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stars--n--stripes-blog · 5 years

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Like any religion, wokeness understands the need to convert children. The old Jesuit motto (sometimes attributed to Voltaire) was, after all, “Give me the child for the first seven years and I will give you the man.” And so I was moved but not particularly surprised by George Packer’s tale of a progressive school banishing separate restrooms for boys and girls because this reinforces the gender binary. The school did not inform parents of this, of course:

Parents only heard about it when children started arriving home desperate to get to the bathroom after holding it in all day. Girls told their parents mortifying stories of having a boy kick open their stall door. Boys described being afraid to use the urinals. Our son reported that his classmates, without any collective decision, had simply gone back to the old system, regardless of the new signage: Boys were using the former boys’ rooms, girls the former girls’ rooms. This return to the familiar was what politicians call a “commonsense solution.” It was also kind of heartbreaking.

As an analogy for the price of progressivism, it’s close to perfect. Authorities impose an ideology onto reality; reality slowly fights back. The question is simply how much damage is done by this kind of utopianism before it crumbles under its own weight. Simple solutions — like a separate, individual gender-neutral bathroom for the tiny minority with gender dysphoria or anyone else — are out of bounds. They are, after all, reinforcing the idea that girls and boys are different. And we cannot allow biology, evolution, reproductive strategy, hormones, chromosomes, and the customs of every single human culture since the beginning of time to interfere with “social justice.”

It’s also vital to expose children to the fact of their race as the core constituent of their identity. Here is an essay written by a woke teacher about the difficulty of teaching “White boys”:

I spend a lot of my days worried about White boys. I worry about White boys who barely try and expect to be rewarded, who barely care and can’t stand being called on it, who imagine they can go through school without learning much without it impacting in any way the capacity for their future success, just because it never has before.

This sounds to me as if he is describing, well, boys of any race. And when boys are labeled as “White” (note the capital “W”) and this requires specific rules not applied to nonwhite boys, they often — surprise! — don’t like it:

This week, a student spoke up in class to say that every time a particular writer talked about White people and their role in racism, he would start to feel really guilty, and it made him not want to listen … I try to keep an arm around the boys who most need it, but it’s hard, because I’m also not willing to give an inch on making my room safe for my students of color. It’s not their job to keep hurting while White boys figure it out.

Children, in other words, are being taught to think constantly about race, and to feel guilty if they are the wrong one. And, of course, if they resist, that merely proves the point. A boy who doesn’t think he is personally responsible for racism is merely reflecting “white fragility” which is a function of “white supremacy.” QED. No one seems to have thought through the implications of telling white boys that their core identity is their “whiteness,” or worried that indoctrinating kids into white identity might lead quite a few to, yes, become “white identitarians” of the far right.

One of the key aspects about social-justice theory is that it’s completely unfalsifiable (as well as unreadable); it’s a closed circle that refers only to itself and its own categories. (For a searing take down of this huge academic con, check out Douglas Murray’s superb new book, The Madness of Crowds.) The forces involved — “white supremacy,” “patriarchy,” “heterosexism” — are all invisible to the naked eye, like the Holy Spirit. Their philosophical origins — an attempt by structuralist French philosophers to rescue what was left of Marxism in the 1960s and 1970s — are generally obscured in any practical context. Like religion, you cannot prove any of its doctrines empirically, but children are being forced into believing them anyway. This is hard, of course, as this teacher explains: “I’m trying. I am. But you know how the saying goes: You can lead a White male to anti-racism, but you can’t make him think.”

The racism, sexism, and condescension in those sentences! (The teacher, by the way, is not some outlier. In 2014, he was named Minnesota’s Teacher of the Year!) Having taken one form of religion out of the public schools, the social-justice left is now replacing it with the doctrines of intersectionality.

Last week, I defended drag queens reading stories to kids in libraries. I don’t take back my words. Getting children interested in reading with costumed clowns strikes me as harmless. But when I was directed to the website of Drag Queen Story Hours, I found the following:

[DQSH] captures the imagination and play of the gender fluidity of childhood and gives kids glamorous, positive, and unabashedly queer role models. In spaces like this, kids are able to see people who defy rigid gender restrictions and imagine a world where people can present as they wish, where dress up is real.

However well-meant, this is indoctrination into an ideology, not campy encouragement for reading and fun.

And then there is the disturbing “social justice” response to gender-nonconforming boys and girls. Increasingly, girly boys and tomboys are being told that gender trumps sex, and if a boy is effeminate or bookish or freaked out by team sports, he may actually be a girl, and if a girl is rough and tumble, sporty, and plays with boys, she may actually be a boy.

In the last few years in Western societies, as these notions have spread, the number of children identifying as trans has skyrocketed. In Sweden, the number of kids diagnosed with gender dysphoria, a phenomenon stable and rare for decades, has, from 2013 to 2016, increased almost tenfold. In New Zealand, the rate of girls identifying as boys has quadrupled in the same period of time; in Britain, where one NHS clinic is dedicated to trans kids, there were around a hundred girls being treated in 2011; by 2017, there were 1,400.

Possibly this sudden surge is a sign of pent-up demand, as trans kids emerge from the shadows, which, of course, is a great and overdue thing. The suffering of trans kids can be intense and has been ignored for far too long. But maybe it’s also some gender non-conforming kids falling prey to adult suggestions, or caused by social contagion. Almost certainly it’s both. But one reason to worry about the new explosion in gender dysphoria is that it seems recently to be driven by girls identifying as boys rather than the other way round. Female sexuality is more fluid and complex than male sexuality, so perhaps girls are more susceptible to ideological suggestion, especially when they are also taught that being a woman means being oppressed.

In the case of merely confused or less informed kids, the consequences of treatment can be permanent. Many of these prepubescent trans-identifying children are put on puberty blockers, drugs that suppress a child’s normal hormonal development, and were originally designed for prostate cancer and premature puberty. The use of these drugs for gender dysphoria is off-label, unapproved by the FDA; there have been no long-term trials to gauge the safety or effectiveness of them for gender dysphoria, and the evidence we have of the side effects of these drugs in FDA-approved treatment is horrifying. Among adults, the FDA has received 24,000 reports of adverse reactions, over half of which it deemed serious. Parents are pressured into giving these drugs to their kids on the grounds that the alternative could be their child’s suicide. Imagine the toll of making a decision about your child like that?

Eighty-five percent of gender-dysphoric children grow out of the condition — and most turn out to be gay. Yes, some are genuinely trans and can and should benefit from treatment. And social transition is fine. But children cannot know for certain who they are sexually or emotionally until they have matured past puberty. Fixing their “gender identity” when they’re 7 or 8, or even earlier, administering puberty blockers to kids as young as 12, is a huge leap in the dark in a short period of time. It cannot be transphobic to believe that no child’s body should be irreparably altered until they are of an age and a certainty to make that decision themselves.

I don’t have children, but I sure worry about gay kids in this context. I remember being taunted by some other kids when I was young — they suggested that because I was mildly gender-nonconforming, I must be a girl. If my teachers and parents and doctors had adopted this new ideology, I might never have found the happiness of being gay and comfort in being male. How many gay kids, I wonder, are now being led into permanent physical damage or surgery that may be life-saving for many, but catastrophic for others, who come to realize they made a mistake. And what are gay adults doing to protect them? Nothing. Only a few ornery feminists, God bless them, are querying this.

In some ways, the extremism of the new transgender ideology also risks becoming homophobic. Instead of seeing effeminate men as one kind of masculinity, as legitimate as any other, transgenderism insists that girliness requires being a biological girl. Similarly, a tomboy is not allowed to expand the bandwidth of what being female can mean, but must be put into the category of male. In my view, this is not progressive; it’s deeply regressive. There’s a reason why Iran is a world leader in sex-reassignment surgery, and why the mullahs pay for it. Homosexuality in Iran is so anathema that gay boys must be turned into girls, and lesbian girls into boys, to conform to heterosexual norms. Sound a little too familiar?

Adults are increasingly forced to obey the new norms of “social justice” or be fired, demoted, ostracized, or canceled. Many resist; many stay quiet; a few succumb and convert. Children have no such options.

Indoctrinate yourselves as much as you want to, guys. It’s a free country. But hey, teacher — leave those kids alone.

By Andrew Sullivan

#transgender ideology #transgender children #transwomen #transmen #indoctrination #mental health #*

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dahl-my-life · 5 years

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Awakening

I should be resting before class but I wanted to go through the chapters of Awakening I had from 2017 to form a good plan before rewriting it. (For the 12th time...) Since I’ll be reworking the story to better fit the route I want to go I figured I’d share one of my favorite chapters from the 2017 version. It may or may not appear in the 2019 draft. Either way, I wanted to share a bit of the story I have been working on for about 12 years now. I plan on posting the proper chapter one for Awakening this Saturday as well as chapter three for From the Shadows.

(This was chapter seven in the 2017 version by the way. I normally don’t catch spelling or grammar mistakes until the second read through which this draft never got.)

Despite the steady glow of his magic, Atem could see that Nakeya had only paid his room a visit once or twice from the way the bed sheets were tossed on. He could only chuckle before sending bits of the glowing water that circled in his palm to the crystal orbs hanging from the ceiling. They shared a warm yet gentle glow. Atem always sent a silent thanks to his mother for designing the orbs—they served as a way to light the way but also to calm him down when his patience ran short.

Taking a moment to examine his room, he heaved a sigh; Shanu had woken from a nightmare the moment he had started to leave. He was just about to bring her to his room but Sandra had managed to know what was wrong. So Atem had left his cousins in silence. Sandra’s haunting lullaby still echoed softly in the corridors. Visiting Kadahl had been a horrible decision on his part yet something good had come from it…

“Why were you in here Nakeya?” He whispered as he ran a hand through his dark hair. It was not uncommon for her to stay in his room while he was away with the other Guardians but something was different this time. “I suppose I should ask: why are you not here this late at night? You had always shown nothing but distrust and fear of the Guild.” He pulled out a leather bound journal from his bag. The cover held the Galdorian Coat of Arms and the symbol of the Guardians but it meant nothing to him until he looked inside. It was filled with Nakeya’s handwriting.

“Is this a joke of some form?” He muttered before flipping through the pages until something caught his eye…

‘Somedays I wonder—what would happen if I simply disappeared? Would anyone mourn for me or would they be glad to finally be rid of me? I know I cannot change what I am but I still find myself looking at the others and feel jealous. Jealous of what they have being mortals and not a monster like me, but I suppose…we are all some form of a monster aren’t we? In the end…we all bleed the same color…’

A voice startled him. “When did you get back?” Nakaya's silver eyes glowed with blue energy out of frustration. From the state of her hair and the dirt on her clothes—it had been a long day for her. She was the very description of exhaustion though she would never admit needing sleep like the rest.

Nakeya glanced at something behind him that caused her to scowl; however, she remained silent as if waiting for him to answer.

“A few hours ago I would guess.” Atem closed the book, standing with his arms held open. “I apologize for not warning you though I suppose one cannot always plan on a peaceful night, hm?”

She relaxed her stance and the glow faded from her eyes as she accepted his embrace. “You have no idea the kind of night Alicia and I had, love. I had to try and crawl through a window but I had gotten stuck halfway! Alicia nearly fell off the roof from her laughter—the little…”

“She’s taller than you,” Atem corrected.

“Everyone is taller than me!”

Atem had only a chuckle in response. He tried without much success to smooth down her hair in an effort to calm Nakeya down. It worked in a sense but he couldn’t help his own worry about being watched. “If you do not mind, what exactly were you and Alicia doing at the Assassin’s Guild?”

Nakeya stiffened at the question. “Who told you that?”

He merely shrugged and gave a wink, “I have my sources.”

“If you truly must know: Alicia and I were looking for something very important.” The way he sighed before making his way quietly to the sturdy wardrobe made her feel a little guilty.

“So have you taken care of the report then?” He paused to investigate a dimming crystal hanging close to the windows.

Nakeya hesitated, “more or less.”

Whatever he thought of her hesitation—he kept it hidden behind the indifferent expression as nimble fingers set to work on repairing the broken crystal. Adding a thin layer of water around the surface, he flexed his fingers: urging the water to solidify within the cracks. There was a long pause; its soft light flickering ever so often before steadily growing bright as a star. Giving a small smile Atem stepped back to examine his handy work.

“Perhaps there is still hope in my healing magic.” Atem breathed out.

Why not tell him the truth? He, as the Prince, deserves to know what is happening to his people. Karima observed with her back turned to Atem. Her pale eyes stared sharply into Nakeya’s downturned gaze when she wasn’t given a reply. I thought you cared for him.

I do… Nakeya shook her head; he has enough to worry about being the prince.

Karima pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. As the future rulers of this kingdom, I would have expected more trust and understanding between you two.

Then you know nothing…

“Nakeya?” Atem gently cupped her face with a faint worried smile, “what’s wrong? You seem distracted and tired as well.”

She tried to smile but with the first lights of the morning already showing, they both knew Nakeya would not be allowed any rest. “I was just thinking about what you said. We could always visit the Healers’ Temple if you want to continue your healing magic training. Besides I just realized I never planned who I want where today…” The guards would be changed from the Night Watch to the Morning Watch and she would have to be the one to hand out the daily orders before making any reports to his father. Once she figured what to do with everyone.

Nakeya rested her head against his chest, “Alicia suggested I take the day off but when she is not my official Second, I cannot truly put her in charge just yet. I’ll be fine though.” She stepped back with a smile not quite true, “Get some rest, love, I am certain His Majesty will want to hear about where his son has been for the past month.”

He pressed a light kiss on her brow, “Just be safe alright?”

With a quick Jump, Nakeya stood at the doorway looking somewhat amused. “And miss out on the excitement of messing with your father’s annoying worm? Nah, I love making him bustle with annoyance.”

She was gone, leaving only a trail of faint runes that danced in the air for a few moments after each Jump before fading. Atem could only shake his head and worry over what kind of hell she would cause his father today. Falling onto his bed with heavy lids, he had decided that rest would be best before having to deal with his father…

There was something off about Nakeya that concerned Atem as he watched her train with her fellow recruits. The way her eyes blazed, her restlessness despite being perfectly still beside Ryan—the only true movement was her fists, being balled and relaxed numerous times, but the emotionless gaze she held stood out the most. It was that quiet storm inside of her that put her apart from the other sparring recruits.

Some called to her, followed by laughter and turning his gaze, Atem saw that the same filth of a man, Vain, was taunting her again. About to rise from his spot he felt the calmness of his mother's hand as she grasped his. Sapphire met cobalt for a moment as his mother sent a silent warning not to interfere. Swallowing his annoyance Atem nodded mutely.

One wrong step from either of them and his father would have Nakeya executed for what she was. They were already on thin ice due to his mother claiming Nakeya as not only his personal guard but as her Right Hand in court.

The Weapons Master silenced the harassment with a quick bellow informing both Nakeya and Vain that they were next to spar.

Ryan gripped Nakeya’s shoulder as she spied the princeling near the railing of their booth. She could feel him watching her. As much as she tried to push him away, Atem always found his way back to her rooms or was waiting for her in the library. Part of her was touched that he tried so hard to befriend the kingdom’s most “deadly” assassin—not enough to accept his company but enough to keep him alive.

Keeping her sword strung to the belt under her red sash, she calmly walked to the chalk ring—her steps silent despite the storm brewing behind her eyes.

Vain gave a toothy grin, drawing his sword to hold at the ready. “What’s wrong runt? Upset that you got beat? A girl of your age is better off in a…” He paused when she strolled closer unarmed.

Nakeya caught the blade little more than a few breaths from her face. Her grip merely tightened as blood began to ooze down her arm. “Finish that sentence,” she tore the sword from his grasp and hurled it across the room. She didn’t need to finish her threat—her eyes told all. Her foot quickly collided with Vain’s side, knocking him down before she dealt a blow between his shoulder blades.

Purring, she stalked around him, “Oh what’s wrong? Did the big bad wolfy get tired? I thought you wanted to play with me.” Her expression was nothing more than a hunter stalking its prey…

Vain growled in irritation before he lunged at her, “He trained you for this, didn’t he?”

Spinning to dodge his sudden advance, Nakeya finally swung her sword up to meet his new blade with a vicious crash. “I didn’t want it. I had never wanted any of it.” Her eyes narrowed as a blue glow blazed around her silver eyes. Breaking the stalemate with a nasty cut on his chest, she moved fast—striking where she found pauses in Vain’s movements.

He watched in amazement. Atem had never seen someone move quite as graceful or a fast as Nakeya did. Every attempt made by Vain to land a hit on her was met by two hits of her own. Occasionally she would call out to her opponent in the same taunting matter that had just been used on her own self. “Mother…” Atem looked back to see his mother proud of Nakeya. “She truly lives up to the title.”

Adrianna gave a shallow nod, “a title that she never asked for though my son. Remember, she was in the Assassin’s Guild by Lady Jeanne’s request so that Nakeya would learn to survive and be hidden.”

“Then why is she here mother?” Atem looked down at the fighting that clearly was about to end. Vain was a breathless and sweaty mess while Nakeya had yet to even break a sweat.

“I chose her as my candidate for Captain of the Royal Guard.” The Queen shrugged lightly before she lowered her voice, “besides...it was getting far too dangerous to have her at the Guild any longer. The palace seemed like the best place for her.”

Atem frowned but sad nothing in turn. His mother had a point—the kingdom was slowly beginning to die while his father did nothing.

“Weapon’s Master,” a strong voice pulled Atem from his thoughts; “here is an idea. Fill the Guard with those who truly wish to defend the people and the royal family and then…” Nakeya glared, “perhaps the Water Folk will have a reason to keep living this miserable thing they call life. Until you realize how utterly useless it is to train filth perhaps then I shall be bothered to try.”

Reaching down to take a fistful of his greased hair, she stared hard into Vain’s fading eyes. “Everything here could happily kill you, but only I will do it the most efficiently. If you ever mention the Assassin’s Guild again…I will end you. I will end you in the most violent way I can think of. The dead wouldn’t even know what to do with you when I’m done with you. Understand?”

Despite what had happened, Vain chuckled. “Oh, but runt, you can’t erase the past…even if you don’t want to remember it.”

***

A harsh flash of light pulled Atem from sleep. Looking around, he could just barely make out the remnants of a Jump and he pulled aside the blankets to see just why Nakeya was back. Thunder crackled from beyond his windows as rain tried desperately to find a way inside.

“You know,” he looked down to see her passed out on the floor and sighed. “What did you do?” Bending down to move her to bed was when he noticed how her back was soaked with blood. Frowning, he laid her on her stomach and gently pulled back the worn shirt before swallowing hard. Atem saw the angry welts from several new lashes cover the ones that had just begun to heal.

Karima watched in silence when Atem gave a tired, quivering smile as he brushed away some of Nakeya’s hair. She wanted to explain that the lashes were not from today but he would have never heard her. The Old Queen was only heard by those who could see her—her eyes narrowed; she would rather not be seen at the moment.

“A normal person would at least mention they were bleeding. But no, you had to go and bleed all over the place before passing out, hm?” He tried to joke but his words were bitter. Setting to work on reapplying the filthy bandages, Atem began to hum an old tune from their childhood. While he had always wanted to be a healer as a child—there was still something nerve-wracking about having to piece your loved ones back together, even when there wasn’t much to work with.

You have seen her at her worst and at her best, Prince. Is that why you trust her despite when it is clear she lies to you? Karima mused while she examined his steady process.

Nakeya shifted, I suppose…don’t move? There was a faint trace of humor when the Captain finally came to.

Unless you want to tear open your wounds again. Otherwise stay still. He is almost done mending your back.

How did I get here? Nakeya blinked away the fog and tried moving her stiff fingers.

“Finally awake I see,” Atem pointed out as he pressed the last piece of cloth to her back. “Care to sit up so I can fully bandage you? Those strips will not stay on their own and,” he paused when Nakeya struggled to push herself upright.

“I,” she paused, “cannot feel my legs at the moment. Mummify me in a moment?” She could feel her face warm when Karima sighed and Atem chuckled.

What do you mean; you cannot feel your legs? Karima exclaimed.

I was brought back to life and my body likes to think I should return to death. If I remain still long enough my body will do just that. I have had days where I could not uphold my duties because my body decided to stiffen! Nakeya snapped.

Karima blinked away her surprise. That was always something she had overlooked when she first met the Captain. Her pale “birthmarks” that delicately spun and wove down her arms, torso and across her neck like flowering ivy. It was those marks that had labeled Nakeya as different but somehow Karima had overlooked them. She bore the same marks. To pass judgment on Nakeya would be as if insulting her own self.

“I think I can sit up now but I’m still concerned.” Nakeya finally broke the silence with a whisper.

She looked so frail and sad. Atem could only nod before helping her sit up. “I wish there was something I could do to help with that.”

Nakeya could only shake her head, “There is nothing anyone can do to help. One day I will simply not wake and that is that.”

Cobalt met silver before Atem smacked the back of Nakeya’s head. “The sooner you stop that the better. How many times must I remind you that we will find a way to fix you?”

“Atem,” sharp knock on the door made her pause, “our time, for now, is done…”

His eyes soften before he kissed the top of her head, “but I will be like the sun.”

“And like the stars: I will never leave your side.” They shared a grin. It was a phrase they had said since the day Atem had finally broken through her defenses as children. A way of saying: no matter what happens, I will return to you.

Nakeya watched him walk to the door and chat calmly with one of their friends. She had guessed it was Faria from the gentle way the elder Godling spoke. Glancing over to Karima, she shrugged before tracing a Jump entrance and allowed herself tumble through.

“I should have thought that one through,” she hissed in pain when she fell back first into her bed. The searing pain raced through her veins and clouded her mind. Nakeya traced the details in her ceiling, slowly breathing away the pain before the tears began to fall.

Was that really necessary? You might have reopened the wounds!

“I’m fine—just give me a minute or twenty.” Nakeya waved away the pestering wraith before closing her eyes. Before the storm had hit, she had been training a handful of the recruits with the Weapon’s Master. When he decided that Nakeya would be the better opponent to spar with, her back and Karima voiced their disapproval. Pretending that she wasn’t in pain had become an easy mask to wear over the years but it was those few times when she was alone did the masks fall away, leaving the true Nakeya Naruca to pick up the pieces.

Karima followed Nakeya’s gaze, she noticed the flowering vines and plants that hung from the ceiling. It was a beautiful arrangement: brilliant colors glowed softly against the water crystals, trinkets for the vines to grow around hailed from anywhere and everywhere the younger humanoid had traveled, and they filled the room with a calming scent. It reminded Karima of home. Following the path the plants grew, her eyes traced over a few paintings and tapestries before she noticed just how many books Nakeya had collected. They were everywhere! Several bookcases were filled and a few piles lay in the corners and on either side of the messy desk. Two even were lying open on her bedside table.

“Reading was something that calmed me when I was a child and has stayed with me since. I can remember Adrianna reading us to sleep as children.” Nakeya pointed out softly as she closed her eyes.

A soft smile graced Karima’s features while she carefully pulled a raggedy quilt over Nakeya, “Rest well my friend as I repair the seals and your wounds.” Working quickly, Karima willed a red ball of thread to appear in her hands. It began to glow and move towards the troubled areas of Nakeya’s back, covering the lashes gently only to move when nothing but a scar remained. The threads made their way to the smaller cuts and scrapes in the same manner. While they appeared to have been healed Karima’s magic could over provide healing to the surface. If Nakeya was to move wrong or push herself too far the wounds stood a high chance of reopening.

Finally pleased that her friend was healed, Karima closed her eyes, moving quickly to where Nakeya’s magic laid dormant until needed. Reopening her silver eyes she was met by a freezing rush of air and shadows. Mended poorly by the last the seal bore a large crack down the center.

“You should not be here…” a voice taunted Karima, its words dripped with venom.

Squaring her shoulders, she met the blood red eyes that glowed from beyond the seal with a lethal smile of her own, “at least I am not trapped here demon. Remain silent and I will not have any strife with you.” Karima willed the threads towards the barrier.

The creature pressed against the seal, “do you not believe that if I wanted to escape I would have already? No, I am merely buying time and studying this girl.” As if to prove a point the creature changed its features to match Nakeya’s, even its voice became her friend’s gentle voice. “I will strip away all that you are, all you have ever known, and all that you have ever loved and I shall let the whole world know just how much of a monster you are!”

She willed her features to remain neutral, “what is the meaning of light without creatures such as you?” All she needed was time so that her threads could heal the tears in the seal.

“Do you honestly believe that? Darkness cannot be beaten by the likes of you. Evil will never stop. You of all should know this. It lives on in the hearts of people like you…”

“I believe that no matter what you may try I will always be here to stop the likes of you.”

It chuckled with eyes returning to their crimson glow. “You don’t seem to realize…I’ll get her in the end. Just as my master got you in the end…”

Karima slammed the seal shut out of anger. She seethed in rage at the creature for bringing back such painful memories when a part of her wondered just how it had known that. “I pray you burn if not by my hand then by hers.” Her voice echoed against the newly refined seal as if to prove a point. She could come and go as was seen fit but the creature would remain imprisoned until the end of time.

The creature merely laughed.

#awakening #writeblr #eternal exhaustion #dahlhousestudios #chapter seven #wip #very old draft #Nakeya Naurca #Atem Li Sky #Karima has had enough of that brat #Forgot she has a temper #I'm going to sleep now #hopefully #sorry if nothing makes sense since it is chapter seven of the 2017 draft but I wanted to share a small bit of the WIP #that I have been working on for the last 12 years of my life #funny how this is the 12th rewrite and the 12th year I have been working on it #I feel old suddenly

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kittenfemme27 · 3 years

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The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires

I don’t know about you, reader, but it’s been actual years since I was able to properly sit down and finish a book. My last one was Lovecraft Country in 2018, and many, many years before that. Reading used to be a big passion of mine, I loved to get lost in the worlds. I loved the movie that played out in my head as I read, as if it was projecting itself into my mind more-so than i was actually reading the words themselves. For a kid who didn’t always grow up with the internet or video games available, Books from my local library were a great escape.

So, having found myself getting more and more into horror around 2019 in all forms of media I consumed, I was more than happy to bookmark a tweet from a horror artist I follow on Twitter who had a list of all the horror books he’d read that year. This would be my chance to get back into reading, finally!

Cue.. 2 years later, and I’ve finally started on that list. The top of that list, “The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires“, was something I found immediately intriguing from the title and cover alone. I’m now regretting that decision so much that I’m not sure I’ll bother with the rest of the list.

(CW: R*pe, Gore, Racism)

“The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires” is an awful book. The only compliment I feel I could accurately give it is that it’s not written incompetently enough, from a purely technical standpoint, as to be unreadable.

The story stars Patricia Campbell, a housewife in the 1980′s-1990′s that is more apology than character, and her rag-tag group of similarly middle-aged, middle-income southern white wine sipping housewives who do, and I cannot stress this enough, almost nothing but test each other’s and the readers patience for nigh on 310 out of 357 pages. They bicker, they fight, they treat Patricia as crazy when she repeatedly shows them evidence that children around them are dying, and most of all they refuse to do absolutely anything, leaning more into pure disbelief until the problem has literally violated one of them. The book club women don’t lead interesting lives, either. They’ve got husbands who are not in love with them, children who hate them, and friendships with each other that can be broken by what feels tantamount to bringing the wrong wine to a meeting. Throughout the story, Patricia is accosted by the resident Vampire-like creature, more akin to a human mosquito than any sort of real “Vampire”, that moves in after his aunt dies. A man named James Harris. He smoothly worms his way into everyone’s lives in the charismatic way a vampire does and convinces everyone that Patricia is more or less insane for ever suspecting him of being a vampire after she watches him feed on a child. This leads to her attempting suicide after being pushed into a corner by her doctor husband who seems to have been ripped straight from the 1950′s and thinks women should be Seen and not Heard. She gives up and more or less goes comatose as a character for roughly 3 years until finally she snaps to her senses after seeing a ghost of her dead mother in law who knew the Vampire when she was a small child, who leads her to one of the bodies he’s got stored in his attic, and convinces everyone else in her book club, who has routine abandoned her at this point, to help her kill James. They do, chopping his body to bits while it taunts them and then throwing the bits into a fire. Patricia divorces her husband at the end and somehow that makes her children lover her, happy-ever-after ending.

That’s the rough synopsis, but it doesn’t really do the grossness of this book any justice. That first child James kills, is a black 9 year old named Destiny who later kills herself as it’s revealed that the Vampire-like creature’s bites feel so good and so sexually pleasurable, that if you are deprived of them after becoming addicted you’re likely to just commit suicide. This is AFTER she’s taken away from her mother by child services because they assume the bite marks are syringe injection marks and that her mother must be a druggie. She’s not the first black child to die this way either. In-fact, by the time Patricia becomes wise to James’ ways, she’s the third. They’re all from a poor black neighborhood that is literally described as shady, dangerous, and being full of “Super Predators” called Six-Mile, which is the de-facto feeding ground of the Vampire for a good 75% of the book, as well as the home of the literally only surviving named black character, Ursula Greene, who herself is nothing more than a “wise old negro” trope along with being a maid to these rich white people who think of her as trash. This is probably the biggest overarching problem in the book. It tries, in the authors words, to explore the relationships between the white, rich women who brag about how their cul-de-sac is so safe and pure that nobody even locks their door, and the poor black characters from Six-Mile. The book thinks its clever, because Mrs. Green constantly points out that the white characters let the black children die callously so that their white children would live, to which they can only reply about how guilty that makes them feel and how they’re sorry. I’m not sure what the author hoped to accomplish by pointing out the institutional racism of the 90′s, but whatever he hoped to accomplish, it fail flat on its face in the most racist way it could.

I wish that was where gross things ended for this book, but its not. At one point, the Vampire-like creature rapes one of the book club members and she is more or less outright stated to be pregnant with a monster from that rape and it is also revealed that the rape gave her an “Auto-Immune Disease” that the characters husband immediately likens to AIDS and that is very quickly killing her. This information causes her to choose to have her body cremated so nothing can spring forth from her corpse when she dies. The implications this has are frankly appalling. The books decision on whether or not a woman who gets pregnant from rape is worthy of life is to resolutely and proudly say no and treat that as if its a feminist answer. That if you’re raped, it’s akin to something like AIDS and life simply isn’t worth living. it’s one of the grossest things I’ve read in a long time.

It’s not even the only shock value the book uses to make it’s events feel real and scary, others include Patricia’s son “Blue” being obsessed with Nazi’s, for genuinely seemingly no reason. He just brings them up to make you, and everyone in the story, uncomfortable. There are constant overwrought descriptions of gore or simply gross scenarios, such as an indepth description of Patricia’s ear-lobe being ripped off, or rats gnawing the flesh off on a old woman, or a cockroach crawling inside someones ear. There is also the repeated child murder or child suicide, which doesn’t really serve a purpose other than to shock the middle-aged mothers this book was meant for, with multiple sentences in which Patricia thinks about how much it would hurt if that were her children, inviting the reader to do the same with their own.

And we couldn’t forget that this book is just unrepentant in its horniness. It’s outright stated that being fed on is the most sexually pleasurable thing one can feel, which makes it all the more awkward when you consider that the Vampire’s first set of victims are children, later Patricia’s teenage daughter who she walks in on in the middle of being fed and who she has to stop from literally masturbating in that moment while attempting to punch the Vampire off of that same teenage daughter. But, of course, it doesn’t end there. It’s a book about almost entirely women written by a Cis Male Author, which means there are constant depiction of female bodies in the nude or in violence. It’s no “She boobed boobily”, thankfully, but it’s not much better than that. Describing pubic hair, breast shape, and even making it so that the Vampire-like creature drinks from a penis-esque proboscis that extends from it’s throat and right into the upper thigh of it’s victim, which is mentioned twice to be right next to the vagina. It even goes so far as to try and sexualize its own rape, aswell as having Patricia tell the rape victim how good it feels with this section between the two. Something I’m including here in its entirety because no amount of words I can write describes how gross this passage is, in context.

“Grace already... told me,” Slick said, opening her eyes, pulling her mask away from her face to speak. “I made her... give me all the details.”

“Me too,” Patricia said. “I was out from what he did to me.”

“How did... it feel?” Slick asked.

Patricia would never have said this to anyone but Slick. She leaned forward.

“It felt so good,” she breathed, the immediately remembered what he’d done to Slick and felt selfish and insensitive.

“Most sin does,” Slick said.

I think the thing that angers me the most about this book is that it’s tricked a lot of people who read it into thinking its a fun, feminist read. All of the main characters are overworked mothers who struggle with being that overworked, and then come out on top anyway because of their motherly intuition and love for their kids. It’s the kind of book that a single struggling mother would read and think “Yeah, I’d do that, that’d be me! I’d save the day!” and it makes them feel good about themselves, and about being a mother, and about how hard it is to make the kids lunches and clean the husbands dirty underwear and make sure the house is clean and dinner is on the table by 6 PM all while looking hashtag fabulous and like a girlboss. A quick trawl through any review site will show roughly the exact type of single mothers this book is written for giving it 5 stars and calling it hilarious and empowering. And y’know, I don’t have a problem inherently with prose written for that demographic. But this book gets away with a ton of racism, sexism, and outright disgusting content by hiding itself under that veneer and I think that’s just awful. It should be held to scrutiny for what it is, for how bad it is, and it clearly never was.

Don’t read this book. It sucks. It sucks so fucking much. I want my night I spent reading it back.

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ignitingwriting · 5 years

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Igniting Writing ‘Explore’ Contest 2019, Submission by Alex from Igniting Writing

We’re up to 15 entries for our ‘Explore’ themed teen creative writing competition, led in tandem by Igniting Writing, Lake Erie Ink, Fighting Words and young Writers Project. This submission was sent in by Alex, one of our newest members of Igniting Writing but despite only recently joining she’s really shown her writing talent. Her entry is titled ‘Us and Our Game’ and is an unsettling read, with a slow build up of tension that creates a threatening atmosphere without ever explicitly revealing where the threat comes from. It’s well worth a read, so check it out for yourself below:

Looking at the list, half of the names had been crossed off. Was it truly an entire two years, seven months and three days since this began? Looking at the calendar I had meant to get rid of approximately two years, seven months and two days ago on the back of the door, I sighed. It seemed so. If only he hadn't been quite so proud that day, all this could have been avoided. But I would not back down now – no, I was better than that. I would win, if it took eliminating every name on that list and more.

Restless, I stood and tossed the stained napkin back onto my bedside table, where the only other furniture was a dust-veiled lamp that probably held a blown bulb. A cloud of particles rose, dancing and swirling in the beam of light that cut across the room from beneath the broken blinds, catching my attention with their vivacious energy. Such a peculiar oxymoron; molecules of death being lively. Rather bizarre.

But not for immediate contemplation. If I am to catch up, immediate action is to be taken. The next name is my focus now. Sheila McCarthy. A stranger who happened to be walking by that day. So unfortunate she scared those pigeons the old lady beside us had been feeding crumbs. But he didn't really like that, so her fate was decided.

And she was only one among many; from the park and the café, the cinema and the lemonade stand, the mall and the traffic jam that we sat in for hours. As we collected the names – pickpocketing for driver’s licenses only to return them shyly, accidentally tripping over our feet and knocking their phones out of their hands, already apologising as we fell – we didn't count. 42 people, it turned out, not counting each other, all over the age of 15 and three months.

We were on the 21st person, only having crossed off 10 each. It was taking forever, but I suppose the suspense only makes my eventual victory over him all the sweeter.

In Ireland for the first time in my life, as well. Who said the games weren't beneficial to my lifestyle? I certainly would never have travelled to Ireland for long enough to take the mostly lovely tour around Trinity College, hanging on the words of the sweet student herself. And she was so wonderful, I almost couldn't believe it; a better part of our game couldn't have been found. None of the others were half as interesting. At least this one had some sense of self-preservation. It was so boring when they did the job for you and all you could do was claim the prize.

The last one of mine had been like that. A few taunting letters and it had been over, no anticipation. I had to fly all the way to Australia for that turn as well! Such a waste.

Hopefully, this would turn out to be more of a challenge.

A few brisk strides took me into the corridor, lifting the dust that had resettled as I reminisced. Truly, you would think a flat so many people had occupied in such a short amount of time would be slightly less dirty, but apparently not. Humans these days; such useless creatures.

My watch said 15:27, my phone said 3:29. Which to believe? Probably the phone – room for human error was much smaller, as I had never set it myself. So, one minute before I must exit the building once again. Turning to lock the door as I waited for the time to be right, I ducked my head, watching a middle-aged couple walk by, not touching.

The man had a ring, very shiny – new or well-tended to – whilst the woman had no rings at all. Stiff body language and avoiding each other's eyes; a lovers’ spat whilst on holiday? The woman was naturally tanned, as the faint tan line around the back of her neck showed, no doubt from a bathing costume, but the man was a true Irish, pale and freckled, without a hint of sunburn.

She was abroad alone recently and was now without her ring. An affair that they were attempting to move past with a holiday? It wasn't working very well if that were the case. Such fickle emotions as love and loyalty were quite pointless to me. I didn't know why so many chose to torture themselves so, but each to their own, even if their own is entirely moronic.

But realising I had gotten caught up in my silent ramblings, I quickly returned the key to my pocket and strode towards the stairs. No point trying the lift; the probability of it being broken was too high. Glancing at my phone, I decided that it actually wasn't correct, as the more accurate thing to do would be to find the average, meaning I had about half a minute before I was to be crossing the threshold.

Luckily, the way down was clear, leaving me to stride into the foyer and out the doors just before my phone said another minute had passed. That was close.

But now look here! The McCarthy heiress herself, scurrying past with a pile of books hugged close to her rather flat chest. Coming from the direction of the library… meaning she would be going back to her flat now! She wouldn't carry all those old tomes around the whole day, would she? No, obviously not. But why had she surfaced now? I had hardly managed to catch a glimpse of her recently, no doubt because her paranoia had shot higher than the clouds after my first – admittedly sloppy – attempt at contact. Time to rectify that poor first impression.

Striding towards her, I put a bit of a swing in my step and relaxed my shoulders as much as I could manage, mimicking the laidback amiability of almost everyone on campus. Pasting a smile onto my lips, I fought to keep it from twisting into a smirk. That would definitely tip her off… but then so would too much intensity or enthusiasm. Mentally looking myself over, I stuck my left hand in the pocket of my slacks, keeping my right free for whatever was needed.

Deeming myself presentable, I crossed the last few metres broadly unnoticed by the girl, until I was matching her pace, walking just inside her peripheral vision. It took a second, but seeing the shadow stretching past her own finally alerted her to my presence, gaining a most amusing reaction. She flinched away from me, spinning as she went, so she was looking me in the eye. Upon seeing me her face paled visibly and her arm shot up, presumably to point at me, although what that would've accomplished was anyone's guess.

Instead, before she had time to gather her thoughts and perform the more suitable actions when faced with a threat in a public place, I grabbed her half-outstretched hand in a handshake, subtly stepping closer as the books finally slipped from her grasp and scattered over the ground in a painful heap.

Widening my smile a little to bring her attention back to my face, I pronounced loudly enough for those closest to us to catch, “It's lovely to see you again, Sheila, and so soon. I'm sorry about your dad.”

It was partially to assure those around us that we weren't in need of interruptions, and to remind the target that I was quite serious about what I said last time, despite the messiness of that meeting. Watching her jaw literally drop for a second was amusing, but I was already crouching down to help her with the books, not releasing her hand, compelling her to lower herself with me. I caught a glimpse of a ring that hadn't been there before, and a flash of indecision stilled me, but its dullness soothed my concerns.

Once we were even closer on the ground, I finally allowed the smirk to form, so she was the only one who could see.

“But it truly is so good to meet you; properly this time, I should hope,” I commented cordially, stacking the books on my arm, leaving her crouching unrestrained as I went about the task. Luckily, she didn't quite look up to putting up a fight, but I watched her body for any sudden tension that would forewarn me of foolhardy thoughts that she might attempt to act upon.

“Perhaps you would allow me to be hosted in a more private area? Your home would be suitable,” I prompted gently, as if I were asking her honest opinion, “don't you think?”

Finally, she seemed to break from her panic induced daze, instead lending her adrenaline to jerking herself back to her feet and speaking, voice rough, as if she suddenly remembered her desperate need for a drink. Another common trait in targets that were only just learning of their participation in our game. I would think they were so honoured by the knowledge that their emotions overwhelmed them, but the few times I had asked, trying to prolong my turn, they disagreed rather strongly.

“I really don't think that's necessary –” she started, fingers tangled with one another as she fidgeted, not daring to look away from me.

Looking ever so innocent, I stood, books in my arms. “But I do, my dear. And what did we learn last time?”

“Maybe we should start walking, then,” she gritted out, hands trembling now but otherwise still. “Would you...?” she trailed off as she gestured weakly to the books.

“No thank you, lovely. I'm quite alright how we are.”

She looked frustrated for a second, no doubt wondering what I was planning, but fear quickly clouded her eyes as I started walking the same way she had been headed before I halted her progress. Hesitating, she watched me dubiously for a moment, but when I kept walking, simply turning my head to beckon her, she finally unrooted her feet from the ground and followed after, footsteps heavy on the path.

After a few minutes we reached the building I knew she lived in, so with a polite sidestep and slight bow I pushed her ahead of myself, letting her lead the way like a good host. She tried to deceive me exactly three times on the way to her home but I caught each one and either gently corrected or let it go with a click of my tongue, as the attempt was doomed to fail anyway, even without my intervention. I almost giggled at her flinches whenever I made a noise or moved too close. It was just so silly! Why would I do anything to her here, where anyone could come upon us? And here I had been thinking she had a few brain cells inside that aesthetically pleasing head of hers.

But we got there eventually, and after a hesitation from her and the due chastising from myself, she unlocked the door and we entered.

To see a shadowy figure on her little balcony, identity hidden by the curtains and low afternoon sun. She seemed startled by a person having access despite the locked door, but after I assured her that I was the biggest threat to her being in the immediate vicinity, she seemed to be less interested in the mystery invader.

Until he spoke in that silky tone of his; the one that would quickly twist into the rope you'd hang by if he was displeased, or smother you with words if you dared to be boring. You would never breathe again.

“My friend, I have decided this is taking too long. My patience has run thin, and I have learnt, once again, that strangers are not nearly as interesting as you. She will be the last piece in our game. Tonight, we will decide who wins.”

#igniting writing #creative writing #teen writers #writing for teens #lake erie ink #young writers project #fighting words #explore #writing contest #writing challenge #writing competition #writing club #writing group

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