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cy-cyborg · 6 months

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Disability Tropes: The Miracle Cure

The miracle cure is a trope with a pretty negative reputation in disability circles, especially online. It describes a scenario in which, a disabled character, through either magic, advanced technology, divine intervention or some combination of the three, has their disability cured throughout the course of the story. Sometimes this is literally, as in the disability is completely and entirely cured with no strings attached. Other times, it looks like giving an amputee character a prosthetic so advanced that it's basically the same as "the real thing" and that they never take off or have any issue with, or giving the character with a spinal injury an implant that bypasses the physical spine's break, or connects to an exoskeleton that allows them to walk again. Sometimes, it can even look like giving a character some kind of magic item or power that negates the effects of the disability, like what I talked about in my post about "the super-crip" trope. Either way though, the effect is the same: The disability is functionally cured and is no longer an "issue" the author or character has to worry about.

But why would this be a bad thing? In a world with magic or super-advanced tech, if you can cure a character's disability, why wouldn't you?

[ID: a screenshot of Roy mustang from Full metal alchemist Brotherhood, a white man with short black hair in a hospital gown. In the corner of the screen is the hand of another person holding a small red gemstone. /End ID]

Well there's a few reasons. First, lets talk about the purely writing related ones. If you've been around the writing or even media critique communities for a bit, you've likely heard people voicing their frustrations with tropes like "The fake-out death" where a character is either implied to have died, but comes back later, or is explicitly shown to be dead and then resurrected. Often when this happens in media, it leaves the audience feeling cheated and like a character's actions and choices don't really matter if even the worst mistakes and consequences can be undone. In the case of the latter situation, where they die and are brought back, it can make the stakes of the whole story feel a lot lower, since even something like death is shown to be reversible, so the audience doesn't really have to worry about anything bad happening to their favourite character, and once you've used this trope one time, people will constantly wonder why you wouldn't use it every time it comes up.

The same is true for "fixing" a character's disability. It sets a precedent that even things as big and life-changing as disability aren't permanent in this setting. We don't have to worry about anything major happening to the characters, there's no risks associated with their actions if it can all be undone, and it will lower the stakes of the story for your audience. Personally, I also feel like it's often used as a cop-out. Like writers wanted to include a major injury the leads to something big like disability for shock value, but weren't sure how to actually deal with it afterwards, so they just made it go away. Even in cases where the character start the story with a disability and are cured, this can still cause issues with your story's stakes, because again, once we've seen you do it once, we know its possible, so we won't feel the need to worry about anything being permanent.

Ok, so that's the purely writing related reasons, but what if that situation doesn't apply to the story you're writing? What if they're "fixed" right at the end, or the way they're cured is really rare, so it can't be used multiple times?

I'm glad you asked, because no, this is far from the only reason to avoid the trope! In my opinion, the more important reason to avoid it is because of how the a lot of the disabled community feels about the miracle cure trope, and the ideas about disability it can perpetuate if you're not very, very careful.

You might have noticed that throughout this post, I've put words like "cured" and "fixed" in quotes, and that's because not every disabled person wants a cure or feels like their ideal to strive for is able-bodied and neurotypical. For many of us, we have come to see our disabilities as part of us, as part of our identities and our sense of self, the same way I, as a queer person might see my queerness as a part of my identity. This is an especially common view among people who were born with their disability or who had them from a young age, since this is all they've ever really known, or who's disability impacts the way they think, perceive and process the world around them, how they communicate with people or in communities who have a long history of forced conformity and erasure such as the autism and deaf communities. Many disabilities have such massive impacts on our lives that we literally wouldn't be who we are today if they were taken away. So often though, when non-disabled people write disabled characters, they assume we'd all take a "cure" in a heart-beat. They assumed we all desire to be just like them again, and this simply isn't the case. Some people absolutely would, and there's nothing wrong with that, but it's not as universal as media representation makes it out to be.

Another reason it's so heavily disliked is because this trope is often used in conjunction with other ableist and harmful tropes or it's used in ways that perpetuate misinformation about living with a disability and it can have ableist implications, even if that's not what the author necessarily intended.

If the miracle cure is used right at the end of the story for example, as a way to give characters a happy ending it can imply that the only way for a disabled character to be happy in the long run, is for them to be "fixed", especially if they were miserable all the way up until that point. If it's used earlier in the story as a way to get said character back into the action, it can also be read as the author thinking that disabled people can't be of use to the plot, and so the only way to keep them around is to "fix" them.

Of course, there's also the fact that some authors and writers will also play up how bad being disabled is in order to show why a cure is justified, playing into the "sad disabled person" trope in the process, which is pretty much what it says on the tin. Don't get me wrong, this isn't to say that being disabled is all easy-breezy, there are never any hard days and you should never show your character struggling, not at all, the "sad disabled person" trope has it's place (even if I personally am not a fan on it), but when both the "sad disabled person" trope and the miracle cure trope are used together, it's not a great look.

This is especially bad when the very thing that cures the disability, or perhaps the quest the heroes need to go on to get it, is shown to be harmful to others or the disabled person themselves. Portraying living with a disability as something so bad that it justifies hurting others, putting others at risk, loosing yourself or killing yourself in order to achieve this cure perpetuates the already harmful idea that disability is a fate worse than death, and anything is justified to avoid it.

I've also noticed the reasons the authors and writers give for wanting to cure their characters are very frequently based on stereotypes, a lack of research in to the actual limits of a person's disability and a lack of understanding. One story I recall reading years ago made sure to tell you how miserable it's main character, a former cyclist, was because he'd been in a car accident where he'd lost his arm, and now couldn't ride bikes anymore, seemingly unaware of the fact arm amputees can, in fact, ride bikes. There are several whole sports centred around it, and even entire companies dedicated to making prosthetic hands specifically for riding bikes. but no, the only way for this to resolve and for him to be happy was to give him his arm back as a magical Christmas miracle! It would be one thing if the story had acknowledged that he'd tried cycling again but just had difficulties with it, or something was stopping him from being able to do it like not being able to wear the required prosthetic or something, but it really did seem as though the author was entirely unaware it was even possible, which is an issue when it's the whole point of your story existing. This happens a lot more often than you'd think, and it's very clear when an author hasn't even bothered to google search if their character would be able to do something before deciding the only solution is to take the disability away.

There's also the frustration that comes from being part of an underrepresented minority, finally seeing a character like you on screen or in a book, only for that representation to be taken away. Disabled people make up roughly 16% of the population (though many estimate these numbers are actually much higher), but only about 2.8% of American TV shows and 4.1% of Australian TV shows feature explicitly disabled characters. In 2019, around 2.3% of films featured disabled characters in a speaking roll, and while it's slowly getting better as time goes on, progress on that front is very slow, which is why its so frustrating when we do see characters like ourselves and so much of their stories focus on wishing to be, trying to become or actually being "cured".

An finally, there's the fact this is just a really common trope. Even if we ignore the issues it can cause with your story's tone and stakes, the harm it can do to the community when not handled with care, the negative perceptions it can perpetuate and everything else. It's just a plain-old overdone trope. It shows up so often that I, and a lot of disabled people, are just getting tired of seeing it. Despite everything I've said, there are valid reasons for people to not want to be disabled, and just like how I made sure to emphasise that not everyone wants a cure, it's important to recognise that not everyone would refuse it either. So long as it's not done in a way that implies it's universal, in theory, depicting someone who would want and accept a cure is totally fine. The issue is though that this trope is so common and so overdone that it's starting to feel like it's all we ever see, especially in genres like sci-fi and fantasy (and also Christmas movies for some reason).

[ID: A Gif of a white man in a top hat nodding his head with the caption "Merry Christmas" down the bottom. /end ID]

Personally, because it's so common, I find even the few examples of the trope used well frustrating, and I honestly feel that it's at the point where it should be avoided entirely where possible.

Ok but Cy, you mentioned there are ways to use this trope well, what are they?

So, like I said, I'm of the opinion that this trope is better off not being in your work at all, but if, for whatever reason, you can't avoid it, or it's use is really that important to the story you want to tell, there are less harmful ways to implement it.

Don't have your only disabled character take the cure

If you really must cure your disabled character's disability, don't make them the only disabled person in the story. Show us another character who, when offered the same cure, chooses not to take it. This at least helps push back a little against the assumption of "of course everyone would want this" that these kinds of stories often imply and doesn't contribute (as much) to disability erasure in the media.

Don't make it a total cure

In real life, there are cures for some disabilities, but they rarely leave no trace. For example, an amputee's limb can sometimes be reattached if it was severed and they received medical treatment fast enough, but it usually results in at least a little nerve damage and difficulties with muscle strength, blood flow or co-ordination in that limb. Often times, these "cures" will fix one issue, but create another. You might not be an amputee anymore, but you're still disabled, just in a different way. You can reflect this in your fictional cures to avoid it feeling like you just wanted to avoid doing the work to write good disabled representation.

Do something interesting with it

I got a comment on my old tumblr or possibly Tik Tok account ages ago talking about their planned use for the miracle cure trope, where their character accepts the cure at the cost of the things that made her life enjoyable post-disability. Prior to accepting the cure, she had found other ways to be independent to some extent and her community and friends helped her bridge the gaps, but they were all taken from her when she was "cured" forcing her into isolation. Kind of like a "be careful what you wish for" sort of thing. The story was meant to be a critique on how society ignores alternative ways of getting the same result and how conforming to other people's ideas of "normal" isn't always what you need to bring you happiness. This was a genuinely interesting way to use the trope I think, and it's a perfect example of taking this trope and twisting it to make an interesting point. If you must use a trope like this, at least use it to say something other than "disability makes me sad so I don't want to think about it too much". Alternatively, on a less serious note, I'm also not entirely opposed to the miracle cure being used for comedy if it fits the tone. The Orville has some issues with it's use of the Miracle Cure trope, but I'd be lying if I said Isaac amputating Gordan's leg as a prank, knowing it could be reversed in a few hours did get a chuckle out of me.

If your villain's motivation is finding a cure for themselves, don't use it as justification for hurting people

Disabled villains need a post all their own honestly, but when a villain's motivation for doing all the terrible things they do is so they don't have to be disabled anymore, it's especially frustrating. Doubly so if the writer's are implying that they're justified in their actions, or at least that their actions are understandable because "who would want to live like that?" Honestly, as a general rule of thumb, avoid making your villains disabled if you aren't disabled yourself (especially if they're your only disabled character), but if they are disabled, don't use the disability as a justification for them hurting people while finding a cure.

So are there any examples currently out there to look at where the trope is used, if not well, at least tolerably?

Yeah, I'd say so, but they're few and far between. Two examples come to mind for me though.

The Dragon Prince:

[ID: A Gif of Ava the Wolf from the Dragon Prince, a light brown, fluffy wolf who is missing her front right leg. /End ID]

The Dragon Prince on Netflix uses the miracle cure twice, but I still really enjoyed the show (at least I did, up until my Netflix subscription ran out, so I've only seen up to season 4). The first time the trope is used in the series, it's actually a fake-out. Two of the main characters, while looking for someone to help them heal the dragon egg they're carrying, encounter a young girl named Ellis and her pet wolf Ava. The two explain their egg is not looking good and they need to find someone to help it, but no one they've found had the knowledge or ability to do anything to help. Ellis says she knows a healer who can help them, and tells them that this healer even restored Ava's amputated leg when she was a pup. When we actually reach this "miracle healer" however, she is revealed to be simply an illusionist. She explains that Ava is still missing her leg, she simply made it look as though she had restored it because Ellis's parents were planning to throw the puppy out, believing it would not survive with its disability and would only be a drain on supplies. This was not actually true and Ava adapted to her amputation very well, she simply needed more time, and hiding her disability and making her appear abled gave her the time she needed to fully recover and adjust. When they return to the healer with the main characters, she removes the illusion and explains why she did it, emphasising that the real problem was never with Ava, but with how people made assumptions about her.

While I do feel it was drawn out a bit too long, I do appreciate the use of the trope as the set up to an overall positive twist. Disability does come with down-sides, it's part of the deal and it would have been nice to see a bit more of that, but for disabilities like amputation in particular, the worst of our problems often come from a lack of adequate support and people's pre-conceived ideas about us, and it was nice to see this reflected, even if it is a little overly simplified.

The second time this trope comes up in the series is when one of the antagonists, Soren, is injured during a fight with a dragon, becoming paralysed from the neck down. His sister, Claudia is absolutely beside herself, believing it was her fault this even happened in the first place, but Soren actually takes his new disability very, very well, explaining that he understands there are things he can't do now, but that there's a lot of things he can still try, that his previous job as a soldier just didn't allow time for. It's possible this reaction was him being in denial but it came across to me as genuine acceptance. He is adamant that he doesn't want a cure right from the beginning because he knows that a cure would come at a cost that he doesn't want his sister to pay, and that he is content and happy with this new direction his life will be going in. Claudia, however, is not content. It had been shown that she was already using dark magic, but this event is what starts her down the path of using it in earnest, disregarding the harm it will cause to those around her. She ignores Soren's wishes, kills several animals in order to fuel the healing spell that will "fix" him, and Soren is pretty clearly shown to be horrified by her actions. What I like about this use of the miracle cure trope is that it touches on something I've seen happen a lot to disabled people in real-life, but that rarely shows up in media - the fact that just because we accept ourselves, our disabilities and our new limits, doesn't mean our friends and family will, unfortunately. In my own life, my mum and dad were always accepting of my disability when I was younger, but as I got older and my support needs changed, my body took longer to heal and I stopped being able to do a lot of things I could when I was little, they had a very hard time coming to terms with it and accepting it. I'm not alone in this either, a lot of disabled people end up cutting contact with friends and family members who refuse to accept the reality of our situations and insist "if we just try harder maybe we won't be so disabled" or "Maybe you will get better if you just do [xyz]". Unfortunately however, some disable people's wishes are ignored completely, like Soren's were. You see this a lot in autistic children who's parents are so desperate to find a cure that they hurt their kids through toxic and dangerous "treatments" or by putting them through abusive therapies that do more harm than good. Claudia has good intentions, but her complete disregard for Soren's decision still harm them both in the long run, leading to the deterioration of their relationship and causing her to spiral down a very dark path.

Full Metal Alchemist: Brotherhood

[ID: A Gif of Ed from full metal alchemist, a white boy with blond hair, staring angrily at a jar of milk on the table. His brother Al, a sentiant suit of armour, is in the background looking directly at the camera. The caption, spoken by Ed, says "So we meet again you little bastard" /end ID.]

The show does begin with Ed and Al looking for a way to cure their disabilities (which they gave themselves when trying to resurrect their mother as children went horribly wrong). However, when the boys discover that the object needed to do that - a philosopher's stone, can only by made through absolutely abhorrent and despicable means, and using one, likewise, comes at the cost of potentially hundreds or thousands of people's souls, they immediately stop, and shift their focus on finding the stones that had already been made so it can't fall into the wrong hands, and preventing the creation of new ones. The core theme of the show is that everything has a cost, and sometimes the cost is simply too great.

However, right at the end of the show, several characters are healed in a variety of ways. Ed gives up his ability to do alchemy to get his brother's body back, as well as his arm so he can save his friends in the final battle, but neither of the boys come away from this completely "healed". Al's body has not been used since he was a child, and so it is shown he has experienced severe muscular atrophy that will take a long time and a lot of work to recover from, acknowledging that he has a pretty tough road ahead of him. When we see him in the epilogue, he is still on crutches despite this being several months after getting his body back. Likewise Ed is not fully healed, and is still missing one of his legs even if he got his arm back.

The more... interesting use of the trope, however, is in the form of Colonel Mustang who was blinded in the final season. Mustang is shown to take to his blindness pretty well given the circumstances, finding a variety of ways to continue doing his job and reaching his goals. When other characters offer to let him use the philosopher's stone to heal himself however, he takes it, acknowledging that this is a horrible thing to do and that Ed and Al would be extremely disappointed in him if they ever found out. He uses it both to cure his own disability, and to cure another character who was injured earlier in the show. While I'll admit, I did not like this ending, I can at least appreciate that the show made sure to emphasis that a) Mustang was doing fine without the cure, and b) that this was not morally justified. The show spent a very long time drilling into the viewer how morally reprehensible using the stone was, and it didn't try to make an exception for Mustang - you weren't supposed to like that he did that.

When I talk about these tropes, I do try to give them a fair chance and discuss the ways it can potentially work, but I really do want to reiterate that this particular trope really is best avoided. There are ways to make it work, but they will still leave a bad taste in many of your viewer's or reader's mouths and you have to be exceptionally careful with your wording and framing, not just in the scenes where this trope is used, but in the lead up. If you really must use it, I highly recommend getting a few disability sensitivity readers and/or consultants (yes, even if you are disabled yourself) to help you avoid some of the often overlooked pitfalls.

#writing disability With Cy Cyborg #very long post #I could have sworn I talked about this trope already but I couldn't find the post. Apparently I had a lot more to say anyway lol #long post #disability #Disabled #Disability representation #Physical Disability #disability Tropes #Writing #Writeblr #Authors #Disabled Rep #Writing Advice #writing Tips #Disabled Characters #writing disability

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aurorawhisperz · 10 months

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that’s what you get (e.l.)

contains: swearing, suggestive content, fluff, richie exists..

neighbor!ethan landry x fem!reader

a/n: THANK YOU GUYS FOR THE TROPES NOW IM GONNA BE POSTING MORE BY JULY 🦅🦅🦅 ethan is a bit of a meanie in this but he’s still little old him (maybe just gf ethan persona)

some tropes i used are: enemies to lovers, girl next door, forced proximity and best friend’s brother 🙏 (yk allat shit LOL) THERE WILL BE A PART 2!!

•

You knew for a fact that Quinn Bailey was your best friend—what made it even better is that you two could communicate through your windows, but one thing you also knew is that you didn’t like her brother, Ethan, he was your age, Quinn was older than you both. He would sometimes cut into your ‘girl talk’ since his room was right beside hers.

“Dammit!” You said as you banged on the door roughly. Your parents weren’t going to be home until tomorrow morning for something important, and you had left your keys inside the house. To make it even worse, it was raining.

A familiar voice startles you and has you snap out of all that stress. “(Name)?” says Quinn, covering herself with a blanket. I think it’s pretty obvious what she was doing just now.

“Quinn!” You called from below, your eyes widen at the sight of her covered body by the window. “I’ll..get back to you! Damn..” You hear her say something to an impatient guy, something about helping a friend—obviously that friend was you.

A few minutes later, she runs out in pink slip-ons and a purple nightgown with an umbrella. “Need help? Holy shit, you are soaking.” Quinn’s eyes widen at the sight of your outfit ruined. “And cold.” You add, then slamming your fist on the wall, “I left my keys inside.”

“Boo, it’s not that hard to knock on our door.” She chuckles, then you roll your eyes, “And deal with your brothers while you get to bang someone tonight? Yeah, right.” Her eyes then dart and she forces a smile out. “Ethan’s not that bad.”

You frown, “Yes, he is.”

“Baby, you’ll have to deal with it. I can’t stand Richie anymore.” Quinn complains, then she tugs on the sleeve of your wet cardigan to let you inside her ‘humble home.’

Grateful to be out of the pouring rain, the familiar smell of your best friend’s home fills your nostrils.

You both plop down on the plush couch, and she hands you a towel for your wet hair. Quinn then shoots you a playful smile, “Aside from our ‘interventions’, what did baby bro do this time to get on your nerves?” She asks.

“That’s about it, he wants to be the center of attention even when he’s not wanted.” You let out a sigh.

Quinn’s lips curl into a smirk, and she gently places a hand on your shoulder. “He's just trying to be a part of our bond, in his own misguided way. Ethan’s.. different, he’s fucking awkward and stuff but not around us because he’s more comfortable.”

You sigh, feeling a mix of frustration and understanding. “I guess I can try to tolerate him a bit more. For you. But he better stay out of our serious conversations.”

Quinn laughs and pulls you into a hug, the warmth of her embrace enveloping you. “That's the spirit! And don't worry, I'll make sure that jackass knows when to give us our space. Besties have their ways, you know.”

“What ways?” says Richie, holding an ‘I LOVE STAB’ coffee mug. You also know for a fact that you hated him more than Ethan—being the movie geek he is, not that it’s bad, it’s how he takes it too far and even gets touchy with others. “Ways to die.” You mutter, staring deep into his damned soul.

He nods nervously and heads back into his room. “Stay in there!” yells Quinn.

Once the silence has dissolved into thin air, she blurts out, “How about that tension?” Your eyes widen, eyebrows pinched together and lips parted in protest. “Sexual tension?” You repeat, your face going pale.

She nods cheekily, “SEXUAL?” You shriek. Quinn laughs at your reaction.

You then hear Quinn’s name from upstairs, “Ooh, priorities.” She avoids your gaze and then drags you back upstairs, “Q, don’t make me a third wheel tonight.” You roll your eyes as her grip on your arm tightens.

•

“What the hell?” is the first thing that comes out of Ethan’s mouth when Quinn pushes you into her room. “Quinn, and you. Get out!” He narrows his eyes. “E, I’ve got a guy waiting for me to go back.”

“Then tell him to fucking leave?” He shakes his head. “You’re a degenerate, you know that?” Ethan shoots back.

“Well, I’m not a virgin, so you don’t get a say in that.” Quinn lets out a corny smile and shakes her head, you can see Ethan gritting his teeth. “Do you want her to deal with Richie then?” She tilts her head slyly.

He sighs, “No.” she raises her hands and continues “That’s what I thought, love you both!” Quinn exits just as Ethan is about to flip her off.

You sit down on Ethan’s beanbag and all he does is stare.

He scoffs, “What brings you into my lair?” He crunches on a cheeto. You obviously refused to let his taunts get under your skin, “Spare me.” You retorted.

Ethan smirks, enjoying your discomfort, “Mighty (name) finds herself in a bit of a predicament, huh?”

“Unlike you, Eth, I don't have the luxury of living in a perfect little bubble where everything goes my way. So excuse me if I need a moment to think.” You tightly clench your fists.

“Can’t we just tolerate each other’s existence only for a little bit?” You complain, Ethan’s mouth turns into an “O” shape and he sarcastically remarks “Who can go the longest without being an asshole? You or me?”

“Me.” You pridefully chuckle. “This starts now.” He declares.

You have never heard silence quite this loud. The only thing you and Ethan have been doing for the past few minutes is stare at each other. Eye language perhaps?

His lips part at the sight of you.

While you did hate Ethan, there was always something telling you otherwise—you’d find yourself looking through his window, and if you timed it right, even got to see his muscles whenever he changes. (And it was hard to keep a straight face when you’d see it during your conversations with Quinn.)

What snaps you out of that thought is Ethan’s scoff, he then turns his head—then his gaze back to you. “It’s so dumb.”

“What do you mean?” Your eyebrows pinch together in the middle, and your lips purse. “You know how Quinn gets to show off her man all she wants and how she’s so freaked out over everything they do—even when she’s..done those things so many times.” says Ethan.

Ethan then shrugs, “It’s just stupid.”, your eyebrows raise in agreement as you bit the inside of your cheek.

While you did hate Ethan, part of you..or most of you was telling you that he wanted you to give in—but give in to what? Being the muscular little thing he is, it’s hard to maintain your sanity when you see him without a shirt through his window. Practically drooling, but of course, you couldn’t let Quinn know.

Mainly because she’s so ‘Quinn’, she would probably tell him.

Behind the thin walls of her bedroom were sounds quite pathetic, you two burst into laughter up to the point where you both were crying.

You put a hand over your heart and leaned back on the beanbag.

“Are they THAT loud?” You ask, “Very.” He chuckles in response, this might be the only conversation you two could call a genuine conversation.

“This is really pervy of us to do, but we don’t have a choice, not like we can tune them out.” says Ethan as he grabs a Marvel plush and sits next to the beanbag you were on.

“It’s not like me and Quinn could tune you out.” You joke. A genuine smile tugs on the corners of Ethan’s plush lips. “Gee, you’re really being nice right now.” Your words laced with sarcasm tumbled out.

You had spent your entire life making sure Ethan would never fall for you, nor would you fall for him—and you failed.

It was like there’s nobody in the world right now but you two.

“Well, it’s part of the game right?” Ethan said, his eyes, half-lidded, looking up at you. “It doesn’t seem that much of a game anymore.” You kept your eyes on him, and he kept his on you as well.

Silence. Just silence. That was how much reality hurt.

This is also the closest you have ever been. There is only inches between you both, and you are close to giving in. Breaking the silence, “Maybe I should leave now, I’m not cold-” Ethan then stops your lips with a kiss. He pulls away and you are left with the sight of him hovering over you on the beanbag.

You kissed him back even longer, yes, you were kissing your enemy. It felt so wrong—but at the same time, it felt so right.

The smell of lemon zest surrounded you, along with his intoxicating aura. The thought then entered your head.

Hey, what if I just pulled away and ran like crazy?

Just as you’re about to pull away, he insists against your mouth, “Stay.” Ethan said, you could tell from how hot his lips were—he felt the same way. Out of control.

Ethan then turns you both over so that he was on the beanbag and you were straddling him.

His hands were sneaky enough to slide under the back of your shirt. “Just calming your nerves.” says Ethan as he rubs soothing circles on your lower back.

It was his shuddering breath that made you think this was a dream. Being woken up was the last thing you needed. Ethan whines into the kiss, and you smiled against him.

You then pull away with a small gasp escaping your lips when his hips jolt up into yours, your fist slammed against the wall as he did it twice.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry. It’s a reflex.” Ethan stammers as he sits up, moving you as well. “No, no! I just got startled. It’s fine, really.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth then his hands grip the sides of your face. Ethan is kissing you once again.

Just kissing, this is the closest you’ll ever get. Maybe you’ll forget about it the next day, or maybe one day—you’ll look back and regret it. The kiss being hot and slow, and his arms wrapping around you.

Ethan slides his arms around you and pulls you closer.

The moment of bliss is then interrupted when Quinn knocks on the door. “Hello? Just making sure nobody’s dead yet.”

“Shit.” You whisper, and you get off Ethan and push him back to his bed.

She enters the room and looks around. “I’m surprised this hasn’t turned into a warzone yet.”

“Uh-huh.” Ethan nods, but he’s all shades of pink. “Why are you so red right now?” Quinn tilts her head and squints. His hands move to his face and he tries to think of an excuse.

“It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

“Have some decency, we heard you in there.” You grumbled, she then chuckles and leans against the doorframe. “Sorry, if I..” Quinn twirls her red hair with her finger. “Cockblocked you.” She lets out an awful grin then locks the door—closing it.

Now you were definitely in some situation, I guess she’s getting suspicious now. There was nothing in the room aside from the kissing sounds..what else? Ethan’s whining, and your fist hitting the wall..

Wait a minute.

You were completely fucked. Do you and Ethan just forget about it now? Or do you have to keep up the strategy? You weren’t the type to forget such a heated kiss, but what about him?

#ethan landry scream #ethan landry #ethan landry fanfiction #ethan landry fluff #ethan landry x reader #scream fanfiction #scream fluff #ethan landry angst #ethan landry smut #scream angst #scream

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comicaurora · 7 months

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A thought I just had regarding Legend of Zelda:

In BOTW we see that Zelda has a hard time with her powers and communicating with the Goddess. What is the reason for that is that the Goddess was already connected to her via the light dragon and the time shenanigans was messing with the connection?

I think it has more to do with the fact that Zelda is the Goddess in mortal form.

This isn't an explicitly canon thing in the game. Unlike Link, who is pretty much always an incarnation of the same guy, Zelda's status in the reincarnation cycle is a bit more wibbly and varies from game to game. The original Zelda in Skyward Sword was explicitly Hylia incarnated in mortal form, and every Zelda since then has been her descendant, carrying "the blood of the Goddess." In Tears of the Kingdom, that means Queen Sonia is Skyward Sword Zelda's distant descendant and the bloodline of Hyrule's royal family carries it through her. But Queen Sonia doesn't seem to be Hylia, and it's pretty clear that not every woman in Zelda's family has the same connection - they all have power, but they aren't all Hylia herself, and only the first Zelda is explicitly stated to be her incarnation. One of the memories in Breath of the Wild shows Zelda explaining that her grandmother could hear "the voices from the spirit realm" and her mother also seemed more spiritually connected to the power Zelda was told she'd be able to channel, but Zelda herself never hears or feels anything outside herself.

The thing is, I think that's because this Zelda is looking for power in exactly the wrong place. She's been told she's connected to a vast and vital power. Evidence suggests she isn't connected to anything. Visiting the springs and the statues does nothing for her; she reaches out and finds nobody waiting for her. How could they? She's already here.

The narrative tragedy of this girl seeking a higher power, begging and praying for divine intervention, knowing an entire kingdom is counting on her to make that connection when nobody else can, and receiving only silence - because she's praying to herself and cannot answer - is incredibly powerful. Zelda is essentially in the throes of a full-blown crisis of faith and a crisis of self for the entire lead-up to the Calamity, because she's been told her entire life she's Princess Zelda and that means she gets her power from praying to the Goddess. But none of the rituals work, nothing comes through, she hears no voices from the outside. It's like the Goddess just isn't there.

The thing is, we know she's there, because Link can roll up to any goddess statue in Hyrule and Hylia herself will shine down a sunbeam and shower us with praise and heart containers. When Link needs her, Hylia is always there. She exists, she has real and tangible power. So if she's always there for Link, why can't Zelda hear her voice?

Well-

Because she's already there.

#asks #breath of the wild #tears of the kingdom #not aurora

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zapreportsblog · 8 months

Text

❝leave him alone❞

✭ pairing : thomas hewitt x reader

✭ fandom : texas chainsaw massacre

✭ summary : (y/n) and a few friends are backroading through Texas and stop at a gas station for gas where (y/n) sees a young man being bullied, well she isn’t one to stand by

✭ authors note : you may have seen some photos of him unmasked but if you haven’t Thomas doesn’t have a nose, he continuity suffers from a facial disfigurement and a skin disease that eats away most of his nose. Due to this disfigurement, his muteness and mental retardation (carried over from the first series), Hewitt is bullied as a child.

✭ slasher masterlist

As (y/n) and her friends ventured through the Texas countryside, the thrill of backroading filling the air, they eventually pulled into a quiet gas station. The sun was setting, casting a warm and golden hue across the landscape.

As they parked, (y/n) couldn't help but notice a scene that caught her attention. A young man, Thomas Hewitt, sat in the driver's seat of a car, his head down, his demeanor downcast. A group of local teens stood near the car, laughing and taunting him.

A sense of injustice flared within (y/n), and without a second thought, she made her way over to where the teens were harassing Thomas. With a firm tone and an unwavering gaze, she interrupted their cruel taunts. "Hey, cut it out. Leave him alone."

The teens exchanged surprised glances, clearly taken aback by her assertiveness. They begrudgingly backed off and dispersed, their laughter fading into the background. (y/n) turned her attention to Thomas, her expression one of genuine concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice kind and understanding.

Thomas lifted his gaze to meet hers, his expression a mix of surprise and gratitude. Despite his inability to speak due to his mute condition, he appreciated her intervention more than words could express. He nodded, his eyes avoiding direct contact as a blush tinged his cheeks.

(y/n) smiled at him, unperturbed by his appearance. His disfigurement and the skin disease he struggled with didn't faze her; she saw beyond the surface and treated him with the respect and kindness he deserved.

"Don't let their comments get to you," she said gently, her tone reassuring. "You're stronger than that. And honestly, I think you look handsome."

Thomas's blush deepened, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn't believe that someone would find him attractive despite his condition. He tried to respond, making noises and using hand gestures to communicate his gratitude, but he found it challenging.

(y/n) smiled warmly, understanding his struggle. "It's okay, no need to say anything. Just know that you're not alone, and there are people out here who see you for who you are."

Thomas's eyes met hers again, a mixture of emotions swirling within them. Gratitude, relief, and a newfound sense of hope blossomed in his heart. He might not be able to speak, but his appreciation for her actions and kind words transcended language.

As (y/n) rejoined her friends, Thomas watched her with a mix of admiration and amazement. Her act of kindness had touched him deeply, and he felt a connection he had never experienced before. And as he drove away from the gas station, he couldn't help but smile, grateful for the unexpected encounter that had brightened his day.

As the car pulled away from the gas station, the sound of the engine and the fading scenery slowly became the backdrop to Thomas's thoughts. He replayed the brief encounter with (y/n) in his mind, a mixture of emotions swirling within him.

A little while later, the door to the gas station opened again, and Thomas's brother entered the car, bringing with him a small bag of snacks. He settled into the driver's seat, casting a curious glance at Thomas.

"So, who was that girl you were talking to?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Thomas turned to his brother, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestured and signed with his hands, "She defended me. She told those guys to stop. She said I looked handsome."

His brother chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Oh, really? Is that so?"

Thomas nodded, his blush deepening as he remembered (y/n)'s words. He had never expected someone to be so kind to him, let alone call him handsome. It was a foreign and exhilarating feeling.

His brother's grin widened, and he gave Thomas a playful nudge with his elbow. "Seems like someone's got a crush."

Thomas playfully swatted at his brother's arm, a small smile breaking through his usually reserved demeanor. He couldn't help but feel a sense of lightness, a departure from the usual challenges he faced due to his condition.

While his brother drove, Thomas continued to think about (y/n), the mysterious and kind stranger who had brightened his day. He replayed her words and the way she had defended him, feeling a warmth spread through his chest.

As the car continued down the road, Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter might have been more than just a passing moment. He had felt a genuine connection with (y/n), and he couldn't help but wonder if their paths might cross again in the future. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to entertain the possibility of friendship and even something more.

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the-kr8tor · 3 months

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Cowboy hobie request you say? How about we say yes. We both need a cowboy hobie with a new reader to the town/community and him helping them out 💳💥

Cowboy hobie also definitely has a fully black gorgeous horse

*squeals* cowboy! Hobie!!! Thank you for requesting 🫶

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), cowboy AU, Western AU, crush at first sight for the reader. FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The sun bares down on you, The air is thicker, humid, almost choking you whenever you step outside. Heavy luggages waits for you out in your new lawn, a good twelve feet away from your front door. Maybe you should've paid extra for the movers to help you.

Wiping the sweat off your brow, you heave a bag in your arms, the contents clinking together as you lift it up. You could do with some help right about now.

“Need help?”

As if some sort of divine intervention, a deep voice asks behind you, an unmistakable whinny of a horse echoes out in the barren space. At first you thought it would be an outlaw after your stuff but the genuine concern in the stranger's voice fills you with ease.

Turning around, you're greeted by a large black stallion, its silver saddle glinting in the sun, the horse's coat shining like black pearls. Flicking your eyes upwards, you see a leather clad cowboy, his eyes hidden behind the brim of his cherry red ten-gallon hat. The smile on his face makes you want to take his offer.

“You got sand in your ears?” he continued, grimacing when his choice of wording was a bit too harsh for a stranger.

“D’you need my help?” he asks softer and kinder this time. Maybe he should go out more often, his social skills are shot like a bottle in a shooting range.

“I–” you look back at the numerous bags at your feet. “I don't know– I mean thank you but I can handle it.” Based on his accent, he's not from this side of the world, someone who wanted a fresh start, just like you.

You've got a good reason to be apprehensive, you're situated in the middle of nowhere, if this man is actually an outlaw then there's no one who would come to your rescue, with only the buffaloes as your witness. Despite his handsome smile, you see his six shooter strapped on his belt, the sight alone makes you nervous to accept his help.

“That's bare of bags.” With one swift movement, he gets off his horse, spurs clinking, boots thudding on the dusty ground. He takes off his hat to properly greet you.

Saying he's handsome is an understatement. His face is chiseled, a jaw that can cut a rock, irises as green as the grass and the finest jade. Silver piercings and studs add an edge to his handsome face. You can't believe you're ogling a stranger.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he gestures around the empty space with your little farm situated in the middle of nothing but grass and dirt. “Name's Hobie, Hobie Brown”

Hobie, you test his name in your mind, repeating it so you could memorize it. “Mr. Brown, I–”

“Just Hobie's fine.” He chuckles, mindlessly twirling the hat in his gloved hands.

“Hobie, what exactly did you say about the neighborhood? Or the lack of it” you look around the field.

“I live down over there.” he points to the left, you follow it with your eyes, squinting, you see a black dot in the distance. You guess that's his house.

“That's incredibly far” you turn back towards him, fixing your hold on the bag.

“Ain't that far with my old boy,” he twists around, patting the horse on his snout. “Right, Velvet?” Velvet shoves Hobie lightly.

You smile as the horse snorts, his exhale hits Hobie right on his face. He pushes Velvet’s face away, the stallion nods like he's laughing after making fun of his rider in front of you.

“I swear this horse,” Hobie shakes his head with a smile. “So now you know me ma’am, may I help you with your bags?”

The bag almost falls from your arms when he calls you ma’am. “Oh you don't need to call me that,” the warmth in your cheeks isn't from the summer sun. “Just Y/N is fine.”

“Y/N” your name rolls off his tongue smoothly. Hobie grins, “I promise I don't bite. Velvet on the other hand.” Said horse whinnies like he's offended by what Hobie said.

“Alright, good sir.” You internally cringe, Hobie laughs, the sound sending butterflies in your stomach. “Y-you can help me with my bags as long as you stay after for some lemonade?” You take your chance with the handsome cowboy.

“Lemonde? I haven't had that in a while.” you think you've made a fool of yourself. “Sure, Let me have this then.” he takes your heavy bag from you, carrying it effortlessly. With his boot, he loops it around the strap of a bag on the floor, kicking it up in the air before catching it in his arm all suave.

Hobie has no idea the effect he has on you.

You're sweating like a sinner in church, blouse sticking to your skin like glue on paper. Maybe you shouldn't have asked him to stay after because you have no idea how to survive the day without melting whenever he smiles at you.

You get a whiff of leather and sandalwood as he passes by. He looks over his shoulder, “You comin'?”

“Y-yes” oh you know you're already smitten.

#request done #cowboy! hobie #cowboy au #western au #hobie brown x reader #spider punk x reader #the kr8tor's creations #x reader #hobie brown x fem!reader #spider punk x fem!reader #hobie brown x you #spider punk x you #atsv fanfiction #atsv fanfic #atsv x reader #hobie x reader #fanfic #hobie fluff

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catgirl-kaiju · 1 year

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Just curious, what's the "pink scare"?

I misspoke; I was referring to the Lavender Scare.

The Lavender Scare was an American political movement that lasted roughly from 1947 to 1956, paralleling the 2nd Red Scare. It was largely helmed by Joe McCarthy and Roy Cohn and was a targeted campaign of political attack against queer people. The reasoning behind it was that gay men and lesbians constituted a threat against national security because their "subversive behavior" (not being straight) meant they somehow had strong connections to communism and, therefore, the USSR.

The movement resulted the outing and firing of hundreds of queer people from government jobs (ranging from politicians, clerks, military personnel, and contractors working with the government) with the State Department reporting that by 1953, they had fired 425 people under allegations of homosexuality. It also resulted in Dwight D. Eisenhower's Executive Order 10450, which fully barred any "homosexuals" from working any positions in the federal government.

EO 10450 was partially repealed in 1975 largely in response to young men using claims of homosexuality to dodge the Vietnam draft, and again in 1995 when the Bill Clinton administration instituted the "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy for military personnel. It wasn't fully and completely repealed until 1998 with the Bill Clinton passing Executive Order 13087, which prohibited any such discrimination in federal employment and wasn't EXPLICITLY repealed until Barack Obama's Executive Order 13764 wich took effect in 2017.

The cultural effect was an amplification of pre-existing societal homophobia to violent extremes and the promotion of the idea that queer people are inherently dangerous to "American freedom and democracy". Fun fact, Roy Cohn was actually a gay man who was very openly in sexual and romantic relationships with many men, even during The Lavender Scare, bit considered himself to be different from other gay men, basically because he was a dominant top. He died of AIDS while being part of the federal government's inaction campaign in response to the pandemic.

If you want to read more about it, the Wikipedia page is a decent place to start.

The point I was making in regards to there being a 2nd Lavender Scare happening right now is in reference to the growing wave of targeted transphobic policies and violence from the political right and the liberal inaction in response to it.

I'd say that this new Lavender Scare started in 2017 with Trump's banning of trans people from entering the military and has continued to the present day when it is rapidly escalating with no end in sight.

The main characteristics of this new scare, in my opinion are:

A targeting of trans people, gender non-conformity, and drag performance as subversive elements in society that pose a danger to the "traditional family", christian hegemony, and the wellbeing of children.

The platforming of extremist right-wing propaganda from various sources in mainstream media and political discourse, which all spout unified transphobic talking points that inspire discriminatory policies and violence through stochastic terrorism.

Transphobic policies being passed into law at a rapid pace on the state level in multiple states, with little to no federal intervention. (This refers to the US specifically)

Domestic stochastic terrorist attacks on queer spaces that prominently feature and support trans communities and drag performance, which are inspired by transphobic right-wing propaganda.

The boosting of TERF voices who pitch the same transphobic talking points as the right, from a pseudo-leftist perspective that serves as an alternate route of attack in the insemination of violent transphobia into the mainstream. (This is especially prevalent in the UK)

The "groomer" narrative, which links trans people, gender non-conformity, and drag performance to pedophilia in an effort to evoke strong emotional reactions from misinformed people prone to bigotry and reactionary thinking. This tactic can also be seen in action with the Q-Anon conspiracy cult.

Utilizing trans people, gender non-conformity, and drag performance as scapegoats for economic decline, political unrest, and poor quality of life in order to disract from the systems actually responsible for these problems.

Link to article

Armed Proud Boy protest against the Holi-Drag Storytime in Columbus, Ohio, and counter protesters protecting the event.

Protesters against Florida's "Don't Say Gay" bill

Link to article

I would also like to add that unlike the 1st Lavender Scare, this is not just an American phenomenon but part of a clear and roughly coordinated multinational right-wing movement and is presenting just as prevalently in the UK (albeit in a slightly different form). It is dangerous to leave this reactionary movement unstated and unnamed, lest is become normalized.

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grits-galraisedinthesouth · 4 months

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Today, January 6th 2024, is the perfect day to make purchases at Overstock.com AND then donate to organizations supporting the unarmed Americans who were waved into the Capitol, unnecessarily pepper sprayed, unnecessarily shot with rubber bullets & smoke bombed to create the illusion of a Capitol Hill riot.

Christmas Miracle: Patrick Byrne, Overstock CEO, offers matching $500,000 donation to January 6 Legal Defense. $250,00 via GIVE SEND GO and $250,000 to Stand In The Gap.

Give Send Go Matching Fund

Stand in the Gap

Stand in the Gap is a non-profit foundation dedicated to advocating for change in re-entry, family services, and justice reform. We believe in second chances, providing support to individuals transitioning back into society, and working towards a more equitable and compassionate world. Through our programs, partnerships, and advocacy efforts, we strive to make a lasting impact on the lives of those in need and promote systemic change.

Join us in standing for justice and being a voice for the voiceless.

Our Story

On January 6, 2021, a historic day unfolded in our nation's capital that will be etched in history. As the foundation of our nation was put to the test, many individuals heeded the call to stand up for their rights, their future, and their beliefs. However, the aftermath saw the government taking action against them, leading to a series of events that unveiled the deep-seated issues within the American justice system.

Before January 6th, many were unaware of just how broken the justice system in America truly was. The January 6th defendants and their advocates soon realized that this injustice had persisted for far too long.

In September of 2021, The Real J6 was founded with a mission to give a voice to the voiceless. Its primary focus was to shine a light on the treatment of January 6th defendants at the hands of their own government. However, as the organization delved deeper into this mission, it became clear that there were numerous unmet needs for the defendants and their families. This realization led to the creation of Stand in the Gap.

Shane Jenkins, the co-founder of Stand in the Gap, possesses a unique perspective on the challenges within the incarceration system and the broken nature of the justice system. His life story, marked by several run-ins with the law prior to January 6th, is one of transformation and redemption. Raised in a religious environment and attending Episcopalian school, Shane's life took a different path due to personal struggles and feelings of abandonment stemming from his adoption and an abusive stepfather. In 2016, while incarcerated and at a low point in his life, Shane had a transformative encounter with CHARM – Christ's Hope And Reconciliation Ministries. Through CHARM, he found faith and redemption, and his life took a new direction.

Paroled in July 2018, Shane transitioned to a CHARM Prison Ministries transitional house and dedicated himself to a life of faith and service. He became involved in prison ministry, took on leadership roles, and found a supportive community at church. Despite his personal transformation, in 2021, Shane once again found himself facing government action. Since then, he has been incarcerated, ministering to others within the system and working to bring about positive change.

Through the efforts of many individuals including The Real J6, significant improvements have been achieved within the DC Department of Corrections, including changes in visitation policies, COVID restrictions, guard behavior, and even Congressional intervention. Shane's unique perspective and experience are foundational to the mission of Stand in the Gap, as it strives to address the systemic issues within the justice system and provide support to those who have been affected by it.

youtube

#january 6 #political prisoners #political protest #overstock #Stand in the Gap #fbi corruption #Patrick Byrne #j6

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somesecretpie · 1 month

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Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention.

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem.

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying.

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden.

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room.

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin.

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes. Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them!

She shut off the TV.

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers.

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces.

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–”

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated.

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house.

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater!

Slowly, Susan nodded her head.

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John.

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem.

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere.

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously.

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts.

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint.

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again.

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk.

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot.

“Check your phone,” Rivers said.

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face.

Rivers smiled at her.

So they really did control the weather.

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia.

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was.

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again.

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies.

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies.

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun.

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings.

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled.

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten.

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!”

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!”

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away.

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it.

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself.

A waitress approached.

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile.

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing.

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP.

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething.

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows:

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break.

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted.

Susan made a silly face.

“A…joke?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work.

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone.

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!”

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six.

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done.

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept.

But in her dreams, something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity.

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms.

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up.

Howling now.

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked.

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared.

Again, Susan tossed it.

Again, it reappeared.

Again, she tossed it.

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.”

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul.

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.”

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort.

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured.

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat.

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles.

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit.

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction.

Peace.

Order.

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be.

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand.

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said.

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down.

The cameras trained on her.

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly.

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused.

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really.

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down.

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone.

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear.

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained.

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror.

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent.

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.”

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive full of files full of lies for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth.

Rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone.

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.

#This is my first short story I've posted to Tumblr!#It's like that one episode of the Fairly Oddparents but if it was more gay and political #It has lesbians and Denny's in it but I swear that was an accident I am not pandering #hope you like it #short story #short fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #weather woman

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afraidtoblink · 11 months

Text

Hearing Voices & Unusual Experiences & Psychosis & Schizophrenia & Etc

Hearing Voices and Co 101

Community overview of hearing voices by BC hearing voices network and Hearing Voices Network of South Australia

A rare community and medical overview of hearing voices by Understanding Voices

Medical and Mental Illness style overviews of hearing voices (separate from pages on psychosis and schizophrenia, which is kinda nice) by Mind UK and Rethink Mental Illness

Explanation of psychosis by Likemind UK

Explanation of schizophrenia by Project LETS

Lived Experiences

“LUNAR: a psychosis zine” by feyxuan, interviewing 6 folks with lived experiences

"A Bipolar, A Schizophrenic, And A Podcast” hosted by Gabe Howard and Michelle Hammer aka Schizophrenic.NYC

“MadHaus” podcast by Maddie Jericho, who also is part of Students With Psychosis

“Living Well with Schizophrenia” Youtube channel by Lauren

“The Collected Schizophrenias” by Esmé Weijun Wang, book review with quotes here

Dealing with Life

Lists of coping strategies by Hearing Voices Network Aotearoa New Zealand, Hearing Voices Network Australia, and Manchester Hearing Voices Group

Advice from young people hearing voices by Manchester Metropolitan University

“Dealing with Psychosis” toolkit by Early Psychosis Intervention program in Canada

List of Hearing Voices Networks around the world on Intervoice website

Peer support groups for folks with “schizophrenia or a schizophrenia-related illness”, family and caregivers, and a helpline by Schizophrenia and Psychosis Action Alliance

#hearing voices #psychosis #schizophrenia #schizophrenic spectrum #resources #actually psychotic #mental health

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max1461 · 5 months

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dear mx Linguistics;

do you have any thoughts on that Thing where in some languages/cultures typical male and female speaking pitches are further apart than in others? (eg iirc German and Japanese are both more Like This than English)

personally i think it’s a bit melodramatic

Well I mean I don't have any thoughts on it exactly other than "yeah, that's a thing".

For those who don't know: the fundamental frequency (F0) of your speech (the pitch at which you speak) is the resonant frequency of your vocal folds. This is determined by the length of your vocal folds, which is of course correlated with body size, so men have on average a lower F0 than women. But the F0 can also by modulated by stretching and compressing the vocal folds, changing their length and thus their resonant frequency. We do this when singing, and also all the time during speech.

In most languages that have been described (I'm unsure if there are any known exceptions), the actual average difference between men's and women's F0 is greater than what would be expected from body size alone. In other words, men learn to speak in an actively lowered pitch while women learn to speak in an actively raised pitch.

This is, like other parts of language acquisition, not a conscious process. It's learned in the same way that other elements of pronunciation are: automatically, and in the general case without any conscious intervention by the speaker. Just as languages differ in other aspects of pronunciation, they differ in the average F0 difference between male and female speakers. Japanese, for instance, has a very high F0 difference, where English has a somewhat lower one.

As an aside: most languages have gendered difference in speech beyond just F0 (indeed both English and Japanese have more than just this), and these are part of how we communicate gender and related identities to others. Cf. the "gay lisp" in English, which is a speech phenomena that serves a similar communicatory effect (and which I believe has spread to other languages as well).

I've noticed that I communicate in a notably more "masculine" way when speaking Japanese than when speaking English, dropping my voice and opting for a number of male-coded phonetic features (e.g. k -> q /_a). As for why I do this... I don't know! I didn't really decide to! I think part of it has to do with the fact that one of my frequent speaking partners when I was first learning the language was a very masc dude, so I kind of picked up those affects. There's a stereotype about male gaijin in Japan that they all speak like women, which has its basis in the fact that most of them learned the language form female instructors and thus replicate a markedly feminine speech style. I think I just ended up in the opposite situation. It's a good lesson in the fact that these differences are learned and not innate.

#linguistics

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eroseas · 10 months

Text

i wanna hear you say it — miguel o'hara/peter b. parker

summary: miguel is lovesick.

word count: 1.4k

cw: mdni. 18+ only. sexual tension, mature topics, descriptions of violence.

tags: @anchoeritic

an: listen guys idk what got into me but spiderdads slaps like idk what to tell y'all.

It comes out of left field, if Miguel is being really honest.

He’s not a big fan of interventions. They’re a little stupid, a little dramatic, and a little too vulnerable, but with only Peter B. Parker being here, it doesn’t feel like an intervention. It feels like he fucked up. Big time.

“I think you’re confused,” Miguel said, voice tight, eyebrows furrowed, “I’m not–”

“Emotionally available? Good at communicating? Yeah, I noticed.” Peter laughed dryly, leaning back on the couch in Miguel’s apartment. He’d made himself at home so quickly that it ticked him off– how did he even do that? It would take Miguel five visits to even think about lounging around like that, let alone actually doing it.

And yeah, he isn’t exactly emotionally available, but not in the way Peter is thinking. Not in that kind of macho-super-closed-off-nobody-can-get-to-me way. No, definitely not. Everything gets to him– everything makes him feel, and it’s too much, like the overhead lights in a grocery store, or the heat in the summer. He feels too much.

It’s all disgusting, too. It’s all violent and harsh and disgusting. Even his love is like that– it’s all teeth and claws and blood, but it’s the only way his brain and heart see it as right, so it is what it is and he’ll just never find love again. And it’s fine.

“If that’s what you think,” he finally replied, and really, that’s all he can say, because, at the end of the day, he can’t control what Peter thinks, or what the kids think, or what their colleagues think. He can’t control it, and it makes something ugly and cruel claw its way out of his gut, but it’ll never come out of his body, and that’s good.

Peter is in his space quickly and unforgivingly, his eyes a little too dark, his expression a little too serious. It throws Miguel for a loop– because it’s weird, isn’t it? Peter never looks like this, is never one to have tough conversations. Then again, Peter was the one who brought him home after he lost his daughter, and Peter is the one who forced food down his throat, and Peter is the one who called (calls) every day to check up on him and make sure he’s not trying anything stupid.

Which, yeah. He understands. He’d probably do the same if Peter lost Mayday, but he’s not and this is different because he’s fine, he’s just in love– and it’s disgusting.

“Listen,” Peter said lowly, and Miguel bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from interrupting because Peter is still more experienced, still older, still knows more than he does–

“Something’s up with you and you’re not talking about it. You can’t keep this up.”

Miguel doesn’t know what comes over him– really, he doesn’t. But his lips are pulling up before he can really think about it, his mouth is opening up so he can bare his teeth and snarl at Peter, because who the fuck cares? He’s thirty-two fucking years old, he can keep secrets and hide and run away if he damn near pleases.

But then– oh, but then– Peter’s hand is on his face, his finger is hooked around one of his fangs, and he’s pulling. He’s fucking pulling, and Miguel can’t think for a little bit, can’t do anything but lean forward because Peter is strong, Peter is insistent, Peter is warm–

“You’re acting like a child,” he growled, “Showing your teeth like a damn dog.”

And maybe– maybe that’s why he does it, right? Maybe it’s because Peter spoke to him like that and it was finally a language his heart spoke, it was finally teetering on the edge of disgusting and harsh and absolutely ruthless. Maybe that’s why his lips close around Peter’s digit, and maybe that’s why he bites, then licks, then sucks.

Peter is– well, Peter is quiet and shocked and staring. Miguel opened his mouth and shoved him away, though everything in his body was begging him not to. Bite him again, something whispered, make him bleed, bite him, bite him, bite him.

“Leave,” he sneered, “Maldito– don’t come back.”

Peter, of course, doesn’t fucking move. Just stares and stares and stares, and sometimes that’s all he does, and Miguel notices because of course he does. He may not have that stupid spidey sense, but he’s not a fucking idiot.

His breath is coming out harsh, and quick, and short. The silence is too much, he can hear his own heartbeat, and it’s not okay. This is not fine. He feels the need to fill the silence, but then he’s just pleading– his voice isn’t stern anymore, it’s just pathetic.

“Go,” he insisted, “Leave me alone, Peter, please–”

Peter is crowding him, then, backing him up into his wall. He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes wandering all over Peter’s face, but he can’t make anything out. That bothers him more– more than seeing disgust or anger. At least then he’d have a reaction, at least then he’d have something to work with.

“Is that it?” Peter murmured, his hands pressing into Miguel’s stomach, pushing him hard against the wall. He makes a noise at the back of his throat. How pathetic.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching Peter’s face, waiting and hoping and praying–

“You’re throwing a tantrum because you want me?”

And– it’s a little more than that, actually, because Miguel wants Peter like Peter wants MJ, except Miguel has no grasp of what real love looks like. Not the love you feel in the movies or the love you write songs about or anything like that. No, no– his love is carnal in nature. It’s animalistic, it’s a little monster that rips and claws at his insides, or maybe he’s the monster, but either way, he wants. And it makes him sick.

“And you know what I want?” He snarled sarcastically, pushing him off. Peter barely budges but moves anyway.

“No,” he replied, “That’s the problem.”

Miguel’s chest heaved, and he doesn’t know what has him so worked up (Peter), he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him (Peter), he doesn’t know why his heart hurts so bad (PETER).

And, at this point, nothing is really holding him back. Nothing else could really go wrong.

“I–” He faltered, growling in frustration, “I want you like you want MJ.”

Peter stood very still, then, his expression morphing into understanding because it’s not some sex thing, it’s seriously not. It kind of is, obviously, but it’s not everything, and Miguel wants everything because he’s never been one to pick and choose. Certainly not with Peter B. Parker.

“I want to eat you alive,” he breathed, that little monster roaring in delight as Peter flushed, but his eyes went dark, “I want to bite you and ruin you because that’s what I do–”

He flinched back when Peter came close, shaking his head quickly.

“Stop–” He choked, trying to get away from his too-warm hands and his soft touch because he doesn’t deserve that.

“Miguel,” Peter whispered, pressing so close and so insistent and Miguel can’t help but press back. “Miguel, you can.”

And he doesn’t really get it. Not at first, anyway. He doesn’t understand until Peter is pressing him against the wall and tugging at his hair– not until Peter is kissing him hard and ruthlessly with too much teeth and too much tongue, but it’s exactly what he’s always dreamed of, and it makes him so, so warm inside.

He kissed him back because what the fuck else is he gonna do? He tugged at his clothes, at his arms, at his back. He can’t help that his claws are a little too long, that he’s scratching a little too much. Peter is careful with his fangs, though, but he’s still as desperate as Miguel is.

Miguel can’t even remember the last time he did this– can’t remember the last time ever showed him genuine interest and desire. His heart is hurting less and less, especially when Peter grabs him by the scruff of his neck like a little cat and pushes his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder.

He shuddered at the implication, at the sheer amount of trust, and licked at a patch of skin.

“C’mon, baby,” Peter murmured, “Have at it.”

And he does.

#spiderdads #miguel x peter #peter x miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara drabble #miguel o'hara/peter b. parker #miguel o'hara x peter b parker #petter b parker drabble #spiderdads fic #spidersdads drabble #ೃ⁀➷; girluvrr writes

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pazzesco · 7 months

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~ Helen Keller ~

Helen Keller (colorized)

Miss Helen Keller - Portrait US Library of Congress

Helen Keller was an author, lecturer, suffragists and crusader for the handicapped. Born in Tuscumbia, Alabama, She lost her sight and hearing at the age of nineteen months to an illness now believed to have been scarlet fever. Five years later, on the advice of Alexander Graham Bell, her parents applied to the Perkins Institute for the Blind in Boston for a teacher, and from that school hired Anne Mansfield Sullivan.

Keller (left) with Anne Sullivan vacationing on Cape Cod in July 1888

Through Sullivan’s extraordinary instruction, the little girl learned to understand and communicate with the world around her. She went on to acquire an excellent education and to become an important influence on the treatment of the blind and deaf.

Helen Keller in 1899 with lifelong companion and teacher Anne Sullivan. Photo taken by Alexander Graham Bell at his School of Vocal Physiology and Mechanics of Speech.

Her unprecedented accomplishments in overcoming her disabilities made her a celebrity at an early age; at twelve she published an autobiographical sketch in the Youth’s Companion, and during her junior year at Radcliffe, she produced her first book, The Story of My Life, still in print in over fifty languages.

Helen Keller — Groundbreaking Girls

Painting of Keller's colorized portrait by Wayne Pascall

Her friendship with Mark Twain

"Helen Keller, Miss Sullivan, Mark Twain and Laurence Hutton."

“From that day until his death we were friends,” Keller recalled later. She was already a fan of his work and thrilled to his deep voice and his many hand gestures, which she followed with her own fingertips. She wrote of him:

"He entered into my limited world with enthusiasm just as he might have explored Mars. Blindness was an adventure that kindled his curiosity. He treated me not as a freak, but as a handicapped woman seeking a way to circumvent extraordinary difficulties. There was something of divine apprehension in this rare naturalness towards those who differ from others in external circumstances."

Helen Keller with Mark Twain - Twain came to Keller’s defense, after reading in her book about a plagiarism scandal that occurred in 1892 when, at only twelve years old, she was accused of lifting her short story “The Frost King” from Margaret Canby’s “Frost Fairies.” Though a tribunal acquitted Keller of the charges, the incident still pissed off Twain. The letter is attached to the photo above

Letters between Mark Twain and Helen Keller.

Though Helen hailed from a respectable Southern family, 19th-century America was flummoxed by the prospect of teaching a deaf-blind girl to talk, read, and learn. Helen’s tutor and governess, Annie Sullivan, fought for her admission to various schools that offered special education. But the cost of educating someone like Helen was high. Clemens wrote to a rich friend on her behalf:

"It won’t do for America to allow this marvelous child to retire from her studies because of poverty. If she can go on with them she will make a fame that will endure in history for centuries. Along her special illness she is the most extraordinary product of all the ages…lay siege to your husband & get him to interest himself and Messrs. John D. & William Rockefeller & the other Standard Oil chiefs in Helen’s case; get them to subscribe an annual aggregate of six or seven hundred or a thousand dollars- & agree to continue this for three or four years, until she has completed her college course…."

Thanks to his intervention, the support of his friend Henry Rogers and Standard Oil, Helen was able to complete her education and graduate cum laude from Harvard’s Radcliffe College. Clemens and Keller remained friends for the rest of his life. They shared an interest in radical politics and a love for life despite their different temperaments. Helen, an avowed optimist, often made fun of Clemens for his avowed pessimism, telling him she didn’t believe a word of his sardonic jokes. As for Clemens, Chambliss writes that he felt she was one of the most important historical figures of all time, “the most wondrous person of her sex that has existed on this earth since Joan of Arc.”

Keller, Sullivan, Twain, & Sullivan’s husband John Macy above at Twain’s home

We also have Twain—not playwright William Gibson—to thank for the “miracle worker” title given to Keller’s teacher, Anne Sullivan. As a tribute to Sullivan for her tireless work with Keller, he presented her with a postcard that read, “To Mrs. John Sullivan Macy with warm regard & with limitless admiration of the wonders she has performed as a ‘miracle-worker.’” In his 1903 letter to Keller, he called Sullivan “your other half… for it took the pair of you to make complete and perfect whole.”

Twain was especially impressed by Keller’s autobiography, writing to her, “I am charmed with your book—enchanted.” (See his endorsement in a 1903 advertisement, above.)

Keller & Clemens also shared a love of dogs

Helen Keller with her dog Sir Thomas.

Helen Keller seated on a window bench with an arm around her dog Sieglinde.

Helen Keller seated on a bench indoors, possibly in the photographer's studio wth a dog seated on the ground beside her.

Helen Keller seated on a slatted bench in front of a Farm House in 1935 with her dogs Dileas, on her lap, Maida beside her & Golden.

Helen Keller teaching a girl sign language.

Widely honored throughout the world and invited to the White House by every U.S. president from Grover Cleveland to Lyndon B. Johnson, Keller altered the world’s perception of the capacities of the handicapped. More than any act in her long life, her courage, intelligence, and dedication combined to make her a symbol of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity.

Helen Keller - 1880-1968

Helen Keller Archive

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catdotjpeg · 3 months

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On February 2nd, the Associated Press analyzed satellite imagery which showed “new demolition along a 1-kilometer-wide path on the Gaza Strip’s border with Israel.” The images, which revealed the recent destruction of Palestinian farmland, warehouses and other buildings, suggested that Israel had started creating what it has called a “buffer zone” in areas of Gaza adjoining the Israeli border, a project that Israeli leaders have been trying to pursue as part of their invasion of Gaza following Hamas’s October 7th attack. Israeli officials claim that such a step is necessary to allow residents of communities in the south of Israel to return to their homes without fear of another attack. “[All along] the Gaza Strip . . . we will have a margin. And they will not be able to get in,” Avi Dichter, Israel’s agriculture minister, told reporters on October 19th. “It will be a fire zone. And no matter who you are, you will never be able to come close to the Israeli border.”

For months, United States and European officials have repeatedly voiced opposition to the idea of Israel’s permanent militarized border zone within Gaza, with Secretary of State Antony Blinken saying in November that there should be “no forcible displacement of Palestinians from Gaza” and “no reduction in the territory of Gaza”—both outcomes that would likely result from such a zone. But the AP’s analysis, coupled with other recent events, indicate that Israel is forging ahead with creating its “fire zone” despite such objections. Indeed, on January 23rd, Israeli soldiers in Gaza were actively laying mines in and around two buildings in central Gaza close to the border with Israel, intending to destroy them, when a grenade fired by a Palestinian militant caused the explosives to go off, killing 21 soldiers. In the aftermath of the attack, three Israeli officials anonymously told the New York Times Israel was demolishing the buildings to create a “security zone,” while an Israeli military spokesperson said the soldiers who had died were operating to “create the security conditions for the return of the residents of the south to their homes.”

Israel’s work on the zone comes amid widespread speculation about the future of Gaza after the eventual end of Israel’s ongoing genocidal assault, which has already killed at least 27,000 people. American, Arab, and Israeli officials have debated what comes next for the coastal enclave, with Western governments pushing for a revitalized Palestinian Authority to govern Gaza—which Israel opposes—and far-right Israeli ministers advocating to expel Palestinians from Gaza and build renewed Israeli settlements. Yet even as these policy discussions remain unresolved, Israel is unilaterally exerting control over Gaza’s post-war reality by constructing a militarized zone inside the enclave that materially shrinks the amount of Palestinian land while leaving open room for Israeli Jewish resettlement of the Strip. The strategy recalls Israel’s modus operandi in the West Bank, where Israel has built hundreds of settlements in order to create “facts on the ground” to entrench its control before the international community can do anything about it.

Current and former military officials portray the creation of a militarized Israeli zone inside Gaza as necessary to prevent another attack on southern Israeli communities near the border. “People coming back to their homes [in Israel] don’t want to see someone [in Gaza] take out a rifle or an anti-tank missile or come to the fence, cross it, and kill them,” said Jacob Nagel, a former national security advisor to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and a senior fellow at the Foundation for the Defense of Democracies, a neoconservative think tank that advocates for US intervention in the Middle East. “We have to show them that the area there is empty. Otherwise, it would be very tough for them to come back.” But Muhammad Shehada, a Palestinian writer and analyst from Gaza, said creating a so-called buffer zone through the demolition of Palestinian homes and neighborhoods will only fuel more violence. “In the areas that were systematically razed and wiped out, you’re giving people a very strong revenge incentive,” he said. “Israel is basically creating a recruitment poster [for Palestinian militant groups].” Indeed, the creation of the zone is likely to add to the list of Israeli war crimes committed in Gaza since October 7th. According to research by Corey Scher, a PhD student at the City University of New York’s Graduate Center, and Jamon Van Den Hoek, an associate professor of geography at Oregon State University, Israel has destroyed or damaged 143,900 structures throughout Gaza since October 7th, around 1,329 of which were in the proposed zone. Human rights experts have said that the destruction of civilian buildings and infrastructure may constitute war crimes. And if the Israeli zone continues to be created, more such homes will likely be demolished. “If there are no concrete, direct security grounds for why these houses have to be torn down, the destruction of civilian homes is completely illegal,” said Miriam Marmur, public advocacy director at Gisha, an Israeli human rights group focusing on Gaza. Nagel, however, is not concerned with such complaints: “There are no civilian buildings in Gaza,” he said, claiming that most buildings in the Strip are filled with weapons or contain tunnel entrances.

Keeping Palestinians out of the zone is also likely to involve further violations of international law. Some former Israeli officials have suggested laying mines in the border area, though the Israeli army has not publicly committed to this idea. Nagel predicted that the zone would be enforced by live fire. “I like to call it a ‘killing zone,’ but since ‘killing zone’ is not a nice term, we use the words ‘buffer zone,’” Nagel told Jewish Currents, clarifying that regardless of what the area is called, he thinks that “someone [who] is moving there without permission is going to be dead.” Such a policy would be illegal under international law, said Omar Shakir, Israel and Palestine Director at Human Rights Watch. “No territory can ever be a free-fire zone,” he said. Shakir added that, under international law, live fire force can only be deployed during war if it is proportionate—meaning that attacks on a military site must not include harm to civilians that is excessive in comparison to the expected military advantage of an operation—and if it discriminates between civilians and combatants.

There is precedent for Israel using lethal force to limit Palestinians’ access to land near the Israeli border. Since Israel pulled soldiers and settlers out of Gaza in 2005, the army has violently barred most Gazans from coming within 300 meters of the Israeli barrier—a policy that has led to indiscriminate attacks against Palestinian civilians in that zone, according to the Palestinian Center for Human Rights. From 2010 to 2017, Israeli soldiers opened fire 1,300 times in the 300 meter area, killing 161 Gazans there, according to Gisha. In 2018, when Palestinian protestors started the Great March of Return, congregating near the border to call for the end of Israel’s blockade of Gaza and the right of return to lands they were expelled from in 1948, Israeli snipers responded by shooting and killing 223 Palestinians. Over the years, Israeli soldiers have also cracked down on Palestinian farmers and herders working in the zone, sometimes spraying herbicide or razing farmland in order to enforce the prohibition on Palestinians coming near the Israeli barrier. Marmur said that many of these enforcement measures violated international law. “There is little reason to believe that the new buffer zone would be enforced differently, raising concern over an expansion of Israel’s illegal practices,” she said.

The militarized zone Israel is now planning to impose within Gaza would triple the size of the pre-October 7th iteration, severely impacting Palestinians in the Strip. The demolitions would worsen the housing crisis in the enclave, where nearly 70% of homes in Gaza have now been damaged or destroyed by Israeli bombs. In addition to leaving potentially thousands with no home to return to, the zone would deepen food insecurity in the Strip, since a third of Gaza’s agricultural land lies in the proposed zone. Due to Israel’s restrictions on humanitarian aid entering the Strip, Palestinians in Gaza already face a hunger crisis and virtually every family skips a meal every day, with 400,000 people at risk of starvation. The loss of further farmland will only compound this situation. In addition to these dire short term effects, the new Israeli zone may permanently “eat away Palestinian lands, adding to years of systemic dispossession of Palestinians,” Marmur said. Israeli officials claim that their control of this land will be “temporary,” but Nadia Hardman, a researcher in the Refugee and Migrants Rights Division of Human Rights Watch, told Jewish Currents that the scale of the destruction in the region indicates that Palestinians won’t be able to return their homes there “at any point in the foreseeable future.”

A permanent Israeli zone inside Gaza stands to significantly reshape the balance of power in any post-war scenario. In addition to allowing Israel to take over parts of Gaza’s territory—in the process creating, as per Shehada, “conditions that would push people to leave the territory”—such a zone could also pave the way for the building of new Israeli settlements. Resettling Gaza has been a long-standing demand of the Israeli right, one that has gained new momentum since October 7th. Indeed, on January 28th, a thousand Israeli settlers and their supporters—including 12 ministers from the ruling Likud party, along with national security minister Itamar Ben Gvir and finance minister Bezalel Smotrich—joined a Jerusalem conference to promote the resettlement of Gaza. Members of Likud have also proposed legislation to repeal the ban on Israeli civilians entering Gaza, which would allow settlers a foothold in the territory. Observers say a permanent Israeli zone in Gaza is likely to accelerate this process. “We have watched this play out again and again in the West Bank and also in Gaza before 2005: Israeli settlements always start off with a security justification,” said Zaha Hassan, a human rights lawyer and a fellow at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. “It starts with a military base going up somewhere and then the area being declared a no go zone. And then slowly that security justification becomes muted—and then we start seeing settlements.”

Yet even as human rights advocates raise such alarms about the consequences of the zone, the US may be softening its opposition to the project. That opposition was never particularly forceful: “There’s been very little outrage from the US administration about the creation of the buffer zone as it’s been happening in real time,” Hassan said. As a result, Israel has proceeded by simply disregarding the US’s reservations, an approach that seems to have paid off. Last month, Blinken hinted the US may accept a temporary Israeli buffer zone inside the Gaza border, saying there may need to be “transitional arrangements” to ensure Israel’s security and “make sure that October 7th can never happen again.” But according to Hassan, “there’s not a lot of credibility regarding Israeli assertions that these things are going to be temporary.” She pointed to how Israel’s separation barrier in the West Bank was originally portrayed by Israeli officials as a temporary security measure, only for it to remain standing 20 years later—with Israeli officials coming to openly describe it as a permanent border between Israel and the occupied West Bank. Israel’s temporary measures, Hassan concluded, “have a way of sticking around for a long time.”

-- "An Israeli “Buffer Zone” Could Shape Gaza’s Post-War Reality" by Alex Kane for Jewish Currents, 6 Feb 2024

#palestine #gaza strip #gaza

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