#Or without mocking and bullying them into oblivion

[crowlipso]

Some mfs be like please be friends with my ocs, and then their ocs are pretty much like this.

#I'm that mf #They said the best way to practice the pose and anatomy is to draw from reference #aye aye I got it #Okay tbh I can't imagine Agatha being a good friend with someone without biting them #Or without mocking and bullying them into oblivion #or putting leeches on their skins when they were sleep #she's such a menace #The reason why I do less ocs interaction cause I'm lack any idea how Agatha would act around other ppl's ocs #Especially with people with oc who has a soft and sweet personality #I don't want Agatha to bully them because she is definitely gonna do it #shitpost #hphl mc #hphl oc #agatha crowley #wip??? #my art

[aces-to-apples]

Your Reputation Precedes You

A response to “On Fandom Racism (and That Conlang People Are Talking About)” because lmao that cowardly bitch just hates getting feedback from people that she can’t then harass into oblivion

i.e. God I Wish I Could Use The Tag Fandom Wank Without The Titty Police Nerfing My Post

-

To be frank, I'm not here because I think you or any of your little cronies are going to change your minds. If the 'name' wasn't a giveaway, your group of ~likeminded individuals~ have quite the reputation for espousing ableist, antisemitic, and, yes, racist views under wafer-thin the veneer of "calling out racism." I think we both know that what you're actually doing is using the relative anonymity of the internet and progressive language to abuse, harass, and bully fans that you personally disagree with. You and your group are toxic, hateful, and utterly pathetic, using many peoples' genuine desire to avoid accidentally causing harm and twisting it into this horrid parade of submissiveness to You, The One And Only Arbiter Of Truth And Justice In Fandom. Never mind that you have derided autistic people as lacking compassion and empathy, that you've used racist colonizer dogwhistles to describe a fictional culture based heavily on real live Maori culture, that you've mocked the idea of characters having PTSD, or that vital mental health services are anything more than "talking about your feelings with friends uwu." Let's just ignore that you have ridiculed the idea of adults in positions of power exerting that power over children in harmful and abusive ways, that creating transformative fan-content that doesn't adhere to the spirit of canon or wishes of the original author garners derision and hatefulness from you, and that you've used classic abuser tactics in order to gaslight people in your orbit into behaving more submissively towards you in order to avoid more verbal abuse.

Let's toss all of that crucial context aside in favor of only what you've written here.

What you've written here is nearly 3,000 entire words based on, at best—though, admittedly, based on your previous behavior, I am actually not willing to extend to you an iota of good faith—fallacious reasoning. You posit that a constructed language, to be used by a fictional religious group located in an entirely different galaxy than our own, is othering, racist in general, and anti-Asian specifically. This appears based in several suppositions, the first being that a language unknown by the reader will, by nature, cause the reader to feel alienated from the characters and therefore less sympathetic, empathetic, and caring towards the characters. That idea is patently ridiculous and, I believe, says far more about your ability to connect to a character speaking an unfamiliar language than any kind of overarching truth about media and the human condition. New things are interesting; new things are fun; the human brain is wired from birth to be fascinated with new things, to want to take them apart, find out how they work, and enjoy both the process and the results.

The second supposition this fallacy is based upon appears to be that to move away from the blatant Orientalism of Star Wars is inherently anti-Asian. While I find it... frankly, a little bit sad that you cling so viciously to the Orientalist, appropriative roots of Star Wars as some form of genuine representation, that's really none of my business. If you feel that a Muslim-coded character bombing a temple and becoming a terrorist and a Sith, a white woman wearing Mongolian wedding garb, a species of decadent slug-like gangsters smoking out of hookahs and keeping attractive young women chained at their feet (as it were), a species of greedy money-grubbers with exaggerated features and offensively stereotypical "Asian" accents, and an indigenous people wearing modesty garb based on the Bedu people and treated by most characters as well as the narrative as mindless animals deserving of murder and genocide are appropriate representation of the many, varied, and beautiful cultures around the world upon which they were "based," then that is very much your business. Until you pull shit like this. Until you accuse other fans, who wish to move away from such offensive coding and stereotypes, of erasing Asian culture from Star Wars. Then it becomes everyone's business, especially when you are targeting a loving and enthusiastic group of fans who are pouring their hearts and souls into creating an inventive and non-appropriative alternative to canon.

Which leads into the third supposition, that a patently racist, misogynistic white man in the 1970s, and then again in the 1990s, intended his universe to be an accurate and respectful portrayal of the various cultures he stole from. I understand that for your group of toxic bullies, the term "Death of the Author" holds no real meaning, but the simple fact of the matter is that George Lucas based his white-centered space adventure on Samurai movies while removing the cultural context that gave them any meaning, because he liked the idea of swords and noble warriors in space. He based the Force and the Jedi Order on belief systems such as Taoism and Buddhism, but only on the surface, without putting any real effort into into portraying them earnestly or accurately. He consistently disrespected both characters of color and characters coded to be a certain race, ethnicity, culture, or religion, and likewise disrespected and stole from the cultures upon which he based them. He was, and continues to be, a racist white man who wrote a racist story. His universe has Orientalism baked into its every facet, and the idea that fans who wish to move away from this and interrogate and transform the text into something better than what it is are racist is not only laughable, but incredibly disingenuous and insidious.

As I said, I am not writing this to change your mind, because I truly believe that you already know that "cOnLaNgS aRe RaCiSt" is a ridiculous statement. The way you've comported yourself in fandom spaces thus far has shown to me that you are nothing more than a bully who knows that the anti-racist movement in fandom can be co-opted for your benefit. If you tout your Asian heritage and use the right language, make the "right" accusations and take advantage of white guilt and white ignorance, you can have dozens of people falling at your feet, begging for forgiveness, for absolution. And I think that gives you a thrill. So, no, none of this will change your mind because none of this is genuinely about racism—it's about power, it's about control, it's about fandom being the only space where you have some.

So I'm writing this for the creators of this wonderful conlang, which has been crafted by multiple people including people of color, who don't deserve this nonsensical vitriol, and for the fans reading this manipulative hate-fest, wondering if they really are Evil Racists because they don't participate in fandom the way you think they should.

Here it is: fandom has a lot of racism, antisemitism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism, etc. baked into it. Unfortunately, such is the nature of living and growing up in societies and cultures that have the same. The important thing is to independently educate yourself on those issues and think critically about them—not "think critically" as in "to criticize" them, but to analyze, evaluate, pick apart, examine, and reconstruct them again in order to come to a well thought-out conclusion. Read this well-articulated attack on a group of fans who have always welcomed feedback and participation, are open about their backgrounds, their strengths and weaknesses, and wonder who is actually being genuine.

Is it the open and enthusiastic group who ask for the participation of others in this labor of love? Or is it the ringleader of a group of well-known bullies who have manipulated, gaslit, and then subsequently love-bomb people who did not simply roll over at the slightest hint of dominance? The ones who spent hours upon hours tearing apart, mocking, deriding, and falsely accusing authors of fanworks and metatextual works of various bigotries and -isms, knowing that those evaluations were spurious and meant only to cause harm, not genuine examinations of the works themselves or even presumed authorial intent. The ones who made their own, quote-unquote, community so negative and toxic that even after the departure of a large portion of them, including this author in particular, that community still has a reputation for being hateful, toxic, and full of mean-spirited harassers who will never look critically about their own behavior but only ever point fingers at others. The ones who are so very determined to cause misery wherever they go that as soon as their usual victims are no longer immediately available, they will turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness.

This entire piece of (fan)work is misinformed at the most generous, disingenuous at the most objective, and downright spiteful when we get right into it. The creators of Dai Bendu, along with various other works, series, and fan events that these people personally dislike, have been targeted because it is so much easier to harass, bully, and use progressive language as a weapon against them, than it is to put any effort into making fandom spaces more informed, more positive, more respectful.

As someone rather eloquently put it, community is not a fucking spectator sport. You want a better community, you gotta work at it. And conversely, what you put into your community is what you'll get out of it. This author and their friends have put a lot of hate into their communities, and now they're toxic cesspools that people stay well away from, for fear of contracting some terrible form of harassment poisoning.

Congrats, Ri, you've gotten just what you wanted: adoring crowds listening to you spout your absolutely heinous personal views purely to live out some kind of power fantasy, and the rest of us staying well away, because fuck knows nothing kind, helpful, or in good faith has ever come from Virdant or her echo-chamber of petty, spiteful assholes.

No love, bad night.

P.S. Everyone actually in the Dai Bendu server knows your ass got kicked because you didn’t say shit for a full thirty days and ignored the announcement that inactive members would be culled. You ain’t cute pretending like it’s because you were ~*~Silenced~*~ after ~*~Valiantly~*~ attempting to call out racism. We see you.

#fandom bullshit #fandom racism #fandom harassment #fandom ableism #fandom antisemitism #fandom misogyny #by apples

[eqcentriceqclectic-blog]

Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because—ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.

#inherited #demons #parenting #fails #depression #family #messed up #Chinese #culture #patriarchy #ageism #elder abuse #child abuse #inequality #immigrants #stress #millennials #boomers #oppression #subservience #emotional #pain #suffering #suicide #anxiety #panic #attack

[spoiler2010]

Rebirth Of A Nation?

Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke finds himself in an unusual predicament. Never before have the spheres of his influence been so politicized as we have seen in this new century. He holds jurisdiction over Federal land and resources, Indian affairs, wildlife and territorial issues. As of 2019, Zinke finds himself faced with some unusual problems that may cause him to 'think out of the box' in dealing with what had once been considered routine matters within his Department.

One of the first controversies of the New Year was the Obamites attempting to erect a shrine to their idol on State property. The Obama Presidential Center was to be built in the downtown Chicago vicinity. In all likelihood his henchman, Mayor Rahm Emanuel, had arbitrarily agreed to the project without getting any municipal or State approval. Emanuel, as we recall, was the White House Chief of Staff before resigning under controversy after his first year. Emanuel and his socialist cohorts were taken aback to find that they were being blocked by a lawsuit filed by a parks advocacy group. As of this writing the trial has yet to commence. Chances are that Zinke may be asked to weigh in at a future date should socialists choose to appropriate Federal land to immortalize their heroes.

The biggest controversy surrounded the curious case of Covington Catholic School student Nick Sandmann, who attended a demonstration in Kentucky by race activists. Along with classmates wearing red Make America Great Again caps, he was vilified by protestors who hurled racial profanities at the youths. Nick was one of those who rose to the occasion, exhorting his classmates to stand fast and offer no retaliation against the belligerents. 

What happened next was the worst backfire Fake News experienced since the Trump inauguration. Leftist media outlets edited all video at the event, distributing it across their networks to fit their storyline. Sandmann was shown smiling tautly as an Indian demonstrator was beating a tribal drum with just several inches of space between them. It was not hard for the slanderers to claim that the boy was violating the personal space of the Indian and mocking his ritual display.

Unfortunately for the Fake News conspirators, there were videocameras documenting the incident from different angles. Black Hebrew Israelite militants were seen at a distance though within earshot of the street event, screaming racial epithets at the youths. Ironically, this sect has a nationwide following that adheres to bizarre interpretations of Scripture. They claim that the Twelve Tribes of Israel are comprised of black ethnicities around the world, and that whites are disciples of Satan sent to enslave the black race. Despite their virulence, Sandmann continued to admonish his fellow students not to engage in dialogue with the aggressors.

Next came videos of the Indian in question marching straight at Sandmann and belligerently beating the instrument inches from the boy's face. Here is how we see videos can be manipulated to tell the story as it is framed. With the entire incident filmed at a distance, we see the Indian encroaching upon Sandmann's position. Yet in a closeup, Sandmann's smile remains frozen as if mocking the Indian. With both sides examined, one wonders if Sandmann was trying to fight back tears of humiliation or fear.

Fake News' grievous error was to broadcast the video and report it with the exact prejudice and virulence used against what they call the MAGA Movement. This demonizes any and all Trump supporters as xenophobic, misogynistic and homophobic bigots abiding by fascist philosophy. As Sandmann and his fellow parishioners were wearing the red apparel, they became MAGA fascists by default. The boy and his friends were subjected to the worst possible verbal abuse by leftist media and activists alike. Apparently the boy's parents realized that this would have a horrible impact on his future and decided to seek remedy.

Weeks later it was announced that the Sandmann's attorney Lin Wood had filed a $250 million lawsuit against the Washington Post, who had been the main propagators of the libel. According to the lawsuit, Sandmann had suffered from defamation of character which was a result of the Post's actions in 'leading the charge' of the hordes of slanderers. The 'innocent child was bullied with (an) absolute disregard', causing 'permanent damage'. President Trump immediately applauded the announcement as a retaliatory blow against all who have used 'freedom of the press' as license to destroy the lives of others for commercial and political gain.

 The failed efforts of Fake News to keep the Black Hebrew Israelites out of the spotlight allowed them to easily avoid retribution. In cities such as Kansas City in Missouri, for example, the propagators of this cult stand in public areas such as the downtown Power and Light mall, the Plaza and Westport spewing their venom without consequence. Yet the slightest hint of support for the MAGA slogan sets the leftist media ablaze with fervor as they seek and destroy any public gathering displaying such intent. 

Of greater importance would be for Zinke to initiate a Congressional inquiry as to the reasons behind Indian poverty and lack of development on reservation land. For over a century, Indians have been shown as living in extreme poverty and lacking in all areas of economic opportunity. It seems impossible that this particular demographic has been given no chance to improve their collective lot. When we consider all the equal opportunities given Black, or the open doors available to Yellow, it would be an outrage that Red had no advantage whatsoever. Indeed, the nations of the world rebuked over human rights violations by America would rise in indignation due to lack of it. 

For across the planet since the dawn of man we have seen nomad races roaming the face of the earth. Bedouins in the Middle East, African tribesmen following rain clouds, Mongols seeking suitable hunting and harvest, among dozens of others. Most have been respected for their contributions to the traditions and folklore to their respective nations. Yet we find not one that have been given exclusive rights to significant expanses of their nation's land. Beyond that, the Indian has done nearly nothing to take advantage of that right.

It is well known that, over the last century, oil corporations attempted to make numerous deals to secure drilling rights on Indian land. The incompetence of the bureaucracies have made it impossible for either side to progress. A 2015 report from the Government Accountability Office found that poor management by the Bureau of Indian Affairs hindered energy development and resulted in lost revenue for tribes, according to Reuters. At this juncture, we wonder what can possibly be hindering the Indians from doing what is needed to make their people whole?

One thing is certain: a great Indian leader must rise from the ashes and speak for the people. Our history books speak of Geronimo, Cochise, Sitting Bull, and dozens of others who gave their lives for their people. Why is there no Millenial voice being heard? And of young adults, is there no greater aspiration than to be a casino owner? Or on the other end, the leader of a reservation drug gang? Someone must take a stand and unite the tribes to end Indian poverty and restore the dignity of the people.

According to Forbes, there is an estimated $1.5 trillion of natural resources available on Indian land. There is a discussion of fractionated land ownership, which is a result of inherited land shares being passed down to multiple heirs until becoming relatively worthless. The tribal leaders must bring the people together to sign over their shares until the land is fully accounted for and can be privatized to allow for commercial investment.

President Trump has discussed the options of privatizing Indian land. Here is where his deal-making wizardry and entrepreneurial skills may be of historical importance for the Indian nation. Obviously the Indians will need guidance, and the Trump Administration may hold many keys to helping them secure a trillion-dollar deal. It would be a win-win situation for Indians and oil corporations who would no longer have to invest in foreign lands to earn profits. The elimination of shipping costs alone would save them billions. Some of this could be used in improvements and betterments on reservations as a good-will gesture to help the Indians recover their dignity in a short time.

Once again, the employment of the indigenous population will result in the growth of its community. If young people are able to earn a good salary at the oil wells, they will be able to invest in homes and businesses which would result in the decline of the trailer park syndrome. Many of the elderly would be able to manage the mom-and-pop stores while their children worked. It would put an end to the chronic alcoholism that has ravaged the Indian communities along with hopelessness and despair.

This sounds like a broad and utopian statement, but it is a mirror image of the drug epidemic destroying black communities. If a person has so few options but to go out and work hard for minimum wage, they may well turn to the welfare system and intoxicants to lessen the emotional pain. Yet if there is a possibility of earning $600 a week, this is a game-changer for the person's extended family. He must seize the moment and invest in something for the family to cultivate. Even hauling the trailer to a roadside after a home is purchased can be the start of a lucrative business.

Of paramount importance is interaction between Cabinet leaders, Here is where Ben Carson can step in and implement programs allowing Indians to buy homes and invest in commercial property. The most important factor is the time element. Indians cannot be allowed to think that these advancements are quick fixes to their chronic decline into oblivion. The conservative media must glorify their efforts and use examples of Indian Pride as a guiding light to all ethnicities. When the Indian can seize the moment, he will see substance abuse as a rebuke and disgrace to his people. This is when the ancestral traditions are reborn and the nation rediscovers itself.

Once this happens, will we not see the Indian Territory become a great tourist attraction, a showcase rivaling Las Vegas spanning across the West? Will it no longer remain an endless wilderness interspersed by trailer parks and Indians selling trinkets at rest areas? Will we see theme parks and theaters proclaiming a nation's greatness, from ancient times to the 21st Century?

Our President and the Indian Nation hold the key to the future.

#nick sandmann #ryan zinke #indian nation #secretary of the interior

[courtneychicken]

The bird on my shoulder

So, this is my first time posting. @travelwithwords requested this to save me from my writers block, so here goes! Also, probably wouldn't be posting if it wasn't for her, so thank you! 

Without hesitation, Y/N jumped from the 15th floor window. Feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins and wind through her hair, she couldn't help but chuckle as she positioned herself for landing. To her surprise, the impact of feet and concrete never came. Instead, she felt a grip around her waist as she began gently swinging through the air. Eventually, she was placed on the ground below, ready to jump back into action. Before continuing, she made sure to slap her saviours arm and groan, “Peter, you know I could've landed that! I always land on my feet, remember?”

Peter just shrugged, laughing a little at her annoyance, “I know you're perfectly capable, but I just like to know you're safe.” She gave him small smile and rolled her eyes, “Well, thank you.” Turning away, she ran to help the others. Her speed assisted her as she charged towards her enemy, extending her claws to plunge into his chest. His limp and newly lifeless body fell to the ground with a loud thud, causing her to sigh and find the next enemy. She stood momentarily, listening for any other signs of danger. A familiar groan was heard in the distance. She looked around at the rest of the team, their lack of reactions proved they had not heard it. Quickly, she sprinted off towards the pained sound.

Sam was pinned down, his broken wings underneath him in an uncomfortable position. An agent was above him, ready to strike once again before she jumped into action. Pouncing onto his back, she pierced his throat with a single claw and let him fall beside Sam. She offered Sam her hand, only for him to harshly decline. “You didn't have to do that, I had control of the situation.” Showing his frustration as it etched across his face. “It didn't look that way, he was about to kill you. Your wings are broken! You're lucky I was there.” Sam shook her words off. “Believe me, I didn't need saving. Especially by somebody from Planet of Cats.”

She walked away, sucking in a harsh breath as her eyes pricked. She wasn't from Planet of Cats and she was only trying to help.

The end of the fight was near, the base had been cleared and intel had been retrieved. The bodies of the beaten up and bloodied team trudged to the quinjet, collapsing into the chairs as soon as they made it. Natasha and Clint buckled themselves in as they prepared the jet for departure, sighing as they did so. It soon became airborne and the team were relieved.

As soon as the jet landed, everybody exited and made their way to the medical bay. Y/N on the other hand made her way to her room. Jumping in the shower, she scrubbed the dirt and blood from her tense and aching body before pulling on her favourite pyjamas and making her way to the common room. Peter chuckled as she flopped down next to him, her head nuzzling into his lap. “Comfortable?” Peter ran his hand through her hair, massaging her scalp. She nodded, keeping her eyes closed as she enjoyed the sensation. Tony walked in moments later, pouring himself a whiskey and eyeing the two of them sprawled out on the sofa. Tony then turned to Rhodey, laughing to himself before sharing what was on his mind, “What’s going on with the two of them?” He asked, taking Rhodey by surprise. “I have no idea, but its sort of sweet. Don't you think?”

Tony couldn't hold back, his shoulders began shaking in silent laughter as he wiped a stray tear that had managed to escape. “If you call a kid that was bitten by a radioactive spider and another that was bitten by a radioactive cat sweet, then sure, its sweet.” Rhodey let out a frustrated sigh at Tony’s somewhat-offensive statement. “I don't think she was bitten by a radioactive cat.”

“The funniest part is if they had children. Can you imagine what they'd be? It’d be a litter of eight-legged, furry spider-kittens with the abilities to make webs and always land on their feet. That’s extremely disturbing if you ask me.” Peter involuntarily rolled his eyes at Tony’s remarks as he pulled Y/N closer, trying his best to comfort her. Tony poured himself another drink, knocking it back before leaving the room.

“You know Tony can be a jerk sometimes, don't let him get to you.” Peter whispered, tracing small circles on the palm of her hand.  Instead of an audible response, she just nodded. “Want me to talk to them?” Shaking her head frantically, she voiced her worries “It’ll just cause more trouble, they'll think me weaker than I already am. Please, just leave it.” Peter pulled her closer, “You know you can trust me, right?” She nodded, leaning into him.

The next morning, she awoke in her bed. Standing up, she walked into her bathroom and turned the shower on. Stepping in, she let the warm water cascade down her sore and aching body as she scrubbed herself clean once again. Finishing her regular morning routine, she held the towel against her body as she walked to her wardrobe. Throwing a plain jumper and a pair of black jeans onto her messy bed, she prepared to get ready. Just as she dropped her towel, her door swung open. Quickly, she turned her back to the door and gripped onto her towel with a death grip. “Clint, ever heard of knocking?!”

“I-I’m so sorry Y/N, I didn't think!” He studied her back, furrowing his eyebrows. “What happened to you?” This caught her off guard. “I’m not sure what you're talking about.” Clint just shook his head, “Y/N, I’m just trying to help. Is that how you received your enhancements?” She laughed, only it wasn't from humour. It was pained and forced. “Why? So once I tell you, you can run back to the others and mock me some more? No thanks.”

“I’m pretty much the only person that hasn't mocked you, besides Parker and Banner. You can trust me, I swear. I will not run back to them, I will keep it between us. I just want to understand more about you, I want to help. I have kids, I would hate for them to feel alone or bullied by people that are supposed to support them. Let me be a friend,” he spoke genuinely and she felt herself relaxing a little. “Get out and let me get dressed, then we’ll talk.”

Clint gave her a small, reassuring smile as he left, closing the door behind him. She locked it before taking a seat on her bed, fiddling with the corner of her blanket nervously. She was about to open up for the very first time. After she had pulled herself together, telling herself to trust him, she pulled her clothes on and opened the door once again. Inviting Clint in, she placed herself back onto her bed. He followed and took a seat next to her. She opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words. “Its okay, take your time.”

“When I was a child, around 7, my father went away. Well, he joined the army, at least that’s what my mother told me. I don't really remember it too much but I know he never returned. It destroyed my mother, she blamed herself, told herself she should've stopped him leaving. She convinced herself she wasn’t a good enough reason for him to stay behind and she couldn't take it. She began drinking. It was only a few drinks every day to start with, she claimed it would numb the pain. It became her coping mechanism and eventually became an addiction. Everyday she would drink herself into oblivion and all I could do was watch her waste away. I was 9 when the social worker removed me from the household. I was placed in a group home temporarily, until somebody would either foster or adopt me. Unfortunately, most people want babies, not older kids. I was told over and over again that somebody would come for me but nobody ever did. On my tenth birthday, one of the caretakers took me out for the day. We got ice cream, we saw a movie, it was the most fun I had but I knew it wouldn't last. I snuck away when she was distracted, I wandered the streets trying to find somebody that would love me. A man approached me in the middle of the night as I was trying to find shelter, he asked if I was lost and if there was anybody I could call. My biggest mistake was telling him I didn't have anybody.

He took me to his car, gave me some leftovers from his sandwich and drove for hours until we reached a warehouse. It was full of kids like me, unloved, unwanted, nobody to miss them. It was tragic really. It didn't seem too bad at first, they gave me fresh clothes, ensured I was hydrated and fed before making sure I had a goodnights rest. The next day is when it all started. They led me to a room that was oddly bare. It was way too sterile for my liking. They sat me in the extremely uncomfortable chair and strapped me down,” she began rubbing her wrist as she reminisced, “the straps were tight, every time I tried to move or wriggle out of them they'd grow more painful. They would experiment on me night and day. I hated it, I would cry continuously, begging them to let me go but they didn’t. My voice would become hoarse from the constant screams as they injected me, cut me open and even broke my bones to test my ability to heal. I wasn't Y/N, I was experiment #182, nothing more, nothing less. They enhanced my DNA for their own advantage, against my own will and for what? I wasn't of use to them, why would I be? They threw me away after realising I had cat-like abilities and not something great like invisibility or telekinesis. I enrolled into school, everybody thought I was just plain weird and mocked me because I wasn't like others. I've had a lifetime of it and I hate that the team mocks me too.” She admitted, wiping a stray tear that had managed to escape.

Clint ground his teeth, trying his best not to show too much emotion at her revelation. “I'm sure you don't want sympathy, but I’m sorry you had to go through that. Can I tell you something, truthfully?” She nodded. “Back in my day-” Clint started, but Y/N cut him off before he could continue, “This isn't going to be like one of Cap’s ‘during the war’ stories is it? Because I hate to break it to you, grandpa, but we’re no longer in the olden days.” “Hey, I’m not that old! You little shit…” They both broke into laughter, not being able to commit to the serious tone.

“Anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. Back in my day, people would mock me all the time. The kids in my class would bully me. If there was another child, I can guarantee they would bully me. You know why? Because I’m deaf. I was different from them, automatically excluding me from their friendship groups. I would go home and cry for hours because all I wanted was a friend. My teacher pulled me to the side one day, I was scared I was in trouble but it was the complete opposite. She gave me some great advice on how I should stand up for myself, even if it meant mocking myself slightly. Can I be honest? It was worth it. The next day when the kids started bullying me again, you know what I said?” Clint looked at her, waiting for a response. She shook her head, but he waited for her to say it. “What did you say?” Clint smiled widely, “I’m glad you asked! I said, ‘I’m sorry, I can't hear you!’ And they didn't mock me anymore after that. They couldn’t, they had no leverage, no ammo because I had accepted I was deaf and their words no longer had an impact on me. So, take the advice that was once given to me. Don't let their words hurt you, let it go over your head and laugh along with them. I mean life’s one big joke anyway. Once they realise it doesn't affect you, they'll stop trust me.”

She smiled warmly, hugging him before thanking him profusely. “Shall we go see if it works?” Clint asked, causing her to smile wider and nod. “Lets go!”

The common room was full of the team, all chatting amongst themselves until Y/N and Clint entered. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Natasha snorted as she took in Clint’s figure next to Y/N, breaking the silence. “Yeah, its not uncommon for cats to bring birds in,” Steve remarked, not so offensively. When Y/N laughed, they seemed slightly taken aback. When she ran and pounced onto the sofa next to Peter, Tony sighed. “Jesus, were you raised in a barn?” Sam snorted, “No, she was born into a litter of kittens and raised by cats!” Tony fist bumped him, laughing at his comeback. “If you think I’m wild, you should've seen the rest of the litter. Little Timmy would run up and down the curtains, Bernard would roll in his own shit and the twins, Gerald and Geraldine, lets not even go there… I’m the normal one.” Bruce, Clint and Peter were stifling their laughs as Tony’s newly dumbfounded face was truly a sight to behold. “Oh, so she’s got jokes now. Good.” The comment was more to himself. He settled into an almost proud grin as if she had cracked the code to Einstein’s theorem.

“Y/N, what’s with all this sudden bravery?” Peter inquired with a beaming smile. Looking over at Clint, she said with a smile of her own, “Lets just say a little birdie gave me some great advice. Which reminds me,” before Peter could process what was happening, her lips were on his. Tony muttered something about needing more whiskey to process this much teen rebellion and others quickly followed to avoid the sentimental moment.

Pulling away, Peter grinned from ear to ear, “You have no idea how long I've wanted that.” She couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head in disbelief, “A cat and a spider, who would've thought?” Peter also laughed at this, “We’re quite a pair.” As she started leaning in again, the alarm began blaring, alerting them of an urgent mission that required them all. She sat back, expecting them to suit up and leave without her.

“Y/N, what're you doing sitting around? Come on, suit up!” Natasha eagerly prompted, before walking of to get ready. Y/N smiled, jumping up and doing a small victory dance before running off to fully equip herself. The team made their way to the quinjet, piling in as Steve went over the plan.

Before they left the jet, they loaded their weapons and prepared themselves for what was to come, “Okay, do your best out there, guys! Go get ‘em team!” Sam mocked Steve’s usual ‘Avengers assemble’ and they all piled out, giving their all.

The fight was intense, bullets were flying in every direction and the team were gradually becoming exhausted. Y/N’s attention was focused on the bullet that was rapidly racing towards Sam. Y/N ran in front of Sam before he could even react, blocking the bullet and knocking it to the ground before pouncing onto the agent that delivered it. Her metal claws retracted once more as she sliced into him, knocking him to the ground as he took his last breath. Unexpectedly, Sam smiled at her, “Thanks Y/N, I owe you!”

For the first time in her life, she was proud to have these enhancements and she was even prouder to be an Avenger. This was her life now and she finally accepted that.

#peter parker x reader #avengers #natasha romanoff x reader #Bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #avengers x reader #Clint barton x reader #loki x reader #guardians of the galaxy #Natasha romanoff #Clint barton #steve rogers #Bucky barnes #Loki Laufeyson #Thor Odinson #tony stark #avengers fic #bruce banner #bruce banner x reader #sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sorry for this sucky piece #Peter parker #marvel

[cutegirlmayra]

@mangaanonymous Hey girl!! I’ve been craving some good sonamy fics and who better to go to than you? ;) If you’re still doing prompts off of pictures I was wondering if you could do one with this? It doesn’t have to follow it exactly, just the idea of Amy going super would be great ^^

—

Always open my friend! :D What a lovely pic! And I can definitely use it! ;) Here I go!

Prompt:

With all the robots broken pieces suddenly rolling up and forming one large one, Super Sonic looked up in a bit of confusion.

Not sure what was going on, he didn’t see his friends already boarding the X-Tornado, hoping to get up into the air and attack from above.

“Sonic!” Amy called out, reaching a hand to him but as he turned to look…

WHAM!

“Ah!” Amy gasped and put her hands to the sides of her face, seeing him knocked completely to the right by the robot leaning down and swiping it’s hand to hit him aside.

It was still forming, and slowly rolled it’s back up, each robotic piece locking itself in like a spinal chord being formed upwards with each joint getting ready to pull him up.

Once fully straightened out, the Robot crashed one foot down, and roared out a metallic cry. Unearthly, and threatening.

It peered down as the alien three who had hacked into Eggman’s robots all chuckled in the sky above, hitting their backs and cackling out laughter.

“These beings are so funny! So.. pathetic! haha!” one gripped it’s sphere of a stomach, having no legs, but a tattered robe that flowed down it’s body as it’s claws arms continued to sway under it.

“The more they trash’em, the more they’ll rebuild and squash’em!” one smashed his clawed hand into the his other hand’s palm, and laughed with a hand up to his spiky head.

“They’re such fun entertainment~” one always had his tongue sticking out, and with a goofy expression, laughed like a fool. “Dah-ha-ha!”

Sonic slowly got himself up off the rumble, and shook his head, turning to look over his shoulder with an annoyed expression…

“These aliens… are really getting on my nerves…” he glared, and started to push off his knee he had lifted up to get up.

He staggered a moment but flew up to the plane overhead.

“Tails! Anything?”

“I can’t seem to find a weakness, Sonic!” Tails was circling the giant, Frankenstein robot as it tried to swing it’s big arm to swipe the X-Tornado out of the sky.

“Woah! Too close!” Tails pulled up, away from it’s reach as Sonic kept close to the plane, maneuvering with him. “It’s like a hydra! The more we break it apart, the more it comes back!”

“Then we should just break the pieces down so much that they can’t reform again! Hmph!” Amy picked up her hammer, looking mighty upset at the robot as she leaned over and peered down from the seat she was in, her hair whipping in the wind.

“That’s it!” Tails exclaimed, as Amy’s frown suddenly turned into surprise.

“What is?” Sonic looked to Tails.

“We need to smash them into oblivion! Then they’ll be useless, even if they reform!”

“Make them unable to battle… genius Tails!” Sonic dived down.

“Hey.. that was my idea…” Amy whined slightly, before seeing Sonic was having trouble even hitting the thing anymore…

He would try and homing attack through the center-! But the robot’s mid-section seemed to ‘jump’ out of getting hit before reconnecting… turn around as Sonic would uncurl and blink in a state of disbelief, and swipe at him again.

Sonic kicked his feet out, but was gripping immediately into submission as the the robot lifted him up to his face…

“Like catching a fly in a net. A large net! Haha!” The aliens descended, seeing the threat neutralized and started mocking him.

“Hedgehog? Was it? What a disgustingly WEAK creature…” one flicked a claw his way, as if dismissing Sonic’s kind entirely, swishing his head to not even look at him.

“Vile.. and he smells too!” the goofy one bounced his head as he laughed.

“You’re a disgrace to all creatures on this planet! No.. the universe! haha! Shake him of his little jewels!”

The robot shook Sonic up and down, side to side, as the Chaos Emeralds fell from his possession.

Sonic’s eyes swirled when it all stopped but his head sank low, unable to get his bearings straight…

They continued to laugh as Tails looked down, shaking his head. “Oh, Sonic…”

Amy’s fists shook.

Then she gripped the edge of the plane, jumping off.

“Huh? AMMMMY!!!” Tails moved the plane back but it was too late.

“SOOONNNIIICCC!!!”

“..Huh?” the three aliens looked up.

Amy came crashing through their circle, making them spin as they hovered in the air and try and reach out for the others in their dizzy spree.

She was falling fast though… as Sonic shook his head and looked down, calling down to her, “AMY!”

“W-woah..” Amy tried to spin herself around but couldn’t, she saw the emeralds falling below her and tried to reach back for them, her back towards them. “Chaos-..AHH!!” the wind hit her face so much, it almost made her voice unable to be heard.

But as she descended…

The Emeralds stopped falling.

Sending upward, they held a place around her. Glowing…

She watched in amazement, looking around as Sonic uttered, “Control.” his eyes narrowed as the Emeralds darted into her… a bright light…

The light suddenly shot upward and Sonic smirked, seeing her skate by him until coming back around, like a meteorite until the light burst from her and she stood, hovering confidently in the air.

The alien’s eyes shot out of their skulls and back in like horizontal punching bags. “WHA-WA-WA-WA-WAHT?!?!” they shouted in unison.

“He’s not the only blonde one?” the goofy one pointed in fright at her, as the others clung to each other.

“OH SHARF.” they spoke in some alien curse as she laughed, kicking her feet out.

“I can feel Chaos’s power soaring through me! Thanks, Sonic! I won’t let your power go to waste!”

Sonic closed his smile, so his teeth weren’t showing, but seemed to approve of her statement as he watched her circle the robot, and pull out a hammer.

“Time to turn you to dust, you robotic bully!”

Starting with his torso, the Robot couldn’t dodge her crushing blows as she hammered it down to saw-dust. It took a minute, but she got all the way to the arm, freeing Sonic as he started falling.

“Ah-ahhhh-ahh! OFFPH!” before he could face-plant, Amy had gripped a leg…

“Phew..” he fell limp, as she pulled him up, swung him around, and caught him like he usually did her.

“Huh?” he looked around, not used to being … well… ‘handled’.

“Hehe~ Now I’m the one saving you, Sonic!” she chimed, bright and happy… literally, bright though as her super form shined around him.

He gave her a nervous smile, and slight chuckle.

She flew him up and set him on the plane. “Blast him, Tails!” Amy nodded, leaning over the plane’s wing from hovering in the sky, as he nodded, and sent a huge blattalion of missles and fire at the robot.

Amy went in to truly make sure it was nothing more than rumble, as it tried to form, but failed and finally.. fell apart without a single piece of energy from the alien technology left to power it…

The aliens gulped, as Amy slowly flew down behind them, hands to her hips, as they turned around in pure terror… and shrugged with apologetic smiles.

“So… what was that about hedgehogs? Hehe..” she giggled cutely, before her face completely shifted.

She zoomed up to their combined faces,.. “Bark.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” they scrambled in the air, begging her not to hurt them as they charged off into the atmosphere, declaring they’ll never bother earth again!

“Mischievous little batch…” Amy leaned up, looking up at the sky, “I don’t think they’ll be coming back again.” she swished her dress as she turned and happily flew into Sonic’s arms, who was looking down at her from the plane’s wing.

“Sonic!” he was knocked over, but laughed, secretly pulling the power he had given her out as she turned back to normal.

She pulled away from the hug, her eyes still closed in utter joy, smiling widely “That was so cool!”

He nodded, “You did a great job, Amy.” he did look proud of her.

She opened her eyes, “Can we do it again, sometime?”

He looked a little sheepish at the request, but still smiled, sweat dropping a little. “Maybe. If it’s not to save the world again.” he teased, and winked to her kindly as she gasped and jumped back into trying to ‘cuddle him up’ again.

Tails turned away from looking at the two behind and rolled his eyes, shaking his head down. “Now I’ve got two supers to worry about.” he teased, having always worried about his friends, but happy to see Sonic had let Amy take a go at it.

Who knows? Maybe he was actually getting humbled by it?

(Hope you enjoyed! :) )

#super amy rose #super amy #sonic and amy #sonic prompt #sonamy prompt #sonamy #super sonic #cutegirlmayra #cutegirlmayra1 #sonamy headcanon #submission

[hurricanehenry]

What a sad time we live in. When a man like Justin Trudeau may actually become Prime Minister of Canada again. What are we teaching our children? That it’s ok to lie, bully, treat strong women badly, ignore ethics and morals, break laws and rules, grope, engage in racist behaviour (whether intended or not), ignore all fiscal responsibility, and still win. That money and power do matter and that it wins. They have nothing on Scheer, but one video from 15 years ago. A video that at the time reflected the opinion of many from all parties. It wasn’t right, and he acknowledged that. We are teaching them that you can mock indigenous people, veterans and call the great trades people that build this country dangerous predators while welcoming returning ISIS fighters. You can bully a province into oblivion, forget how old your country is turning, recklessly spend into unsustainable debt and use tax payer money for your own personal gains. Taxing the poor and middle class as a punishment for climate change, while flying back and forth from vacations multiple times a day in a fuel guzzling private jet to attend meetings. Calling Canadians racist to excuse his one racist behaviour. And we call this progressive. What a sad, demented irony. Progressive? Back to the days of zero accountability , the days of rule without consequence, the days of “let them eat cake”. Progressive? Really? Is that what people tell themselves when they are marking an X and mortgaging our children and grandchildren’s future? So yes, he may win, and the people who put him there will gleefully pat themselves on the back for being “morally superior “ and “progressive “. Unfortunately, no matter what we try to teach our children, right doesn’t always win, sometimes wrong is just way too powerful. https://www.instagram.com/p/B26Y0cNgtdjTzRTuK9JFMRPSdqv3R6j5dqdiwA0/?igshid=ghq3lu9kxvwg

[legionofone40k]

Drabble: Fear

There was some truth to what they said; that adeptus astartes new or old knew no fear. But that was only really correct regarding the new breed, after Guilliman’s reforms, psycho-indoctrinated child soldiers with child minds commanding juggernaut bodies.

Samael was the old breed. He remembered, at least in fragmented pieces, a time when he was an average sized, skinny young man, pock-marked with lho stick burns. He recalled then the touch of a woman, the exhilaration of mundane life, and how his mind and mouth chattered about endlessly about various prattle. But most of all, he remembered fear. Fear of the enforcers entering his particular slum. Of some childhood tyrant named Gorn who took some pleasure in rearranging his nose to be just a little more crooked. He had that primal memory burned in him, and it would never really go away, only be suppressed by degrees.

That, he thought, was the true difference between the two groups; loyalist and traitor. The traitors remembered fear. Normally, it served them well. Here, however...

The sky was awash with titans, as liquid fire fell upon the daemonworld. With each incendiary drop, his armor ached and groaned. It was not acid, it was not anything material. It burned his soul, nothing else.

Just as formless and incoherent as the sky, so to was the ground. Mountains curled up and formed shapes. Islands floated about in the sky, shooting pink lightning between each rock constellation. Some seemed to rise up and away into oblivion, others smashed the ground after a moments notice with deadly force. Creeping unlife demanded patches of unimaginable flora. In another setting, at another time, it could have been wonderful.

Before Samael roared, with many mouths, a chaos spawn. It had not been the first today he had encountered. No sign pointed to which god, if indeed any, it hailed from. No remnant of astartes armor to mark which legion. Samael personally doubted the rumor that these quivering masses of tentacle, claw, maw, and muscle could only be formed from his seed. In the spawn, Samael saw the truth of the warp, and knew that regardless of what the gods showed their mortal servants, no better exemplar to the fate of all things touched by the warp existed than these, freak monstrosities.

It leapt forward, and mauled the marine and his beaten armor as if a ragdoll, slamming him meters away easily.

Samael persisted, pulling from his side a still-functioning plasma pistol, and firing with nigh on undisciplined abandon, daring the power cell to go critical and kill him there and then.

Naturally, the rounds did nothing. If the spawn could feel pain, it elected not to express it, as it barrelled toward him with speed akin to a white scars rhino.

Lacking the time to exclaim his frustrations, Samael produced a whirring chain-axe, a gift from a follower of khorne, and attacked. His strikes were light as he attempted to the best of his ability to evade the creatures many means of killing him.

After perhaps four hits, a maw consumed his axe whole, barely sparing his hand. The marine considered for but a moment, then produced his plasma gun, and without so much as a second thought, used an old legionnaire’s trick to cook off the power supply, and tossed the live soon-to-be plasma grenade into the creatures gullet.

Then, unarmed and alone, he ran.

The explosion had a satisfying meaty candour to it, as wet chunks of still living flesh fell about him. It was a momentary solace.

In the quiet citadel of his mind, he was returned to childhood. He was assaulted unbidden by images of his youth crying and fleeing from hab bullies. He remembered weakness, loneliness, and failure.

As if to mock him, he heard two separate wild and guttural howls to either side, and knew yet more spawn were upon him. There was nothing to do but run.

Above the din of the crackling lightning, the screams of the horrors of the warp, and a sky formed by unfathomable warp beings, he heard the echoing laughter of thirsting gods.

Such was life upon a daemon world. Such was the way of the warp. Such was the weakness and folly of men in gods cellar.

Samael did not pray, and that was the one grain of strength left in him, as he sprinted, eyes closed shut to block away the madness inducing miasma for but a moment.

[montrealroleplay2]

SHANE McKNIGHT

Age & Birthdate: July 25th, 1982 (34) Birthplace: Los Angeles, California Location: Saint Laurent Occupation: TV show host/ Stand-up comedian Gender: Male Sexuality: Pansexual Length of Time in Montreal: Two years Faceclaim: Chris Evans

trigger warnings: – depression , drug use

Born and raised in California, Shane had an idyllic childhood growing up in Los Angeles with barbecue on Saturdays, a loving parents, and constant visits to Baseball games, since he is the grandson of the legendary Dodgers’ narrator Vin Scully. The boy was always in the narration booth, following all games with his grandfather, and being often considered a good luck amulet of the Los Angeles team.

However, at the age of 9, Shane had his life turned upside down as his mother landed the lead in a famous medical drama and his father took on the role of international correspondent on a major TV station. The lack of presence of his parents at home, the constant moving and the series of restrictions that got into his new life, made Shane feel lost during such chaos without having anything to support on.

It was at that time that the two greatest passions of the boy became more evident: to make people laugh and sports. The boy always did as many sports as possible, something that sooner made him the target of criticism of his peers in high school, many considered him to be average, and there was always gossip about his lack of merit in being on the team or just being there because his parents were famous. He was part of his school’s baseball team, in the position of substitute hitter, even received a scholarship to McGill University in Montreal.

To be seen as the class clown, for many times made him the target of bullying of the most popular, aggravated even more by having famous parents. It was not uncommon to hear his classmates commenting on how annoying or annoying he was. The boy eventually met two kids from the theater club that dragged him into the world of performing arts. The three had instant click, and became inseparable in a matter of time. Constant bullying caused him to struggle against depression for much of his adolescence, either because of criticism from people around him or because of excessive self-deprecation, and for a long time, the theater club was the only kind of support he had. Helped him to channel all that into more productive activities.

Switching to Montreal turned out to be important to him. In a place far from everyone who knew him, he felt freer to be himself. It was also in this period that the athlete met Ashley, a girl with whom he shared some classes. The relationship between the two was getting very close, both had much in common, and it was practically impossible to see one without another. It was not long before they started dating, Shane loved how easy it was to talk to her, and how they both seemed to understand each other. He even went so far as to buy a pair of rings and think of several ways to get her to marry him, until Ashley ended the relationship and to date another guy.

Heartbroken, as soon as he graduated, Shane returned to California and worked in various jobs in different places to keep himself busy to not fall in depression again. It ranging from frying hamburgers to tips in small low-budget productions, the boy refused to accept the help of famous parents, wishing to carve his way without having to rely on their fame. Shane did small stand-up comedy shows in a few smaller comedy houses across the LA area while sharing an apartment with friends until finally got a job at Fox Sports producing materials for the most diverse types of channel programs, and enjoying Behind the camera.

In 2010, Shane’s world turned upside down again, now with Ashley’s death in a car accident as the journalist helped cover the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. He learned the news in the worst possible way, via Facebook messages, days after the funeral.

Gradually, he closed himself off to the world, abandoning everything he liked best and becoming isolated, to the point of losing his job on the station. For a long time, the only thing Shane did was sleep, smoke marijuana, and spend all day watching sports videos on YouTube, becoming completely apathetic and all around him. His friends and family eventually forced him to treat depression in an unusual way: by using his love for art and giving him camera. He began producing short videos about different sports that were both instructive and funny, which became quite popular, especially after Shane had the clever idea of using his contacts from the days of Fox Sports to bring the presence of illustrious athletes, and doing absurd things with them.

Two years ago, the videos caught the attention of ESPN Canada, who wanted to produce a show with Shane based on his YouTube channel, settled in their facilities in Montreal. He was reluctant at first, because of all the memories of his time spent with Ashley in the city, fearing it could lead his depression to relapse, but accepted it at the end, as long as he had total creative freedom over the program.

“Try this at home” (same name of his YouTube Channel) has become a success, and is currently one of the most watched sports programs in Canada. The show also helped Shane to land a space as one of the attractions of the Casino Lacroix, by performing every wednesday with a stand-up comedy show called “The King of Dirty Jokes” which makes a relative success despite being A little shocking by the amount of profanity.

❝ i lose a lot, guys. no matter what i do, i always seem to lose. but i refuse to be beaten. i get up right in life’s face and mock it into oblivion. because when i do that, i show life that it won’t beat me. ever.

Shane tend to be curious and idealistic. He seeks meaning in everything and is very interested in other people’s motives, especially when he realizes that they are sad, seeing life as a big, complex puzzle. Not surprisingly, the man is also very intuitive, empathetic and influential. On the other hand, he cares enough not to be sufficiently original or spontaneous, something that usually may decrease his self-esteem.

Moreover, he possesses are high levels of enthusiasm, especially in relation to things that arouse his imagination. Ironically, this feature may also turn against, since Shane is his worst critic, which disturbs him in his effort to be independent. Yet, He is very emotional, kind, and sensitive, although sometimes avoidant. The comedian is really good in focus too much on the motivations of others, which may lead him to make serious mistakes when trying to guess the motives behind someone else’s actions.

He also tends to have difficulties in dealing with administrative, routine issues. The man is more interested in freedom and inspiration than in security and stability - Shane prefers to have an interesting idea than dealing with simple but monotonous tasks. While He can be very serious about his work during the day, the comedian is adapt of “the work hard play harder” philosophy, something that may surprise even his closest friends.

Finally, he is non-conformist, liking to follow his own path and relying on his intuition. This trait of his personality easily turns him in impatient if they are stuck in a monotonous role, unable to express themselves freely - but when Shane is finally comfortable, their imagination, empathy and courage can produce unbelievable results.

#chris evans #male #all #saint laurent

[melancholyambs-blog]

fear us - the generation of the broken and depressed

my own piece of poetry i wrote in humanities one day

Don't fear those with a gun. They're scared. Harmless. They hide behind an object capable of mass destruction because they are cowards, afraid. It's their only way to protect themselves from the dangerous world lying outside their windows. They seem tough, badass, even able to arise the fear inside you, but don't be fooled by the way that their reflexes quickly move at the speed of light, they are not your enemy. Fear us. Fear the slackers, the ones at the back of the class, staring off into space, in our own little world. With doodles on our notebook covers, for our minds are much too busy, and hands much too weak, to pick up a pencil and force ourselves to focus. "Why try when nothing matters?" We tell ourselves everyday. And sometimes we are told we're throwing our lives away. But what no one seems to realize, is that we don't want our lives. Your words go into one ear, and fly out the other. In time, you'll learn you shouldn't even bother. We're past saving. And when you're too broken to even care anymore, what's the point of living? So we plug our headphones in, and let life fly us by. What's one more day in hell? Fear the stoners, the ones who spend their days high in the cemetery, just trying to forget. Turning their emotions off, they blast 90s rock so loud that they lose the ability to feel, ignoring the world, shutting out every thing imaginable, including their minds, because even their thoughts are dangerous, unable of feeling fear, with darkness in their eyes and a certain gloom in the way they hold themselves, dark circles under their red veiny eyes, they take the pain away, coping in their own twisted methods, because it's all they know. Those who force themselves out of bed everyday when every muscle in their body is aching with pain, but not physical pain, because that is endurable, but the kind of pain that makes you want to scream at the top of your lungs, tear all your hair out from the roots, and throw and break everything in sight, and cry until you can't feel your body shaking, suffering, the most intolerable torture. Heartbreak. The ones with heaving footsteps and tear stained cheeks, with crippling depression, their hope collapsing out of their hallow bodies, barren and depleted. They who go through their days numb and dazy, there, but not really there, lost in their thoughts, their own personal hell. Fear us musicians, for we can set all hell loose with one strum of a guitar. Fear us for our lyrics contain everything we can't say, and our music will tell you more about us than our mouths ever will. Fear us for we need the devastation, we like our music loud, loud enough to drown our demons, and with them every thought in our mind. Fear us writers, for we can move mountains, just by the power of words. For we find the painful tradgedies soothing and the irony in death beautiful. We love the darkness and all it brings, and find beauty in each and everything. Fear us for our words can set you on fire, full of passion and meaning. Fear us for our minds are full of chaos, screaming and crying, words begging to be talked, thoughts begging to be written, voices begging to be heard. All at once, so we sit and we bleed, we need to write, to feel calm, to soothe it all. Fear us artists, for our sketch books hold the deepest of secrets, the naive and innocent mind can not comprehend. For we are torn and damaged, and you're pure and good. We see the emotion, the fear, the pain, the desperation, we smell it, we sense it. We draw that we can not say, splashes of ink on our bodies, souls so full of color, yet devoid, Fear us rejects, fear us outcasts, fear us depressed, the anti-social, the strange, the deranged, the ones shunned for our looks, and invisible in the crowds. Fear us rebels, fear us called "losers" by the population. Fear those who have been hurt, fear us who have been crushed by the people who we thought we'd never lose, lied to by the ones we loved, and left by the ones who swore on the Bible they'd always be here. Fear us with mental illnesses, for no cruelty or autrocacy you have ever seen can compare to the battlefields raging on in our minds. Fear those who don't care with bruised knees and sore lips. Fear those who wouldn't blink if a gun was held up to their heads with bloody noses and breath like roses. Fear us with scars and cuts under our long sleeves, our skin aching to be thrashed open every night, tingling with the sensations, for pain is pleasure, and nothing feels better than slitting open out bodies, and satisfying the urge. For if we can destroy our own flesh, hiding the monsters we are to our own body, without remorse, imagine what we can do to you. Fear us who choose to take the pain away, with razors and pills and empty bathroom stalls, ripping ourselves apart, because it helps treat the aching. Fear us with bloody sinks, death wishes and suicidal thoughts. Fear us who have the smell of smoke clinging to our clothes, and cigarettes as a metaphor. Fear us who think it is beautiful how the blood oozes our of our skin, and are mesmerized by how beautiful our self inflicted bruises look like our own galaxies that we hold so very dear. On every part of our body, there lies the injuries we've caused, for all we've ever wanted to be was art. Fear us with too many bracelets, who eat cotton like it's chocolate, and gag. Fear us with eating disorders, we have indured the most excrutiating pain imaginable, both physical and mental. Fear us who take pleasure from being empty, with noisy stomachs and spinning heads, skin as cold as ice and pale as a ghost. Lying to every one we care about, and destroying those who get too close, because we can't let anyone in. Fear us who can not go a day without screaming insults at the person we see in the mirror. Fear us who laugh because if we wouldn't we would cry, those who take life as a joke because it isn't worth living anymore. Fear us who you call crazy, because we have thoughts flying, buzzing, biting at our heads, they spin and kick free and our heads are so chaotic that we learn to appreciate the beauty of silence, and the eerie vibe it brings, for we hate the people in our minds, who seem to never be pleased. Fear us with demons, voices that won't be silent no matter how hard we try to keep it surfaced so for one minute we can think straight. Fear us with anxiety, scared to talk, scared to be, scared to take up space in the world, hiding under shadows, invisible, as non existent as the world let's us be. Fear us not afraid of earth violently exploding into oblivion. Fear us with troubled pasts and broken promises. Fear us with childhood memories and happy pasts, questioning where our parents ever went wrong and we got so fucked up along the way. Fear us who stand tall as skyscrapers, and show our strength in how we choose to fight, who are not afraid to stand up, to talk back. Fear us hot messes, with not short enough days, and caffeine through our bones, working for money, trying to get out of this small city that has no space for our dreams. Who get criticized and mocked, for having hopes that we'll make it someday. Fear us who love education, and learning, new places and new people, yet hate the thought of school because of bullies and drama. Fear us who have been silenced by the education system, and had our minds molded into what their idea of an education is. Fear us with stifled creativity and duct-taped mouths that prevent us from speaking and fighting back. Fear us who are told to be quiet, and not make a sound, for our ideas are wrong, and paper quizzes determine how smart you are, nothing but grades on pieces of paper, those determine our intelligence, because nothing else we have to offer will ever be enough. Fear us who wake up every single morning afraid to come to school because of the thought that someone might harass us and the adults will obviously turn their heads the other way, because as long as you're here, nothing else counts. At least not to them. Fear us deprived of the human rights we deserve and embarrassed in front of others when we're being told to cover up our bodies for we are sexual beings who can't be a distraction. Fear us suicidals, for we are scared of no one and nothing. Fear us kids who have nothing else to lose because we have already lost everything. Don’t fear people holding weapons of mass destruction, fear us, for goddamn, we are the mass destruction.

#literature #poetry #my writing #inspiration #writing #poet #spilled poetry #quotes on tumblr #artists on tumblr #writers on tumblr #writers #my art #my words #quotes #spilled thoughts

[wendypix]

1/18 pre-session (Solace)

Should’ve uploaded this one first, whoops

    Solace awoke to find the comfort of his chainmail no longer present on his skin. Cackling laughter emanated from the darkness beyond, which was little bother to him. But being stripped of his possessions, especially his arms was a bitter feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. He noticed leather straps binding him and bumped into the cold metal bars encasing him.

    As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Solace racked his brain and tried to remember what happened. Arrows flying out of the undergrowth as he made his way through a forest, catching him by surprise. He had swung his glaive through the bushes, but lost his strength as something struck his head from behind. He felt a wave of nausea as he recalled the moment, the harsh pain throbbing as a strong reminder. And...he wasn't alone. Someone had shouted his name as he collapsed.

    A cackle snapped him awake from his hazy memories, his eyes focusing on a goblin at the bars. A small, rough paw of a hand was prodding his shoulder, a sick grin on its face. The tiefling gave it the filthiest stare he could muster, which in his state would have little effect. Markus had told him about prisoners of war before: treated lesser than slaves, or even animals. But perhaps his unique appearance - horns, tail and all - would be of some impact to these goblins.

    The goblin stared at Solace for a few moments, before laughing again and poking him some more. The feral look in his eyes grew harsher, but his expression did not change. The less opportunity he gave bullies to mock him, the quicker their interest would wane. This, he had learned on his own before Markus came into his life.

    Sure enough, the goblin grew bored at the lack of response and moved onto another cage beside his. A woman's sobbing, followed by louder cackles told him he wasn't the only captive.

    He shut down his spinning thoughts for the moment; those could come later. For now, he recalled what Markus had taught him: assess the situation and procure a weapon. He needed a plan of action while he still had a clear head. The pain and fatigue from whatever happened before washed over him like a shot of lead. The arrow wounds had clotted, but barely. One wrong move or strain would reopen most of them. But he held onto his composure as he leaned his head against the bars.

    Taking a deep breath, he pushed out the pain out of his mind and looked around. Dozens of goblins littered the platform, ringing a large central tree. The spatter of warm blood and the gnawing of raw meat made it clear that the goblins were feasting upon a fresh kill.

    His cage was on the edge of the platform, and judging from how they stayed far away from the edge, it was pretty high up. A few cages were nearby, their captives smaller than he had expected. A child, maybe. But looking closer, he saw a female dwarf, a human boy and a girl. They were visibly shaking in their cells, faces pale even from this distance.

    He turned his sights back to the goblins, the immediate problem at hand. They were the typical loud but unorganized ones - which struck him as odd. These would never succeed in an organized ambush...not without an authority figure.

    And then he found his answer: a different group of goblins an assortment of weapons and armor. In their midst, a larger goblin was on its back, vicious slices and growing patches of blood all over its armor. The tallest one stood to its feet, its chainmail prominent among the crude hide. This one held a swagger in its posture, holding up a rather exotic yet familiar weapon. Solace's glaive.

    It barked out what seemed to be an order, and the lower-rank goblins all stood at attention. Even the ones tormenting the caged captives all stopped and left the platform. The better-armed ones were still there, however. Solace knew the odds were stacked against him should he bust out right then.

    Breaking the lock on his cage would make too much noise - he needed a bigger diversion for that. Instead, he focused on the leather twine that bound him. He took another deep breath, winding up his muscles and exerting his strength in one sharp exhale. The bonds snapped open with little resistance, but so did his brittle wounds.

    A sharp hiss was all he could utter before cold darkness enclosed him once more, dragging him into restless oblivion.

#Session #Solace Kivera