seen in non-black women. Her hair was styled in neat dreadlocks that hung down just past her chin. Her whole style screamed liberal black lesbian feminist. Yet she dressed with enough allure that she hoped every misogynist, racist, and sadist that saw her went home and planned how to make her scream while they raped her dyke-nigger asshole bloody. She secretly believed it’s what all women deserved, and made it her life’s mission to ensure it happened to as many women as possible.

When she saw the defeated-looking woman with a bruised face in the rape crisis center office, she knew she was in for a treat.

“Hi, have you been helped yet?” Nancy said to the girl in a gentle voice.

“They said they don’t have anybody who can see me right now, and they said I have to wait.” she responded meekly, still staring at the ground, but obviously in distress.

Nancy squatted down in front of the girl to meet her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile. “My name is Nancy, would you like to go somewhere private and we can just sit together? If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to just sit, that’s okay too. If you need a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold, I’ll be there for you if you want. And if, at any point, you think you’d feel better being alone, you’re welcome to leave, I won’t judge you or think less of you no matter what. I only care about making sure you get what you need right now.” She gave some version of this speech to almost every ungrateful cunt that came in. It made it easier for them to open up to her.

The girl nodded and Nancy led her to a small, quiet room where they sat across from one another. “Would you like to tell me your name?” Nancy asked.

“Darla.” She replied.

“It’s very nice to meet you Darla. What can I do to help you, today?” She asked softly.

“He raped me again last night.” Darla replied, her tone hectic. “I don’t know what I did! He always does this, even though he says he’s going to stop!”

Haha! What a stupid cunt! Nancy thought. “Who did this to you?”

“My ex boyfriend. Back when we were started dating, he said he understood that sex is something that’s really, really hard for me because of my childhood. But after a little while he said he didn’t want to wait anymore. And after that he stopped caring, and he didn’t even stop when I said no and begged him! That’s why I broke up with him, but he called me and said he changed. Except it seemed like he really meant it this time! He asked me to come over so he could give me a gift to apologize. But when I got there he…he…”

Oh, come on, don’t tease me you little rape-slut, Nancy thought, “It’s okay, you’re safe with me.” her gentle voice reassured the girl.

“He…put it in my butt.” Darla replied blushing, though the bruising on her face made it difficult to tell.

“This was the first time he’d forced you to have anal sex?” Nancy asked

Darla nodded, “That was always like really, really super off limits.” Tears rolled down the girls face. “And, and, and he knew that! I said I’d break up with him if he ever did that. He said he always wanted to, and that he was going to do it now that I can’t break up with him again.”

Well I can’t fault his logic! she thought as the girl cleaned the tears from her face with a tissue. Nancy briefly had a fantasy in which she congratulated the girl’s ex-boyfriend for a stellar job of tricking her into getting raped so many times, followed by the two of them laughing over how stupid she was to fall for it so many times. A brief moment later she considered how improved the fantasy would be if Darla were bound naked and gagged listening to them during the exchange as they prepared to rape her together. She was tempted to smile as she contemplated the scenario, but fortunately she was practiced at not letting her inner thoughts show on her face.

“You mentioned that sex was difficult for you because of your childhood. Was there something that happened when you were younger that resulted in you having a strong negative reaction to that particular act? Nancy asked.

“My parents used to make me do that when I was little. They used to make videos and let strangers do it to me for money.”

“They made videos of you having anal sex when you were underaged?”

“They stopped when I was fourteen, they said I was too old. But they only had men put it in my butt, because they said it’d be really bad if I got pregnant and had to see a doctor.” Darla explained, her lip quivering.

Jackpot! Nancy thought, I’ve got a real life porn-star in front of me! She wondered how many men and women had masturbated while watching her little asshole get sodomized. A spark of anger suddenly shot through Nancy. Ungrateful cunt, do you know what I would have given to have a childhood like yours?!? Her thoughts alternated back and forth between arousal and resentment. She compromised between the two emotions when she vowed to make Darla properly suffer for how blind she’d been for all the wonderful honors that her family and boyfriend had bestowed on her.

“Your boyfriend knew this when he anally raped you?”

“Yeah! He said he thought it was funny. He laughed and said that this keeps happening to me because I’m a whore, and I deserve it.” Darla said with tearful anger.

Smart AND a sense of humor! How dare this dumb bitch deny this charming boyfriend of hers the right to use his victim! She should be begging him to blister her cunt with a belt to show how sorry she is! God, I hate her!

“You’re a good-hearted person. It was very kind of you to keep giving him chances. But your kindness doesn’t mean you deserve to be raped.” The fact that you’re weak and you have a cunt means you deserve to be raped. Nancy finished the thought in her head.

The rest of the session continued along the same theme, with Darla pouring her heart out about her tragic life full of rape, molestation, and abuse. Nancy struggled to contain her excitement, but managed to maintain her professional disposition. Her only worry was that her cunt may have soaked through her slacks and left a stain on the chair. She resented this pathetic girl for having been given so much, yet being so stupid as to complain about it.

Finally finished with her cathartic confessions, Darla was finally ready to leave. Nancy, not wanting this delightful encounter to be fleeting, wrote down her phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Darla. “I know you feel better now, but this isn’t something you can get over in one session. I’m taking a special interest in you. Feel free to call or text whenever you need, and I absolutely expect to see you back here soon.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot to me.” Darla replied before hugging her tightly. Nancy only had an Associate’s Degree, but chose not to correct her, hoping the assumption would work to her advantage at some point in the future. Darla walked out, riding on the high of catharsis.

***

Nancy stayed for a few more hours, but the rest of the afternoon was rather banal. A few girls came in asking about domestic abuse resources or abortion services. Much as she didn’t like helping these little rape-dolls, she had to if she was to keep her cover intact. Normally, she’d at least get a kick out of making girls give a few extra details before she provided them with what she wanted, but all she could think about is how she wanted to ruin and violate Darla.

When she left the center, she was so lost in thought, she hadn’t even heard the awkward footsteps of the girl racing to catch up to her.

“Hi, Nancy! I’m really glad that I get to volunteer here with you. You’re such an inspiration.” the girl said, failing at coming up with a natural way to start a conversation.

“Oh, Hannah. Hi, I didn’t notice you.” she replied. Hannah was a pansexual Jew-cunt that answered phones at the rape crisis center. She also took care of all the accounting. She’d been raped by her friend’s older brother when she was ten years old and it fucked with her self-esteem. She was desperate to get people to like her, a fact which Nancy regularly took advantage of. The big-nosed bitch always tried too hard, especially with people who treated her like shit.

“So, do you have any plans tonight?” Hannah asked.

Nancy smiled and took the Jew-cunt’s hand as they walked, interlocking her fingers. “I do! I’ve been dating a lot; getting pretty lucky in the romance department lately. But I don’t want to tell you about that, it’d be inconsiderate of your feelings. I’m sure you have something interesting going on. Tell me about that.”

Nancy knew that Hannah wasn’t especially popular and had a bit of a crush on her. Her background in psychology allowed her to utilize her knowledge to hurt Hannah in subtle ways while still pretending to be her friend. In a few sentences, she’d managed to remind her of the humiliating rejection that had occurred a few months ago; impress upon her the fact that while she has trysts with lots of women, she doesn’t find Hannah attractive enough to date; and put her on the spot to share plans that Nancy knew she obviously didn’t have.

The pair of them walked hand-in-hand as Hannah’s eyes frantically darted back and forth in thought as her chest slightly tensed, not knowing how to respond.

“Oh… ya know.” she finally replied with a forced smile.

“No, I don’t know. Come on, Hannah! Open up a little, you’re always so timid.”

“Ummm. Just… just catching up on some reading. Heh. Guess we’re not all as popular as you.”

“Hey, you’re a wonderful person. Any man, woman, or nonbinary would be lucky to be with you!” With that, Nancy kissed the lonely, desperate kike on the cheek and veered off in the other direction.

Nancy’s mind began to reel with delightfully villainous ideas. It’ll probably be a few days until I get a chance to see Darla again, she thought,  Maybe it is finally time to give Hannah some attention.

***

Part 2

That evening, Nancy went home and ordered a few spy cameras that she could use to record subsequent encounters with Darla. With that quick errand finished, she focused her attention on ensuring that her good friend Hannah the big-nosed Jew-cunt finally got put in her place.

Nancy worshipped individuals who violated others, but she did have a certain affinity for rapists on a cultural or societal scale as well. It’s why she has a strong veneration for men, whites, and authority figures (the last group being made up, predominantly, of white men). It was no wonder that she had developed a fetish for misogynist white-supremacists; in fact, she’d become a bit of one herself.

Jews like Hannah were among the worst, Nancy believed. As a shit-skin dyke, she couldn’t exactly claim superiority, but at least Nancy knew her place in the world. Hannah, however, was such a stereotypical Jew that it almost seemed intentional. She whined about being raped when she was little, she whined about her ancestors being tortured in the Holocaust, she even sometimes whined about her ancestors being enslaved in Egypt. In typical Jew fashion, she played them off like jokes, but Nancy knew that the little kike actually did feel as though these things were injustices.

Nancy hoped her friend would eventually learn her lesson and join her in honoring all the wonderful contributions that rapists and abusers make to society, but she was impatient and wanted to help her along.

A few months before, she sent Hannah a naked picture of herself out of the blue. She had picked up on the girl’s crush on her and hoped to use that to subtly humiliate her. Hannah’s response was ecstatic, she poured her heart out, saying how she’d loved her from afar for so long and was overjoyed to know that she felt the same way. After that followed a series of lewd images of the black-haired kike. Nancy didn’t reply, despite the increasingly nervous-sounding texts that followed. Instead, she confronted Hannah the next day in person. She remembered the conversation vividly…

“I felt like I owed it to you to explain this in person. I think you got the wrong idea yesterday. I had a great day at the gym and I was just feeling really good about my body, so I sent pictures to some of my close friends, but it was completely platonic, Hannah. I’m just a very body-positive person. I’m so sorry you got the wrong idea, it must have been so humiliating to you, but I could never be intimate with you. I value our friendship so much, so I just want to be clear. You are not attractive….to me. I still think you’re a great person, but I could never find you physically appealing.”

Nancy smiled as she thought back on that moment with pride. The look of pain and humiliation on Hannah’s face was priceless. She had run to the bathroom just after the conversation, and Nancy snuck in a few minutes later to hear her crying loudly. She felt an exhilaration at knowing she’d hurt the girl so deeply. In just a few moments, Nancy had left a mark in her mind and soul that would last for years, probably decades; words that would echo over and over again. There was a sort of romance to that, knowing that her friend would carry that moment with her for such a long time. It was the kind of gift that bullies left their victims with. But tonight, Nancy wanted Hannah to have an even better gift.

She knew that Hannah would be home alone tonight, so Nancy reached out to some of her online resources. She could be herself on the internet, and it made her many friends among rape-baiters and rapists. Those were the people she needed that night.

Nancy was posing as Hannah online, she was uploading the obscene images that the Jew-cunt had sent her a few months before and claiming that she was finally ready to fulfill her fantasy of being brutally violated by racists. She had even photoshopped an image she’d found of Hannah online. The original image showed her face holding a sign reading “I need feminism because no one believed me when I told them I was raped. I was 10.” But with some slight touch ups, in the new image, the sign read, “I don’t need feminism, I need my Jew-holes brutally gang-raped by Nazi cock.” Photoshopping “I need feminism” signs had become a bit of a hobby for Nancy, and she’d become pretty good at making them look real.

She was sure to include this new picture along with the other images of her naked body. She sent them to anyone with potential, even posted them online in a few spots with her name and location. Finally she got into a conversation with someone who was close enough and real enough to get it done tonight. Nancy shared private details, still posing as Hannah and claiming to consent to anything he and his friends wanted to do to her. She begged him for an assurance that he’d violate every hole, that he’d beat her. Even made him promise that he’d break her big Jew-nose. She warned him that she wanted it to be real, so she was going to beg and cry a lot, but they weren’t to stop raping her, no matter what.

The stranger online gave assurances that he’d do everything she asked and more. Nancy proceeded to give him Hannah’s home address, along with details of her house, and the location of the spare key. She finished by thanking him, then went off to masturbate for hours as she thought about all the wonderful things that could be happening to Hannah that night.

I’m such a good friend. She thought with a smile before falling asleep. 

#pervertpentet nonconsentnancy

[hannahberrie]

Stranger Things Returns Bigger and Darker Than Ever Before

[A/N]: I’m currently enrolled in a Magazine Writing class at university, in which we write magazine-style feature essays. For one of my assignments, we got to do a review essay on a media of our choice. I, of course, went with the second season of Stranger Things! 

My professor wound up really loving it, she’s even going to use it to teach future classes! Some of you guys said you were curious to read it, so here it is! Small disclaimer: I kind of spill the tea on just a few things that I didn’t like about the season, so please don’t hate me for my opinions! 

After the first season of Stranger Things skyrocketed into the pop-culture stratosphere last summer, the bar for the second installment was set dauntingly high. The creators of the infamous Netflix original series, twin brothers Ross and Matt Duffer, were no longer unknown underdogs with minimal experience under their belts, but rather household names credited with creating one of Netflix’s most popular television series to date.  

Stranger Things 2 was released on October 27, 2017. The installment was largely promoted as a cinematic sequel, despite the season’s nine-episode composition. This would prove to be risky. “Netflix was like, ‘Don’t do that, because sequels are known to be bad,’” Matt Duffer said to Entertainment Weekly, recounting what had happened upon pitching the second season. “I was like, ‘Yes, but what about T2 and Aliens and Toy Story 2 and Godfather II?’ We want people to argue about what season is better. I want the debate. I want the Toy Story debate!”

So, now that the second season has been released, one looming question remains: Could Stranger Things 2 possibly live up to the first season?

Yes.

When we return to Hawkins, Indiana, the fictional town where Things is set, we’re reunited with all the characters we came to love in the previous installment. Will (Noah Schnapp), Mike (Finn Wolfhard), Lucas (Caleb Mclaughlin), and Dustin (Gaten Matarazzo) are now 13 years-old and back to doing what they love: geeking out over video games. Joyce (Winona Ryder), Will’s mother, has a new love interest in her life. Nancy (Natalia Dyer), Mike’s older sister, is still mourning the loss of her best friend from the previous season, while also dealing with the ongoing love triangle between Steve (Joe Keery), the once hard-hearted jock turned softie, and Jonathan (Charlie Heaton), Will’s older brother and the quiet, ever-dedicated introvert. Police Chief Hopper (David Harbour) is back to dealing with the dull crimes of Hawkins residents, notably two farmers arguing over who poisoned the other’s pumpkin patch.

But, in typical Stranger Things fashion, nothing is as it seems. Will, having been rescued from The Upside Down (a dark, mirrored dimension of our world) in the last season, is still struggling with the trauma of his experience. The newly re-staffed Hawkins Laboratory is still shrouded with secrets. And who could forget about Eleven (Millie Bobby Brown), the adorable, bad-ass, telekinetic 13-year-old who seemingly disappeared in last season’s finale?

To quote Matt Duffer, “It’s cliché to say bigger and darker,” but the second season of Stranger Things is exactly that, though it does take its time building up to it. While last season dropped viewers right into the action, this season is much more of a slow build. The first few episodes feel more like character studies than a sci-fi thriller, but it works. The Duffers have created a sandbox full of diverse and lovable characters, and now they get to play in it. There are several scenes that, while adding little to the overarching plot, are entertaining in and of themselves, as they just show the characters being themselves, like Mike and Lucas arguing over who gets to be Venkman (à la Ghostbusters) for Halloween, Steve providing Dustin with hair styling advice, Joyce struggling to play back a VHS-C tape, or Eleven breathlessly captivated by the soap operas she watches on TV.

While the last season kept characters’ plotlines grouped into three main categories (the kids, the teens, and the adults), season two blurs these borders. Relationships seamlessly broaden outside their natural boundaries as new character dynamics are explored. In particular, the bonds that form between Steve and Dustin, as well as Hopper and Eleven, are heart-warming and ingenious combinations. Both pairings provide not only humorous fun, but emotional weight, and the acting chemistry between the respective performers is undeniable.

However, the new season is definitely not all fun and games. As the episodes go on, the plot slowly builds upon itself, taking small moments and extrapolating them. Events that seem mundane, such as Will feeling chilly or Dustin finding a slug-like creature in his trash can, turn out to have monstrous consequences (no pun intended).

Nowhere is this phenomenon best executed than through Schnapps’ performance as Will Byers. In season one, Will hardly had any screen time, but in the new installment, he’s the primary driver behind all the main action. His performance starts off with a subdued Will, an average kid who feels isolated by his peers. When he tells his older brother, Jonathan, that he’s sick of feeling like “a freak,” because of how carefully he’s treated, his voice aches with the painstaking frustration of any child who just wants to live a normal life. But by the final episodes, in grating contrast, Schnapp’s performance explodes into a frenzied, darkened terror. As the darkness from the Upside Down overwhelms Will, Schnapp writhes in convulsive fits, screams in complete and utter agony, and at times (perhaps most horrifically) is completely, emotionlessly, and hauntingly still.

Despite being only 13 years old, Schnapp completely excels in Stranger Things 2, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his powerful performance makes him one of the youngest Emmy-award winners to date. His performance, along with the continually solid delivery from the rest of the cast, makes the show.

While the season may start slow, the payoff is completely worth the wait; it all cumulates in an electrifying, heart-pounding final two episodes that are some of the best hours of television I’ve ever seen.

However, this new season is not without its faults. The story falters when it dares to step outside of Hawkins. Two new characters are introduced: young tomboy Max (Sadie Sink) and her Jack-Nicholson-esque older brother Billy (Dacre Montgomery), but both feel largely one-dimensional. While not unlikable, Max doesn’t add much to the overall arc of the story, and largely serves as a plot device to create tension between Dustin and Lucas. Her brother Billy, while terrifying, often feels like he’s just there to bide time for the show and add a little drama on the side. There’s definitely potential to be explored with both characters, but this season leaves them thoroughly underdeveloped.  

The biggest step outside of Hawkins takes place in episode 7, one of the most polarizing episodes in the whole series. The Lost Sister spends the entirety of its runtime taking Eleven out of Hawkins and into Chicago, where she meets up with a rag-tag gang of criminals who have darker intentions lurking beneath the surface. The Duffer Brothers insist that this episode was necessary, stating that “Eleven’s journey kind of fell apart, like the ending didn’t work, without it.” Even though the episode does give Eleven the opportunity to grow and strengthen as an individual, it’s unfortunately filled with unlikeable characters, feels painfully long and repetitive, and is the only episode of the series that I might consider skipping upon re-watch.

The Duffer Brothers reportedly want a four-season run for the series, but in order to do this, they’ll have to master the balance of expanding Hawkins while also staying true to the heart of the show. Season 2 shows hints of this, but it’s still a work-in-progress. Nevertheless, the new season is deeply satisfying and a true love-letter to its fans. I had the pleasure of watching it surrounded by friends and family, and throughout the entirety of its nine-hour-runtime, we were cheering, pleading, screaming, laughing, crying, and having the time of our lives, something that I believe is a welcome and much-needed relief.

Even though the original season of Stranger Things aired only a year ago, the world, particularly the United States, has arguably changed since its July 2016 release. Trump was elected into office. Three major hurricanes tore apart regions like Texas, Florida, and Puerto Rico. We’ve seen over 17 terrorist-related attacks, including the worst mass shooting to date.

As tension seeps deeper into our world, the darkness can often feel suffocating. This is similarly mirrored in Stranger Things 2. The first season was bright with childlike ingenuity. Even when attempting a feat so immensely impossible as saving their best friend, Will, from another dimension, the characters found strength through relying on each other and relating their problems to familiar entities, like Dungeons and Dragons.

In contrast, despite all the monsters, superpowers, and multiple dimensions, the second season is weighted with the gravity of reality. The boys have to learn that not every problem can be solved like a board game. As Mike states when discussing how the boys should protect Will, “This isn’t D&D. This is real life.”  

The second season is much darker, and not just in a figurative sense. The lighting often shadows scenes in blacks, reds, and yellows — colors that traditionally represent deceit, hazard, aggression, danger, and fear.

The violence is more graphic as well. Instead of a lone Demogorgon monster creeping out of The Upside Down and capturing a single victim, there are hoards that feast upon their prey with bloodied vigor. No character is safe as even the lives of the children are continually put on the line.

Times have changed. The stakes have changed.

But despite all this, it would be thoroughly inaccurate to write Stranger Things off as a depressing, nihilist series. For with every gruesome horror, there are pulsating moments of hope and light that continue to carry the show just as strongly as they did in season one. One of the most heart-wrenching and warming moments takes place in the penultimate episode, The Mind Flayer, in which Joyce, Mike, and Jonathan attempt to reach the remaining ounce of Will that hasn’t been swallowed up by the demonic force possessing him. Though tears stream down their faces and their voices are laden with sorrow, they powerfully recount their happiest memories spent with him: Mike meeting Will on the first day of preschool, Jonathan building a fort with Will after their father walked out on them, and Joyce’s proud recollection of Will’s 8th birthday, in which he drew a spaceship for her with his new box of 120 crayons. Will stares back at them, shaking, a single, intense light illuminating his wide-eyed face.

The moment stands out as one of the best written, directed, and acted scenes in the whole season, and reminds not only the show’s characters, but we as viewers, to never give up. Even when it seems that all we love has been lost, there is light, there is strength, and there is hope.

#berrie fics #i do like max fyi #i just think the duffers need to do more with her character #stranger things

[allthecreepylittlethings]

Childhood Nightmares: A Pinocchio Analysis

(TW: Before reading this, please be aware that this blog will discuss triggering issues like abuse, neglect, and human trafficking. Please skip this post if any of these topics upset you.)

I probably don't need to explain too heavily why Pinocchio would be talked about on a blog dedicated to all things creepy and disturbing. But I'm going to anyways because I blocked out this movie for years over one particular scene that I'll get to in a second.

And before we go too far, I want to make clear this is purely focused on the Disney movie. My Grandpa did start to read the actual book to me as a kid but we never finished, unfortunately. I already know that the original source material for this movie was far darker, but maybe I'll save that for another time.

The strange thing about Disney's Pinocchio is that most people remember enjoying it as a kid and there was a lot of subject matter that didn't really affect them. Except for, again, that one scene, which is still coming later. What was weird to me as a kid, however, was the fact that my mom really didn't seem to like the movie and kept emphasizing that a lot of it was scary, especially if you're a parent. I sort of shrugged this off, thinking she was just being overly sensitive. My mom and I have always had different tolerance levels when it comes to horror or disturbing subject matter, after all (not to pick on her. I love my mom!).

But when you re-visit the movie as an adult, it becomes a different experience entirely. What might have seemed like a whimsical story about a puppet learning how to build up his moral compass becomes a scary story about neglect, abuse, manipulation, and just an ugly town with characters bent on taking advantage on naive kids. While I could write ballads about all of this, I'm just going to break it down as briefly as I can.

Geppetto is a terrible parent...

Now to be clear, Geppetto is not a bad person. From the start of the movie we see that he's a very sweet-hearted old man, insanely talented as a clock and toy maker, and has two pets he treats with complete adoration and affection. He is a genuinely good person.

We also see his genuine desire to be a good father to Pinocchio. When he is granted his wish from the Blue Fairy and finally has a little boy, he welcomes Pinocchio with open arms and celebrates with him. He plans to send Pinocchio right off to school so he can learn like all little kids should. All of those points are good things and his heart is clearly in the right place.

So what makes him such a terrible parent in this movie? His complete obliviousness to Pinocchio's real needs and being almost completely negligent to his son's wellbeing. From the start, it's obvious Pinocchio has no idea what being a living being entails. He doesn't understand why he shouldn't play with fire, asks why people need sleep at all, and doesn't understand what the words "right" and "wrong" mean. He is completely naive, new to the concept of being a living thing, and clearly needs some time to adapt and learn more about his new life before plunging headfirst into trying to be a normal child.

This doesn't happen. Instead, the very next morning after Pinocchio comes to life, Geppetto sends him right out the door to go to school, not only expecting Pinocchio to understand how to ignore strangers and know his way to the school all on his own, but he also anticipates the outside world to just turn a blind eye to the fact that a LIVING PUPPET is suddenly walking among them with zero explanation. Even in the magical universe that is Disney, someone's going to notice that, if not everyone. And it's likely to be a terrifying experience for them. Or, if they're more of the villainous type, it's the perfect opportunity to exploit this oddity. Which is exactly what happens. Really, nearly the whole plot of this movie could have been avoided if Geppetto had just used his head and thought about what he was doing.

Stranger Danger...

One of a parent's worst nightmares is their child disappearing without a trace. It's one of those horrible realities that people have to prepare for and take precautions to avoid. Unfortunately, Pinocchio is still brand new to the world and knows nothing about any of this (and as mentioned above, Geppetto did nothing to teach him). This makes him a very easy target before even addressing the fact that he's a freak of nature, bound to attract attention.

The fact that there are characters immediately ready to take advantage of him is terrifying, and it naturally doesn't take much to trick him. What makes it worse, however, is it happens more than once. The first time Pinocchio runs into Honest John, he gets tricked into being sold to Stromboli, an extremely angry and violent individual who locks Pinocchio in a cage and tells him that once he becomes old and useless, he'll be chopped into firewood.

Stromboli is the first instance in the movie of what could easily be described as the Disney-friendly version of human trafficking. And that's not to downplay the horrors of real human trafficking. Obviously a work of fiction does not compare to the real thing, especially when it's a children's cartoon. But let me elaborate a bit on my reasoning for labeling it as such. Even if Pinocchio isn't being sold for... well, what human trafficking usually sells its victims for, it's still a disturbing concept. He's taken from his home by force, locked up so there's no escape, and is intended to be forced to perform in front of people for the rest of his life, which will end in a violent manner.

He is given a second chance when the Blue Fairy rescues him, but almost immediately after, he gets tricked again by the same people who betrayed him the first time. Of course they promise that this time it'll be different and he won't suffer, and he falls for it. This could be reminiscent of the cycle of abuse (grooming, violence, apology, repeat), and I can't help but wonder that if Pinocchio was taught anything about manipulative liars and how to spot someone who means harm, would things have turned out differently?

Okay... I've stalled long enough, so let's get to...

That Scene...

If Honest John and Stromboli were only a minor reference to human trafficking, they barely hold a candle to The Coachman, who may arguably be one of the most evil villains featured in a Disney cartoon. As a kid, my mom used to talk about how she felt Stromboli was the scariest character of the movie, and while he definitely was unsettling for his brief screen time, he just didn't compare. Not by a long shot.

When we're first introduced to The Coachman, we know something's very wrong with this guy. The fact that Honest John immediately assumes he's being hired to perform a hit for him should be enough of a hint that this character is a monster.

Again, this feels like a heavy lead-in to human trafficking as the conversation takes place. He explains that he's looking for "stupid little boys" and wants Honest John to help lure them to him. After he explains he plans to then take the boys to Pleasure Island, he adds that he has no worries about the authorities catching on because, "They never come back as boys..." Obviously, you can assume that he doesn't mean exactly what this sounds like, but it's still frightening line that I'll explain further in a second.

Pleasure Island, despite what creepy images the name alone might plant in your head, is still a messed up place but for completely different reasons. Here, the kids are encouraged to binge drink beer, smoke cigars, smash and destroy anything they get their hands one, and basically just do whatever they want (and I will admit... that kinda looked fun when I was a kid). Underage drinking/smoking aside, they're lured into this false sense of security where they can be themselves without being punished, and the friendly Coachman encourages them all to do it. All the while, the children never notice the figures in black, shutting and locking the gates so there's no way they can get out. They're trapped and unable to realize it until it's way too late.

And then... that scene... Oh God, that scene...

We discover in one of the most horrifying scenes ever presented in a cartoon, that the children are being turned into donkeys to be sold to places like the salt mines or the circus. Even more upsetting is the ones that didn't fully complete the transformation are tossed into a pile on the side and deemed as useless. We never learn of their fate but I can only assume it's not good. Watching Lampwick discover what's happening to him and frantically screaming for his mother, all while knowing no one is coming to save him is a hard thought for even a kid to swallow.

What makes this scene so much worse as an adult is having that full understanding that the children are being robbed of their humanity through the transformation and just how awful of a concept that really is. This was always a horrifying concept to me to the point where I've never been able to watch The Dark Crystal more than once because of that goddamn podling scene, and I still struggle through Willow because of the pig scene. Since we still see emotions of fear and sadness coming from the donkeys as they're being sold off, it almost dips more into, "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream," territory. They know what's happening to them, but they'll never be able to call for help or tell anyone. Even if they were to somehow bump into their families later in life, they'll never be able to tell them, "Help! It's me! I'm still alive!" Again, this also feels eerily similar to human trafficking. They're robbed of their humanity, sold to the highest bidder, and silenced so they can never reach out for help.

"They never come back... as boys..."

Their only hope is that someone somewhere discovers what the Coachman is doing and puts a stop to it. But that never happens. There is no final comeuppance, no justice, the children are never saved, and The Coachman is likely still doing this long after the movie is over. I mean, we can hope Pinocchio or Jiminy alerted someone about this after they're safe at home again, but we ultimately never know if they did. Even after he reunites with Geppetto and gets asked what happened to him, he goes quiet and doesn't tell him and that's honestly heartbreaking when you think about the fact that he's a victim of trauma and just a child.

Now, I could write about Monstro and how terrifying that whale of a whale was, but he gets a pass because, unlike the other characters who played the villain, Monstro was just an animal. Not a vindictive, manipulative, horrible piece of garbage. Just an animal living as an animal would. If someone happened to get swallowed along the way, it wasn't entirely deliberate, it was because he was hungry. So while he is his own brand of nightmare fuel, it's not in the same way as the characters I've described above.

Looking back, I remember loving this film as a kid and thinking it was just another story of adventure where important lessons are learned along the way. But now that I'm older, a parent, and have had a bit more life experience, Pinocchio is not what I remembered it to be. I'm not saying I don't still love the movie. I do! In fact I've found more bits to love about it, re-watching it as an adult. But the thing is, it's far from a happy movie. Just because it has a happy ending does not mean it's a happy movie. Pinocchio embarks on a horror story of being manipulated, used, imprisoned, nearly killed several times, being made to watch as new friends are subjected to a cruel fate, and only barely managing to make it home alive. And again, he's just a child. He single-handedly goes through a gauntlet of horrors most adults will never see in their entire lifetime, just in the span of a few days.

I don't know what sort of adult he ultimately grew up to become, but I wouldn't doubt that this misadventure messed him up for a long time.

#pinocchio #disney #tw: human trafficking #tw: abuse #tw: child abuse #analysis

[arcanakrp-blog]

SHIM MOOHYUK – THE MOON. AGENT 18.

                                                [   FILE TYPE: CLASSIFIED   ]

//: LOADING PROFILE: SHIM MOOHYUK ...

international age: 29 birthplace: daejeon, south korea arcana: the moon team number: five

//: LOADING MUTATION: DARKNESS MANIPULATION  ...

application one: darkness constructs — Unrestricted in creation out of the shallow void, Moohyuk finds solace in this ability of “restructuring.” From ordinary objects to imaginary items, everything made by the corrupted man takes on a life of their own through a purpose, an act that Moohyuk deems necessary to provide. Never will he build something from nothing for mere pleasure, etching in reasons for the existence of his creation. Splashed in shades of black and grey, each tool crafted requires continuous focus or instant desire to emerge and shape. Should he require an immediate defense, a shield mechanism erupts in its place, whether it be a hovering barrier or immovable obstacle. Not fond of lethal takedowns, the student dedicates the power as his first form of protection from his surroundings. Understanding that there is unlimited potential, the gifted adult easily distinguishes this as his favorite capability, even though it demands the most focus to maintain.

application two: shadow camouflage — Hiding in what cannot be seen, Moohyuk underappreciates the majestic properties of this power. His body enters partial, ethereal forms whenever he passes a plane of darkness with little effort on his part, though, actively manipulating the ability can allow him to meld completely into the unknown or disengage him by keeping him solid on shaded ground. Subtlety and precision, the ability can be abused in even the tiniest of available dark spots with enough concentration for his hiding pleasure

application three: darkness solidification — Hand in hand with constructing, solidifying the absence of light around him often applies defensively in his plethora of abilities. Closing off darkened halls, concealing the utmost important, and creeping away to traps are a few of Moohyuk’s ordinary applications. Walling off hostiles and teammates alike annoys the man enough to not resort to using the skill, desiring to tackle a situation in a more direct method

overall strengths and weaknesses: — Manipulating the darkness comes at the cost of corrupting oneself as the user continues to improve. Moohyuk is no different, pushing his limits to discover and manage every part of his arsenal, even up to the point of controlling the dark within. As the purest form, light entering in abundance inherently reduces the functionality of the man’s powers, though up to a point, as even a fully lit room will have a shadow. However, with minimal sources available, the trainee often has to produce his own energy at the threatening cost of fatigue and humanity. Regardless of where the origin of his darkness comes from, whether generated or existing, the host shapes it at his own will and in return, the void shapes him. Although not evil in nature, the tremendous agenda encouraged by the element overwhelms his nature, where he loses control of himself little by little. Still a beginner, Moohyuk often makes scenarios more complex, relying on habitual power usage rather than creative problem-solving. Having little experience with close-ranged weaponry, the man gains no edge for creating such tools for combat, realizing that tactical and trickster applications far outweigh practical close quarter encounters. Nonetheless, the occasional sharp blade might do when appropriate. As the power suggests, hidden attacks and sly maneuvers present themselves as the most effective approach, empowered as the night creeps closer and as building rise higher

//: LOADING HISTORY ..

PRE-MUTATION

A child ridden in a life normal, Moohyuk entered the world as the first of three. Dominant and leading, he orchestrated the munchkins away from troubles, while soaking any that penetrated his foolproof thinking. In the end, it crafted and shaped him as the boy who took responsibility for crimes not always his own. Nonetheless, childish problems were avoided or prevented as much as possible, as the hassle often was not worthwhile to solve. Bringing this with him through school, Moohyuk condensed his personality into one outgoing and headstrong, offering what little he already had to others to call their own. As a result, his actions brought upon a close-knit group of students to call friends; to call a second home. True to the stories, a time never did arrive where his confidence dwindled, nor where sorrow and anger overthrew Breezing through education became a reality thanks to this circle. Fortunately, there lived no tragedies nor breakups, only a couple of broken hearts and a strong graduating grade to hold up his name. With the tutorial complete, Moohyuk had set forth to chase his disastrous dreams.  

Learning of the trade eliminated the need for an education higher than the standard. The soon-to-be man resided under the wing of his father’s acquaintance, a family friend named Kyungsoo. Unbeknownst to him, Moohyuk only remained capable in the industry of roofing because of his mentor’s repeating teachings. A skill for life, carpentry opened doors for the apprentice roofer and dawned him a purpose: to provide shelter. A decade immersed in a training and an occupation, the man built his core as strong as the tiles, toughening his body through various weather and imminent falls. Toiling away in the heat, Moohyuk enjoyed the light that prodded his face during the workday. 

   People began to move on, while a few, like Moohyuk, bide their time and kept busy with what they knew best. Instances of puppy love lasted mere days, the man truly uninterested in everything not work, sleep, or television. Life dulled down into a routine, yet he did not complain one bit, until his teacher decided to retire at the end of the year. Outburst after outburst, the apprentice let the world hear of his disapproval, but the good student within adhered to the mentor’s words and so, Moohyuk replaced the position once held by what he regarded as the highest. Not long did a couple of trainees fill his previous spot, continuing the cycle.

POST-MUTATION

An evening tiding over, the fresh mentor spent his hour with the young carpenters. Fulfilling his end of the bargain, Moohyuk allowed his curiosity to get the best of him, seeking the promised light show. Indeed, it was! As falling stars covered the black above, shimmering trails and awestruck cheering filled the background, even he fell victim to the seduction of the shower. All was well, until a blinding sensation fried his vision for a moment, though, his mind thought nothing of it as he continued to mingle with his excited students. Another night reserved for the man; one to remember for reasons unknown to him.

    Incomplete dreams of a forest in the dark haunted him days after, as each piece of the puzzle set in motion the next. Like a man going crazy, Moohyuk desired an answer, only to receive a final image for him to experience on his own. Straight out of a fiction, he ebbed his way across endless bushes, dodging every wood and danger. Swimming, the feeling of gliding across vegetation that scratched him embedded into his mind, with the finale at a glowing rock. It beckoned for his touch, and touch he did so. Consequentially, it struck him awake and rewarded him with no more nightmares, for at least a short while.

    Then, it hit him. Feelings of emptiness and a desire to fuel it overburdened his soul. In truth, Moohyuk transformed into an eraser, negating and shutting out glimpses of hope for a chance to taste the dry dark surrounding him. Ravaged and hungry, the man pursued knowledge of the phenomena and its link to this unfortunate occurence of hollow shells. Weeks passed with little progress, causing him to feel desperation and weakness. Now hooked like a fish, Moohyuk answered the line.

    Officially an ARC member for a little more than two years, the man no longer holds much of his former attachment to his previous life. No more does he have to hide homes from the light. Being a host of an expanding and inevitable event means to always have potential, whether it be successful wholly depended on him. Although the world has yet to change, Moohyuk’s metamorphosis now creeps past its first stage

#arc.app #arc.moon #fc.ahn jaehyun

[jinxedncharmed]

Have i ranted lately about how much I fucking love “City of brass?” I fucking love this book. I don’t know how many times I’ve reread it. I’m slowly annotating it. I have “kingdom of copper"s release date on my calendar. Why isn’t everyone talking about this book? It’s incredible and pushes all my book buttons. I can’t even express the reasons I love it in full depth. I can’t like adequately convey why I love it and how much I love it. I mean, broadly speaking, one reason I do is the setting. Unique, you don’t see a lot of western fiction setting its stories in 1800 Afghanistan, with characters both nonwhite and Muslim. I haven’t read many fantasy stories about a realm inspired by Islamic and Arabic folklore and myth. "Aladdin,” of course, Scherezade, and I’ve read some Conrad and Kipling, and HR Haggard, and probably a random short story or two, but not a lot. And of course given our political climate, why risk featuring anyone Muslim at all? So it’s great to read a fantasy featuring PoC and an amazing pantheon of mythic creatures and stories that I’m not familiar with. Second reason to love it is the incredible story. So much political intrigue! There are so many mysteries remaining at the end of the book, driving me nuts! What is the truth behind Dara’s ring, is it just his enslaving charm or is it a counter to the seal? Is Nahri actually Menizheh’s daughter, or Menizheh in disguise, or not related at all? We dont even know if she’s a shafit or a daeva. Was anything the king said to Nahri and Dara in their first meeting true? Was Menizheh his lover? Was she really a friend? Or is he just playing the game, making the soothing remarks expected by constituents who wait to hear what a politician says about a dead rival? How’d she fake her death? Or did she? Is Ali the king’s true son? Did Zaynab try to murder Nahri that first night, not just get her drunk? What’s Nasreen’s real story? Is Jamshid secretly a Nahid? Are all Daevas now descended from the Nahids, as part of a rebellion plan? This isn’t even like a tenth of the questions I have. Very engaging and entertaining story. Related to that, the writing is, in the technical sense, near flawless. The narrative technique of alternating point of view characters per chapter is nothing new, but it is utilized to great effect, allowing chakraboty to control the pacing of the book, and boy does she, keeping readers on a roller coaster of cliff-hangers and gasp-inducing betrayals. Textbook tricks of conflict-driven storytelling, such as misunderstandings, just-missed-each-others, deliberate sabotage, multiple players with unique motivations, and plain dumb luck, are employed perfectly, keeping the story realistic and playing fair with your reader, keeping them guessing with misdirection that would be the envy of any master magician. The catty politics are deliciously indulgent, better than anything on daytime soaps. The players are all so clever, and sometimes they’re devious and sometimes they’re shameless, and it is fun! The way it is written is phenomenal, the way that writing tools are used is perfect. Like, when you’re teaching writing, use “City of brass” to illustrate what those tools are, how to use them successfully, and how to tweak but not break them. Now well I will say this, that I thought some of the dialogue, particularly regarding the syntax and vocabulary of the speakers, is sometimes anachronistic. There is also a lot of information that is tough for a reader to absorb, such as unfamiliar/made-up terminology, unfamiliar character names, and a complex and unfamiliar setting. I caught and better understood a lot more of the various plot points and political thorns in my second read-thru, thereby further enriching my experience of the story. So all that world building exposition can be overwhelming and move a bit too fast in some places. Another huge reason to love this book is its morality. For me, this is a book where it’s hard to label your hero and villain. Who’s in the wrong, and who’s in the right? Was it wrong for the Nahids to murder shafit? Their covenant to Suleiman was to leave humans alone, and they were terrified to let the djinn breed with them, so does that justify killing shafit? Is Dara right when he says in his time the shafit were treated like animals, as subhuman? Does that justify his prejudice, if that was all he was ever taught? Sins of the parents passing to children and all that; bigotry learned from parents’ example? Are the Qahtanis morally justified in overthrowing the Nahids in order to protect the shafit? Or is that last disqualifier a dealbreaker, and they overthrew the Nahids for their personal benefit, not for the shafit? Does it matter whether they give the former or the latter as their reason? If they aren’t morally justified in their coup, is Dara ethically right to start a rebellion? After all, Qathani killed his family well not personally. Was Dara right to take his revenge on his human masters, after he was enslaved and heavily abused? Why or why not? I love that I can’t parse out in a logical, moral process with empirical evidence, which party has a legit grievance and which’s being a drama queen. I really applaud chakraboty for pulling off this immensely difficult technique in creating a true morally ambiguous story. She does it better than Rowling, as in HP good and evil were the usual cliched stereotypes and people were easily sorted into the correct side, good or evil. The gray morality is a massive plus for the book. And finally, the characters. I have strong feelings for these characters, and that's what writers want, for readers to react in some way any way to their character. I like Nahri, she’s clever and jaded and trying to survive political machinations, and I want to know who wants her and why, who her family is, why she was abandoned. I want her to come out the winner in this trilogy, whatever that means. And I ship Nahri/Dara, it is the OTP, as is Muntadhir/Jamshid, Jamshid on top, shut up its my headcanon. I hate Ali, and it’s fun but also a little shameful to do so. He is the oldest 18-year-old ever. Hes a sanctimonious prick, a holier than thou cultist. But boy does he have a rough time, everything goes wrong for him despite his nauseating piety and seriousness, and at first it’s funny to see him get suckered but then the stakes go up and you sympathize with him. I’m interested in his emotional development, what the psychological arc is going to be for him. I mean he needs to get fucking laid so bad. Also he’s like half crocodile now so we’ll see where that goes. And of course Dara. I fucking love Dara so fucking much. He’s just so extra all the time. Raising those shedu, breaking that glass table with his bare fist, calling the king a sandfly to his face, tipping over his teacup and pouting, the way he killed the rukh, the way he reacts to nightmares. Dry and witty, and more clever than you think, and cunning. Unbelievably fucked in the head. Fragile, outrageously delicate, like two triggers away from a complete and murderous breakdown. A serious PTSD sufferer with mental trauma from an actually horrible life, even before his 14 centuries of slavery. That boy has suffered, and it’s made him hard and focused and isolated, even while his high intelligence keeps him spewing shrewd insults and nailing his power moves, and his emotional self remains a soft gooey ball buried deep inside. Honorable, racist, judgmental, a man who follows his moral code with integrity, arrogant, powerful, a hero, a war criminal, a legend, a demon, a scourge, a victim, a pawn, a master of his own destiny, clever, rude, obstinate, dead?, genuinely kind, noble, grieving, dignified, mysterious, gentlemanly, depressed, and dangerously fucked up. Oh I love it, ahhh, the angst tastes so good, i'm creasing my eyes in pleasure lol and the hurt/comfort aspect, ooooooh it just hits every nerve ending in a perfect ping. It won’t be a happy ending for him, a tragic hero like that always dies, ask Shakespeare, but I really wish he would make it, not just live but have a fucking happy ending, he gets the girl, he gets the throne, he gets a therapist and a bottle of Cymbalta and a recommendation to smoke one joint twice a day. Please he deserves a happy ending, what with all his suffering. The way Sirius and Remus both deserved happy-ever-afters. The way Gen does too, in the “Queen’s Thief” series, and which he also probably won’t get. But oh man I want Dara to be happy, whatever that means. Anyway, this book rocks, dying for the next one, everyone should read this book, it is fucking fun.

#city of brass #dara #sa chakraboty #this has been a written while i'm stoned production #books #this book is so good #read it

[theconservativebrief]

There are so many good reasons to recommend Sharp Objects, HBO’s new eight-part miniseries adaptation of the Gillian Flynn novel of the same name. (I’ve seen seven of those parts.)

For starters, Amy Adams is ferocious as Camille, a journalist who returns to a hometown streaked with memories of sorrow to investigate the disappearance of a young girl, who vanished in a fashion eerily similar to how another girl disappeared a year before. (The other girl was later found dead.) Adams plays Camille as a scab no one can stop picking, least of all herself, and the deeper the show digs into her demons, the more thrilling it is to watch the actress at work. Adams has certainly played darker roles on the big screen (think of The Master, for instance), but she’s primarily known as a sunny, comedic presence. Sharp Objects lets her go way, way against type, to her benefit, as well as the show’s.

The rest of the cast is terrific, too, especially Patricia Clarkson, as the mother who haunts Camille’s memories like a monster under the bed, and Eliza Scanlen, as the teenage half sister who Camille doesn’t know. And that’s to say nothing of the huge collection of actors both well-known (Elizabeth Perkins, Chris Messina, etc.) and less well-known (Sydney Sweeney, recently of The Handmaid’s Tale; Taylor John Smith), who drop in for gutsy, lived-in performances.

I could also recommend the direction by Jean-Marc Vallée (the director of Big Little Lies), who finds a haunting beauty in the way that Camille and her female relatives can’t stop haunting one another in the same house. Or the writing, by a team headed up by showrunner Marti Noxon (of Buffy and UnREAL fame) and Flynn, which takes its time unfolding the several layers of small-town mystery alongside its deeper and deeper exploration of Camille’s character. My fondest hope is that Adams returns to this character again and again, with this team, similar to how Helen Mirren redefined her career in the British series Prime Suspect.

But none of the above is what I want to single out about Sharp Objects. What makes Sharp Objects work so well is the editing.

Three very different women, all part of the same family. HBO

In the miniseries’ fifth episode, during which Camille attends a local festival that unpacks the assorted personal and political traumas of Wind Gap, Missouri (her hometown), she refers to a heroic teenage girl from the Civil War era as her “great great great great grand victim.” It’s a joke both about how long the town has embraced as a patron saint this woman — who married an adult man as a teenager — without thinking about the darker implications of her life, and about the legacies of trauma that run richly through Camille’s family.

And it’s indicative of the Sharp Objects approach to telling stories about those traumas. The past juts up against the present in the series, with memory literally writing itself over what’s actually happening. Camille might open a door and look into a room to see how it appeared 20 years ago — or to view the specter of someone long dead who continues to haunt her.

This is, to be sure, central to the show’s scripts, since it’s so keyed into deeper themes of Sharp Objects: confronting the parts of your past that you haven’t dared think about and realizing the frailties of your parents and yourself. But I was taken by the way the show presents this visually, through its images and by the way the editing (also by Vallée) juxtaposes the images.

If I have a complaint about Sharp Objects, it’s that the first few episodes move a little slowly, as Camille reluctantly re-submerges herself in the town she thought she had escaped. (It’s rarely clear to me why exactly her newspaper editor thinks sending her back to her hometown will help her confront her trauma, when it’s eminently clear the town is at the root of it.) But the deeper I got into the season, where the potboiler of a plot starts to heat up, the more I realized that these episodes are there to teach the audience how to watch the show.

The fine editing is present in the elegant way the entire miniseries opens, with a bike ride that takes Camille from the 1990s past to the 2010s present, transitioning gracefully between her younger self (played by It’s Sophia Lillis, a dead ringer for a young Adams) and Camille as she is right now. It leaps from a girl who was not yet damaged to a woman who is unable to escape the things that happened to her. But then it asks if there was any way for that girl to avoid becoming that woman, when the fruit of her family tree was so poisonous.

Thus the editing proceeds throughout the project, as Vallée intercuts brief snippets of images that might later make sense. They function as reminders of the ways Camille’s mind has fractured the world into pieces and forced her to ignore so many of those pieces, the way she simply must move forward at all costs, which means sloughing off those traumas like dead skin. And yet she can never wholly avoid or ignore them. They’re always there, brief splinters in her consciousness, jarring her awake.

There’s much more I could talk about in Sharp Objects — if nothing else, it’s a surprisingly trenchant commentary on white, rural America’s inability to escape its own fictional version of its past. But to say too much more about its plotting or its characters would spoil some of its pleasures, which unfold languidly and methodically, but always with purpose, always with a sense that Camille is standing athwart bigger and bigger waves that always threaten, to drown her.

And it’s the editing that best suggests those waves, in split seconds at first, then with longer and longer shots, until it can seem as if Camille and the show with her have become unmoored in time. It’s difficult to tell this kind of a story and not utterly lose the audience. But Sharp Objects’s touch remains delicate throughout, thanks to its gifted lead, its beautiful writing, and, yes, its laser-sharp editing.

Sharp Objects debuts Sunday at 9 pm Eastern on HBO. Look for weekly recaps of the show from Vox writers Alex Abad-Santos and Aja Romano after every episode.

Original Source -> What makes HBO’s Sharp Objects so good is hiding in plain sight

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

[johnjankovic]

BLITZKRIEG

Then there will issue from the stock which had remained barren for so long, proceeding from the 50th degree, one who will renew the whole Christian Church. A great place will be established, with union and concord between some of the children of opposite ideas, who have been separated by diverse realms. And such will be the peace that the instigator and promoter of military factions, born of the diversity of religions, will remain chained to the deepest pit. And the kingdom of the Furious One, who counterfeits the sage, will be united.

Nostradamus, Epistle to King Henry II

A luminary’s life as in narratology presupposes an ending worthy of himself or of a protagonist, amnesia issues from an anemic ending, memorability from the opposite, an otherwise good story fails should its coda be infelicitous to the mythos’ style, or be it that its banality dulls the senses enough to swiftly forget what was written in spite of what perhaps may have been authored with assiduous thought. In the main, an epilogue in real life or not must jar the witness or reader lest she neither think on nor talk of, if unworthy of remembrance, the ending itself. For example, a really fine book converts an ending into some climacteric which edifies the reader as in Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame where he writes, evoking love’s transcendence beyond mortality, ‘Quand on voulut le détacher du squelette qu’il embrassait il tomba en poussière’. Playwright William Shakespeare discovers tragedy alone to be the single panacea for a vendetta between two houses fraught with bloodshed, ‘For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo’. Robert Sherwood’s character Myra in the film noir screenplay of Waterloo Bridge steps into an oncoming truck, years later a bereaved gentleman reads wistfully in a voice-over sequence a missive from his late inamorata, ‘I loved you, I’ve never loved anyone else, that’s the truth Roy, I never shall’.

Seeming ethereal, and something that recalls fatalism whose leitmotif typically expresses an abrupt departure of some kind by a beloved character, endings ought to eclipse their beginnings if only to teach a lesson based upon dramatic loss. Gleaned from another one of the author’s dearest films, Father O’Malley in 1944’s Going My Way shuffles off screen onto his next parish in the dark of Christmas Eve to disappear from the merrymaking and mellifluous sounds of Saint Dominic’s Church after forever changing the lives of its churchgoers for the better. Such it is that in fiction as in life no matter how treasured a person their value typically cannot be ascertained until deprivation reveals it, this is the queerness of the human condition and yet an important one to understand that without loss no lesson worth knowing can ever be learned which is oddly true with many of life’s vicissitudes. Loss epitomizes the genesis of empathy, it is the quintessential impetus to the solicitude for the welfare of others, and the meaning of life generally issues from it, from an acute and sudden emptiness in time and space, from the enigmatic loss of control to disrupt nature’s determinism, and from where the dialectic between love and loss is finally known.

The concept of love must be entertained to fully appreciate this intimation of loss wherein fondness greatly increases only after the fact. To begin, ‘Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love’ (1 John 4:8). The idea is not a panegyric to divinity but a cosmological truth, alas society in its infinite wisdom vulgarizes its usage to indifferently describe eros when its impression upon man or woman beggars description and makes meretricious any sort of explanation behind it. Here the author speaks of courtship, not the love of a parent nor sibling nor even the false kind of an evening’s diversion, for the latter is nothing other than a knee-jerk conquest at variance with the snug feeling from the arousal of ecstasy for another and not at all for oneself whose act binds two persons together ‘so that the two will become one flesh’ (1 Corinthians 6:16). The said emotion can be so remarkably intense, so mysterious, so heady, so otherworldly, that in absentia its toll may provoke suicide as in the literary, thespian, or cinematographic instances of star-crossed lovers above, a fact no less of how humans experience the world much differently than the animal kingdom animated by self-preservation.

In the chronicle of time has loss been wed to love in legends, tales, and folklore from which the epitome in some form or another entails sacrifice. ‘Greater love has no one than this’, Jesus imparted to the Apostles the night of his seizure, ‘that he lay down his life for his friends’ (John 15:13). The modest imitation of such selflessness in the vineyard of life includes austerity of a husband foregoing his wants and needs to pleasure and please his wife or vice versa, the asceticism of a mother to nurture her child’s growth, the stoicism from a suitor apostatizing love if it means his soulmate shall be better for it, or the repudiation of material things to serve the needy. The eudaemonism of sacrifice, to do for others more than for thyself, carries with it great weight in Christian theology, an attribute so contrary to the ethics of atheists and agnostics who confound humans with primates in their defence of sin and vice. The loss of self becomes the loftiest reaches of enlightenment as Jesus sermonizes, ‘For whoever would save his life would lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it’ (Matthew 16:24-25). Saint Augustine who enlarges upon this sacrifice of incurvatus in se observes how it outwardly manifests through the appearance of unalloyed love for a wife, husband, offspring, sibling, parent, friend, or neighbour.

For the Apostles their discipleship ended with the literal imitation of Jesus’ sacrifice whose act colours the identity of a true Christian for it is anticipated our pain shall heal rather than victimize another. The irrationality of it, far different than paganism’s cultic or ritual offerings to appease a deity as ransom, testifies to the superiority of a principled man versus the hedonism of the uncouth, to the reason why humans are not merely animals, or to the fact his self originates in the image of Father. What escapes Christian dilettantes is how, on the subject of the Crucifixion and persecution of the apostles thereafter, the crux of the doctrine pivots on sufferance. ‘If any man would come after me’, Jesus said, ‘let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me’ (Mark 8:34; Matthew 10:38; Luke 14:27; Matthew 16:24). A fellowship of twelve brothers, however agonizing it would later be, bespoke this omnipotent truth that the Church woefully communicates to its patrons today.

The word ‘sacrifice’, antagonistic to if not obsolete verbiage in a liberal culture of instant sexual gratification and material consumption which paints Jesus as a puritanical killjoy, occurs 271 times in the bible as a thanksgiving to Father, an atonement, or disavowal of selfish pleasure. The term has fallen into disuse or worse has become anathema, stigmatized by the egocentrism of the stupid, by the profligacy of spendthrifts, or by the superficiality of glamorous lifestyles hawked by tabloids, even war sacrifice from patriotism grates on the vox populi. Society derides the virtues of self-denial and abstinence, these are not only absurd by normative groupthink but commonly accepted as wrong, a true microcosm of how estranged people are from goodness. Jesus died for our sins (1 Corinthians 15:3), as much as he laid down a messianic template (John 13:14-15), however a great many Christians sensationalize the former believing themselves inoculated against comeuppance from sin if they partake in churchgoing, and belittle the latter in virtue of their arrogance and cupidity.

Widespread aversion to pain abreast of freewheeling promiscuity and gluttony have transformed sacrifice to embody the meekness of a hapless fool, a characteristic more craven than intrepid. This same narrative idolizes the Resurrection with passing regard for the Passion and Crucifixion as the theological ascendency of patripassianism suggests Jesus was not crucified at all but instead it was God. No man could be brutally scourged, disfigured, crucified, and skewered nor should any semblance of it be expected from armchair Christians, hitherto their cowardice remains unbecoming of our family. Were it not for the bloodletting and bloodsport by the Pharisees, for a memorable ending, for such ghastly torture, for an unforeseen departure, the world would believe Jesus an agitator and charlatan insofar as nothing would be reaped if it were unsown and such that the Son spoke to his disciples, ‘[U]nless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a seed; but if it dies, it bears much fruit’ (John 12:24). It is said 53 minutes from where there rings 53 bells such a seed shall be planted once more.

#Son #Father

[vee-angel]

Non-Consent Nancy

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2

WARNING: This story focuses on a lesbian black woman who fetishizes rape, misogyny, racism, and abuse. As such, there will be copious amounts of offensive language and themes, including the sexualization of victims. The story is fiction, and nothing written here should be taken as an endorsement for any of these view or activities. In fact, I wholeheartedly condemn nearly everything the main character thinks and does in this story. I believe that consent is a central tenet of morality, and violations of it are only acceptable in the context of fiction.

***

Introduction:

Nancy had grown up in a conservative, affluent neighborhood. Being one of the only black girls, she became a target for bullies and bigots at an early age. The fact that she dressed and acted like a lesbian before she even fully realized her sexual orientation certainly didn’t do her any favors.

Her mother worked hard to give her a better life than she’d had; as such, she could be a bit dismissive of her problems. When she was little, and informed her that she was being bullied at school, she simply suggested that she try to turn her abusers into friends. Taking her suggestion to heart, from that point on, Nancy always responded to cruelty with kindness. She want out of her way to accommodate bullies, to show them more kindness than she showed anyone else.

In middle school, she pressed her mother to tell her about her birth-father. After a long conversation, her mother finally admitted that Nancy had been conceived through rape by a man her mother had never met. She reasoned then, that her mother had virtually nothing to do with actually creating her. Her father was the one who took the initiative that resulted in her existence. Therefore, every moment of her life, every instant of joy or pleasure she took from being alive, she owed to a rapist. Her gratitude and affinity for rapists and abusers began to reach a level that bordered on worship, with those who defied them being, in her eyes, akin to heretics.

When she reached high-school, her views became even more extreme. She had internalized her affinity for sadists so much that she began to hate victims that tried to fight back. She felt as though they were dishonoring the blessing they had been given. When her best friend, Janet tearfully confessed that she’d been date-raped by a boy she had a crush on, Nancy insisted that she not tell anyone, convincing her that she must have enjoyed it and that she should call the boy and apologize for being such an ungrateful brat. She was proud of herself for facilitating the three-month abusive relationship that followed. Even prouder that she thought to secretly ask the boy out herself, allowing him to cheat on her best friend, as was his right and her honor.

Nancy loved how creative the young man was. He often had Nancy come over right before a date with Janet so he could fuck her and have Janet unknowingly suck her best friends cunt juice off of his cock. He liked to ask Janet for particularly humiliating naked pictures which Nancy insisted it was her duty as a good girlfriend to send him. She often assisted Janet with these photoshoots, helping her write humiliating words on her body, making sure she spread her ass far enough to make her holes clearly visible, ensuring that her tongue really was making contact with the inside of the toilet.

Their friendship ended after the boy mentioned to Nancy that her friend refused anal, and fought vigorously when he tried to force her. Nancy was appalled at learning of her friend’s refusal, insisting that she would help; that night, they stripped her naked and Nancy held her down and covered her mouth while the boy raped her ass. It’s no wonder she thrashed about so much, her barely-lubricated asshole was bleeding pretty badly by the end. Nancy made her apologize for ruining the boys sheets and made her give him money from her purse to replace them.

Janet didn’t talk to Nancy after that, which annoyed the budding rape-enthusiast. That left Nancy with the problem of how to distribute her former friends humiliating pictures as punishment for her ingratitude. Certainly she couldn’t allow the boy to be blamed for sharing them with their classmates. Hell, she would have happily lied under oath to ensure he didn’t suffer the consequences of taking what was his.

Eventually a solution became apparent. There was another girl in her school who always rejected the advances of the boys, a nerdy type who talked back when people made fun of her. Nancy eventually figured out that this girl was a dyke as well. She had no problem with dykes, per se, she was one herself. She had a problem with bitches who thought they were too good to be a plaything for cruel men. So she hatched a plan.

She pretended to befriend the dyke, and eventually the two of them became lovers. A few weeks later she broke up with her very publicly at school, making sure to loudly announce how bad her pussy tasted and claiming she was breaking up with her because she couldn’t stand the girl’s hardcore scat-fetish. This would ensure that the little bitch would be made fun of for the rest of her Senior year, and it would open the door to blame her for posting Janet’s humiliating pictures online.

When the authorities investigated, Nancy admitted that she’d helped Janet take the pictures (claiming that it was Janet’s idea, and backing up the boy’s claim that it was actually Janet who pushed for kinky sex, a story she’d arranged with him earlier). She said that the dyke must have hacked into her computer after she broke up with her, and distributed the pictures as payback. Nancy made sure to include a few compromising pictures of herself in the photo-dump just to make the story more believable.

The plan had worked, in one fell swoop Nancy had managed to humiliate that ungrateful bitch Janet, and teach that stupid dyke what she gets for refusing men their right to use her body. It was one of the great triumphs of her young life, but she only just barely got away with it. Nancy knew that she’d need to be more careful from now on if she wanted to continue abiding by her life’s mission to help all bullies, abusers, and rapists.

So when she got to college she reinvented herself. Publicly she was an advocate for every marginalized group. She went to feminist marches, she spoke at Black Lives Matter events, and collected donations for LGBT causes. This way, she could be seen as a champion for the abused, they would trust her. Never suspecting that she actually masturbated each night to the teary-eyed confessions by dumb bitches whose boyfriends smacked them around or sorority cunts who didn’t appreciate getting gang-raped when they were stupid enough to get drunk at a party.

A few years in, Nancy was majoring in psychology and volunteering at a rape crisis center as a counselor. This is when she met Darla.

Part 1

Nancy walked in that day with a button-up shirt and tie beneath her black vest. Her masculine fashion sense left little doubt to onlookers that she was a lesbian. It was form-fitting enough to display her slim body. Had she had her clothes ripped off in public, as she so often fantasized, observers would see a strong, athletic body with clear muscle definition beneath her smooth, dark brown skin. They would also notice the ample curves of her large breasts atop her six-pack abs, a contrast rarely seen in non-black women. Her hair was styled in neat dreadlocks that hung down just past her chin. Her whole style screamed liberal black lesbian feminist. Yet she dressed with enough allure that she hoped every misogynist, racist, and sadist that saw her went home and planned how to make her scream while they raped her dyke-nigger asshole bloody. She secretly believed it’s what all women deserved, and made it her life’s mission to ensure it happened to as many women as possible.

When she saw the defeated-looking woman with a bruised face in the rape crisis center office, she knew she was in for a treat.

“Hi, have you been helped yet?” Nancy said to the girl in a gentle voice.

“They said they don’t have anybody who can see me right now, and they said I have to wait.” she responded meekly, still staring at the ground, but obviously in distress.

Nancy squatted down in front of the girl to meet her eyes and gave her a reassuring smile. “My name is Nancy, would you like to go somewhere private and we can just sit together? If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to just sit, that’s okay too. If you need a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold, I’ll be there for you if you want. And if, at any point, you think you’d feel better being alone, you’re welcome to leave, I won’t judge you or think less of you no matter what. I only care about making sure you get what you need right now.” She gave some version of this speech to almost every ungrateful cunt that came in. It made it easier for them to open up to her.

The girl nodded and Nancy led her to a small, quiet room where they sat across from one another. “Would you like to tell me your name?” Nancy asked.

“Darla.” She replied.

“It’s very nice to meet you Darla. What can I do to help you, today?” She asked softly.

“He raped me again last night.” Darla replied, her tone hectic. “I don’t know what I did! He always does this, even though he says he’s going to stop!”

Haha! What a stupid cunt! Nancy thought. “Who did this to you?”

“My ex boyfriend. Back when we were started dating, he said he understood that sex is something that’s really, really hard for me because of my childhood. But after a little while he said he didn’t want to wait anymore. And after that he stopped caring, and he didn’t even stop when I said no and begged him! That’s why I broke up with him, but he called me and said he changed. Except it seemed like he really meant it this time! He asked me to come over so he could give me a gift to apologize. But when I got there he…he...”

Oh, come on, don’t tease me you little rape-slut, Nancy thought, “It’s okay, you’re safe with me.” her gentle voice reassured the girl.

“He...put it in my butt.” Darla replied blushing, though the bruising on her face made it difficult to tell.

“This was the first time he’d forced you to have anal sex?” Nancy asked

Darla nodded, “That was always like really, really super off limits.” Tears rolled down the girls face. “And, and, and he knew that! I said I’d break up with him if he ever did that. He said he always wanted to, and that he was going to do it now that I can’t break up with him again.”

Well I can’t fault his logic! she thought as the girl cleaned the tears from her face with a tissue. Nancy briefly had a fantasy in which she congratulated the girl’s ex-boyfriend for a stellar job of tricking her into getting raped so many times, followed by the two of them laughing over how stupid she was to fall for it so many times. A brief moment later she considered how improved the fantasy would be if Darla were bound naked and gagged listening to them during the exchange as they prepared to rape her together. She was tempted to smile as she contemplated the scenario, but fortunately she was practiced at not letting her inner thoughts show on her face.

“You mentioned that sex was difficult for you because of your childhood. Was there something that happened when you were younger that resulted in you having a strong negative reaction to that particular act? Nancy asked.

“My parents used to make me do that when I was little. They used to make videos and let strangers do it to me for money.”

“They made videos of you having anal sex when you were underaged?”

“They stopped when I was fourteen, they said I was too old. But they only had men put it in my butt, because they said it’d be really bad if I got pregnant and had to see a doctor.” Darla explained, her lip quivering.

Jackpot! Nancy thought, I’ve got a real life porn-star in front of me! She wondered how many men and women had masturbated while watching her little asshole get sodomized. A spark of anger suddenly shot through Nancy. Ungrateful cunt, do you know what I would have given to have a childhood like yours?!? Her thoughts alternated back and forth between arousal and resentment. She compromised between the two emotions when she vowed to make Darla properly suffer for how blind she’d been for all the wonderful honors that her family and boyfriend had bestowed on her.

“Your boyfriend knew this when he anally raped you?”

“Yeah! He said he thought it was funny. He laughed and said that this keeps happening to me because I’m a whore, and I deserve it.” Darla said with tearful anger.

Smart AND a sense of humor! How dare this dumb bitch deny this charming boyfriend of hers the right to use his victim! She should be begging him to blister her cunt with a belt to show how sorry she is! God, I hate her!

“You’re a good-hearted person. It was very kind of you to keep giving him chances. But your kindness doesn’t mean you deserve to be raped.” The fact that you’re weak and you have a cunt means you deserve to be raped. Nancy finished the thought in her head.

The rest of the session continued along the same theme, with Darla pouring her heart out about her tragic life full of rape, molestation, and abuse. Nancy struggled to contain her excitement, but managed to maintain her professional disposition. Her only worry was that her cunt may have soaked through her slacks and left a stain on the chair. She resented this pathetic girl for having been given so much, yet being so stupid as to complain about it.

Finally finished with her cathartic confessions, Darla was finally ready to leave. Nancy, not wanting this delightful encounter to be fleeting, wrote down her phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Darla. “I know you feel better now, but this isn’t something you can get over in one session. I’m taking a special interest in you. Feel free to call or text whenever you need, and I absolutely expect to see you back here soon.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot to me.” Darla replied before hugging her tightly. Nancy only had an Associate’s Degree, but chose not to correct her, hoping the assumption would work to her advantage at some point in the future. Darla walked out, riding on the high of catharsis.

***

Nancy stayed for a few more hours, but the rest of the afternoon was rather banal. A few girls came in asking about domestic abuse resources or abortion services. Much as she didn’t like helping these little rape-dolls, she had to if she was to keep her cover intact. Normally, she’d at least get a kick out of making girls give a few extra details before she provided them with what she wanted, but all she could think about is how she wanted to ruin and violate Darla.

When she left the center, she was so lost in thought, she hadn’t even heard the awkward footsteps of the girl racing to catch up to her.

“Hi, Nancy! I’m really glad that I get to volunteer here with you. You’re such an inspiration.” the girl said, failing at coming up with a natural way to start a conversation.

“Oh, Hannah. Hi, I didn’t notice you.” she replied. Hannah was a pansexual Jew-cunt that answered phones at the rape crisis center. She also took care of all the accounting. She’d been raped by her friend’s older brother when she was ten years old and it fucked with her self-esteem. She was desperate to get people to like her, a fact which Nancy regularly took advantage of. The big-nosed bitch always tried too hard, especially with people who treated her like shit.

“So, do you have any plans tonight?” Hannah asked.

Nancy smiled and took the Jew-cunt’s hand as they walked, interlocking her fingers. “I do! I’ve been dating a lot; getting pretty lucky in the romance department lately. But I don’t want to tell you about that, it’d be inconsiderate of your feelings. I’m sure you have something interesting going on. Tell me about that.”

Nancy knew that Hannah wasn’t especially popular and had a bit of a crush on her. Her background in psychology allowed her to utilize her knowledge to hurt Hannah in subtle ways while still pretending to be her friend. In a few sentences, she’d managed to remind her of the humiliating rejection that had occurred a few months ago; impress upon her the fact that while she has trysts with lots of women, she doesn’t find Hannah attractive enough to date; and put her on the spot to share plans that Nancy knew she obviously didn’t have.

The pair of them walked hand-in-hand as Hannah’s eyes frantically darted back and forth in thought as her chest slightly tensed, not knowing how to respond.

“Oh… ya know.” she finally replied with a forced smile.

“No, I don’t know. Come on, Hannah! Open up a little, you’re always so timid.”

“Ummm. Just… just catching up on some reading. Heh. Guess we’re not all as popular as you.”

“Hey, you’re a wonderful person. Any man, woman, or nonbinary would be lucky to be with you!” With that, Nancy kissed the lonely, desperate kike on the cheek and veered off in the other direction.

Nancy’s mind began to reel with delightfully villainous ideas. It’ll probably be a few days until I get a chance to see Darla again, she thought,  Maybe it is finally time to give Hannah some attention.

***

Part 2

That evening, Nancy went home and ordered a few spy cameras that she could use to record subsequent encounters with Darla. With that quick errand finished, she focused her attention on ensuring that her good friend Hannah the big-nosed Jew-cunt finally got put in her place.

Nancy worshipped individuals who violated others, but she did have a certain affinity for rapists on a cultural or societal scale as well. It’s why she has a strong veneration for men, whites, and authority figures (the last group being made up, predominantly, of white men). It was no wonder that she had developed a fetish for misogynist white-supremacists; in fact, she’d become a bit of one herself.

Jews like Hannah were among the worst, Nancy believed. As a shit-skin dyke, she couldn’t exactly claim superiority, but at least Nancy knew her place in the world. Hannah, however, was such a stereotypical Jew that it almost seemed intentional. She whined about being raped when she was little, she whined about her ancestors being tortured in the Holocaust, she even sometimes whined about her ancestors being enslaved in Egypt. In typical Jew fashion, she played them off like jokes, but Nancy knew that the little kike actually did feel as though these things were injustices.

Nancy hoped her friend would eventually learn her lesson and join her in honoring all the wonderful contributions that rapists and abusers make to society, but she was impatient and wanted to help her along.

A few months before, she sent Hannah a naked picture of herself out of the blue. She had picked up on the girl’s crush on her and hoped to use that to subtly humiliate her. Hannah’s response was ecstatic, she poured her heart out, saying how she’d loved her from afar for so long and was overjoyed to know that she felt the same way. After that followed a series of lewd images of the black-haired kike. Nancy didn’t reply, despite the increasingly nervous-sounding texts that followed. Instead, she confronted Hannah the next day in person. She remembered the conversation vividly…

“I felt like I owed it to you to explain this in person. I think you got the wrong idea yesterday. I had a great day at the gym and I was just feeling really good about my body, so I sent pictures to some of my close friends, but it was completely platonic, Hannah. I’m just a very body-positive person. I’m so sorry you got the wrong idea, it must have been so humiliating to you, but I could never be intimate with you. I value our friendship so much, so I just want to be clear. You are not attractive….to me. I still think you’re a great person, but I could never find you physically appealing.”

Nancy smiled as she thought back on that moment with pride. The look of pain and humiliation on Hannah’s face was priceless. She had run to the bathroom just after the conversation, and Nancy snuck in a few minutes later to hear her crying loudly. She felt an exhilaration at knowing she’d hurt the girl so deeply. In just a few moments, Nancy had left a mark in her mind and soul that would last for years, probably decades; words that would echo over and over again. There was a sort of romance to that, knowing that her friend would carry that moment with her for such a long time. It was the kind of gift that bullies left their victims with. But tonight, Nancy wanted Hannah to have an even better gift.

She knew that Hannah would be home alone tonight, so Nancy reached out to some of her online resources. She could be herself on the internet, and it made her many friends among rape-baiters and rapists. Those were the people she needed that night.

Nancy was posing as Hannah online, she was uploading the obscene images that the Jew-cunt had sent her a few months before and claiming that she was finally ready to fulfill her fantasy of being brutally violated by racists. She had even photoshopped an image she’d found of Hannah online. The original image showed her face holding a sign reading “I need feminism because no one believed me when I told them I was raped. I was 10.” But with some slight touch ups, in the new image, the sign read, “I don’t need feminism, I need my Jew-holes brutally gang-raped by Nazi cock.” Photoshopping “I need feminism” signs had become a bit of a hobby for Nancy, and she’d become pretty good at making them look real.

She was sure to include this new picture along with the other images of her naked body. She sent them to anyone with potential, even posted them online in a few spots with her name and location. Finally she got into a conversation with someone who was close enough and real enough to get it done tonight. Nancy shared private details, still posing as Hannah and claiming to consent to anything he and his friends wanted to do to her. She begged him for an assurance that he’d violate every hole, that he’d beat her. Even made him promise that he’d break her big Jew-nose. She warned him that she wanted it to be real, so she was going to beg and cry a lot, but they weren’t to stop raping her, no matter what.

The stranger online gave assurances that he’d do everything she asked and more. Nancy proceeded to give him Hannah’s home address, along with details of her house, and the location of the spare key. She finished by thanking him, then went off to masturbate for hours as she thought about all the wonderful things that could be happening to Hannah that night.

I’m such a good friend. She thought with a smile before falling asleep.

#pervertpentet #nonconsentnancy