#and the idea that maybe MAYBE by the time i'll be sixty... i'll be able to forgive myself? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

delta-83 · 8 months

Text

Even though the lamp shines a bright light,

It's always the deep night, eternal twilight.

Try to write what I think is right, always failing with my sight.

Soon all of those demons watching shall unite, soon they'll bite.

Maybe I should ignite the light so I can fight and rewrite,

But it's too late to incite courage, to gain insight.

So here with a keyboard I write here in the daylight,

Although all that exists is twilight and night.

Try to mask it all,

Yet to no surprise I fall.

Grown up too fast,

Memories I hold close to last.

Have to be the best,

Ace every test.

Now I look back and all I see,

Is someone that doesn't look like me.

Hold it all inside,

Despite being what I abide.

My mistake,

I let it all out in one take.

I try to pay attention,

But all I focus on is inner tension.

Trust me please when I say I try to try.

It's not visible to the naked eye.

I'm not made of atoms but of remorse,

Gaining more with each painful course.

I ponder my death often, all the ways

Never with caution, the wasted days.

Although, I should be safe from the Reaper.

You can't kill what's been killed, sorry creature.

He can collect the corpse, all of it.

I've apparently already sold my soul for a profit.

Every night, making a vow.

To change my ways.

Although somehow,

That 'vow' withers and decays the next day.

I need will, I need motivation,

Something to prevent further devastation.

Act like I've done a one-eighty,

Yet all I've done is a three-sixty.

Slowly going crazy,

Now I've started to hate me.

I need will, I need help,

Soon enough I can't be dealt.

I write poetry about my woes,

Praying that they'll magically go away.

Thou fine being above who knows,

Help thy child, show her the way.

But reward never comes without work,

Work that'll surely cut the heart like a dirk.

Twinkle twinkle little star,

Why must you stay like a scar?

Up above the world so high,

Like my dreams that said goodbye.

To reach it, I crawled up the water spout,

Heavy was the rain that washed me out.

Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,

Only in dreams did that happen though, with no pain.

Just to think, I sat on a wall of buried emotions, quite very tall,

Soon, the dark caved in and I lost sight, had a great fall.

And nothing at all,

Was able to put me back together again.

Stay back, stay away,

Don't say sorry, some advice.

Leave me be, just please.

A simple design,

Compressed and cold, hold it in.

What can I say, really.

The sun and moon swap,

And everything gets worse here.

So lonely, cold, dark.

It fills, the feeling trills,

It encases, coming anew with new faces,

It's what kills, interesting skills.

Plagues the mind of all places, no traces, heart races.

Pace raises, simple phases.

My strongest fears contained in nimble phrases.

The sweetness of knowledge.

Everything has a sensible answer,

One that will be found I pledge, almost fall off the ledge.

And everything must have a paired question I swear, right there.

Everything must have reason, no teasin',

Everything I must doubt, no way out.

Only things that's pleasin' my mind, disease ridden,

Although what is this route, what am I going without, what is this all about?

I fear I'll be consumed by this need and desire,

That it'll go higher, transpire, turn dire.

But why should I worry when I got my friends,

They got my back now right?

Not when I pain them again and again, no end.

"Nono it'll be alright, don't fight, it's alright," I recite.

Try to change my ways, many days, time withered away.

Am I supposed to be alone, deaf to lovely major tone, lost out in the zone?

At night, fears come out to play, in the absence of day, while I lay.

And this amongst them has been grown, the idea of lone, engraved deep into the bone.

Nothing suffocates more, nothing has debates galore,

Like this idea of being alone forevermore.

Contradictions tear my sense of self apart, damaged soul and broken heart,

Can barely remember what I was like, broken psych,

Somehow can break a self with simple thoughts, many parts, a fine art.

Hits like a strike, struck by a spike, unlike many of the like.

Should I even try anymore?

Shouldn't I at least make an attempt?

Reality isn't real, not now, not before, not at my core that's been tore.

Yet I may be wrong, just a thought unkempt, from order an exempt.

I should stop writing, fighting, inciting, igniting,

I should be rewriting, righting, alighting the mind, might be delighting.

In a coffin six feet under, a horrible blunder, body and soul asunder,

A love for death yet a fear for its arrival, the rival of my survival.

Dream of it day and night, always in wonder.

When I get the chance, I'll run away from the final trial like a scared coward, no denial.

I fear my heart making its last beat, the final feat, the sizzling heat of Hell beneath, need I repeat?

Yet always I recite "Take me away Death," with every breath.

How about I go take a seat before I call defeat and retreat,

Before I descend into the pit of incredible depth.

And let's not forget my aching heart,

Hit by Cupid's own sneaky dart.

A simple art,

Always lingering in my mind, it simply tears me apart.

Letting go and dismissing all these feelings would be smart,

Yet here they remain, a subpart.

And what would happen if they knew?

The tension is thick, and I have no clue if it shrunk or grew.

I know I don't deserve them anyway, through events true,

Yet no matter what I do these emotions, I can't subdue.

To deserve this, what did I do?

No matter, I'll just keep my affection hidden from their view.

I'm on the tightrope ready to fall and shatter,

Cause deep inside I've damaged myself, that's the matter.

Been beating my own dead corpse, making myself sadder.

Just one slip up and I fall, tattered and battered.

Deep breaths, deep breaths,

It's either stress or death and I'd rather not take the latter.

Yet, some days I wonder if that's even a choice anymore.

#poem #poetry

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mariatellsstories · 10 months

Text

Club 27

Hollywood, CA – 1975

Bonnie strums her guitar as she attempts to follow the sheet music scattered across the glass coffee table, stopping to tune a string or two. The morning’s mind fog refuses to lift. Freckled cheeks framed by her long red hair give her the appearance of a teenager. She is in her mid-twenties, but feels sixty.

Bonnie would often joke, Of course I like to party – that’s what I do for a living, so I can hang out with cute guys, have a good time and stay up late. That demonstrates my devotion to the music. Yet she is painfully aware of how little sense that makes.

On this particular day, she is playing music written by Joni Mitchell. Bonnie admires Joni’s talent. She’s not only a prolific songwriter, poet, and photographer, but also a really good friend. Joni is able to communicate all she sees and hears through her art. Most of all, Bonnie idolizes her originality. Bonnie has always marveled at those who can express their thoughts and ideas through music. How do they do that? Every time Bonnie tries to create her own material, she hits a wall. Long ago, she figured that her talent - her way of being authentic – was the spin she would put on other people’s works. There's no shame in that, she tells herself.

Strumming chords on her guitar, she curses at the intro because she can't quite get the rhythm right. She tilts her head as she hears the percussion in her mind. Then, as if someone opened a door, she smiles and falls into the song.

They paved paradise

And put up a parking lot

With a pink hotel, a boutique

And a swinging hot spot

Bonnie stops and remembers the way Joni looked at her last night. She has seen that look many times before, the look of disappointment and frustration. It's the look people give her when they realize that she has betrayed herself once again.

The phone rings. Bonnie takes a sip of last night's brandy and places it near the phone.

“Hello?” She cradles the receiver so she can still strum but instead drops the phone onto her guitar with a loud acoustic BONG!

“Oh criminy!” Bonnie says, exasperated. “Hold on! I'll be right there!” She leans the guitar against the side of the couch. She takes a deep breath as she brushes a few strands of hair from her eyes.

“Hello?” she giggles, a bit flustered. “Thanks. You still there?”

“Hey Bonnie, it’s me.” It's her agent Ted.

Bonnie relaxes. “Yeah, hi, Ted. I was just about to call you. Do you have any gigs for me? I hear the Doobies are looking for someone to open for them at the Troubadour next month. Can you look into that?”

“What?” says Ted. “No, I had a folder of cover songs sent over to you yesterday. Have you had a chance to go through it?”

Bonnie stands, reaches for a yellow file folder lying on a nearby side table, and sits back down.

Ted continues, “You've put out four albums of fantastic cover songs since '71, and so far they haven't been very successful.”

“I know, Ted. You're brutal, dude. It's all about the money,” she sighs. “That's the way the world goes 'round.” Bonnie quickly shuffles through the papers in the folder.

“If we play ball with them, maybe they'll extend your contract. But I'll be honest with you Bonnie, Warner’s feels you need to go in a different direction.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes, followed by another long pause. “Which direction is that, Ted?” She knew what was coming.

“You know this isn't coming from me, but they think it's a good idea if you would just...you know...sex it up a bit. It's just a matter of wearing a little makeup, maybe showing a little cleavage or even wearing a dress...”

Bonnie throws the folder across the room.

“Bonnie?”

Immediately after Bonnie slams the receiver onto its cradle, the phone rings again. Startled, she returns it to her ear, “Ted?”

A young female voice, with a distinct British accent, floats from the phone.

“No, luv, it's Amy.”

Amy? Amy who? Bonnie stammers, “Uh...who...”

“If you’re looking for a place that can nurture your God-given talent, ducky, come down to the Club 26.”

Bonnie searches her mind unsuccessfully as to who this nice British woman might be.

“Yes, sweetie,” Amy continues. “You are definitely an untapped quantity. Bye, luv!”

As Bonnie holds the receiver, she hears a click, followed by a dial tone. She places the receiver back on its cradle, and then stares at it for a moment.

Bonnie had heard of the Club 26, but has never been there. All she knows is that it’s an old New York style restaurant and bar on Hollywood Boulevard that has been there forever.

She grabs the thick local Yellow Pages, licks her index finger, and leafs through to the restaurant section. Where is it? Okay, here it is... the Club26 ...6667 Hollywood Blvd. She writes the phone number on a nearby notepad, picks up the receiver, and dials.

A man's voice answers. “Club 26.”

“Hi there! My name is Bonnie Raitt, and I was just talking to someone named Amy, who said she was calling from your club. Is she still there?”

“You said Amy, right?”

“Yeah. I'm a musician, and she contacted me about perhaps playing there, but she forgot to give me the details about the date and time, so I...”

“Excuse me, but there’s no Amy here,” the man interjects.

Confused, Bonnie wonders if she remembered the brief conversation correctly.

“Miss?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake. Thank you though,” Bonnie apologizes, flustered. She gives the man her name and phone number in case he runs into the mysterious Amy.

She hangs up and tries to forget about the weirdness that had just happened.

Although Bonnie is starting to become frustrated with constantly trying to keep up in the male-dominated music business, she is mostly disappointed with herself at what she sees as her own inability to be creative. She constantly tries to shake off the feeling of being a fraud, that she is taking a free ride on the music of others. Time for another drink.

Later that evening, the man from the Club 26 calls back. “Miss Raitt? There's an envelope here with your name on it,” he reports, sounding a bit confused himself. “I'll leave it here at the bar. You can come in through the back any day after 11 am.”

“Uh, okay. Thank you.” She hangs up.

The next day, Bonnie navigates her way down Hollywood Boulevard, just east of Las Palmas Avenue. She parks her Volkswagen Beetle in the almost empty back parking lot.

She approaches the heavy canopied back door, pulls it open, and steps across the well-worn black and gold doormat decorated with the Club 26 logo. As Bonnie enters, it takes a few seconds for her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Finding herself in a narrow hallway, she moves forward, passing two antique phone booths. She arrives at the entrance of a quintessential 1940s New York bar, with all red leather upholstery and dark mahogany walls.

A young, effeminate maître'd rushes to Bonnie.

“Are you Miss Raitt?”

“Uh...yeah.”

“Please follow me.” He gives her a fashion look-over and smiles. This is the kind of place where you could visualize a fast-talking gumshoe grabbing a dirty martini.

The maître'd shows Bonnie to a red leather barstool. On the bar in front of the stool is an envelope with the name “Bonnie Raitt” handwritten on the front. She sits on the stool and takes a deep breath. She desperately wants a shot...maybe several shots. She carefully extracts a note from the envelope.

Come to the scene! It's outta sight! We need good people.

We're in the private room behind the phones.

Amy's friend, Janis

Who the heck is Janis? Bonnie wonders. She remembers passing two vintage phone booths on her way into the bar. She retraces her steps back to the two booths. There is no entrance. She's getting frustrated now. Is this some kind of joke? Who do I know that would mess with me? This is ridiculous...

She suddenly hears a London-style double ring from one of the phones.

RING RING…RING RING

Apprehensively, Bonnie picks up the bell-shaped receiver, raises it to her ear, and in the first of many surreal moments, speaks into the phone’s mounted, funnel-shaped mouthpiece.

“Hello?”

“Darling, we’re waiting. Come, let's have a chat!” requested a familiar British accent, followed by a CLICK.

Puzzled, Bonnie hangs up. Between the two booths a wooden disk begins to pulsate with a bright, glowing green light. Bonnie takes a closer look, as the disk becomes brighter and brighter, appearing to separate from the rest of the connecting wall. She pushes on the disk, and with a thunderous rolling sound, the dark wooden wall becomes a set of double doors that open to a place of unknown origin. Bonnie isn’t sure whether to be terrified or not. Perhaps this is something all the Twenty-Six Club patrons knew about.

Bonnie enters the room as Procol Harum's “A Whiter Shade of Pale” surrounds her.

As she walks through the hallway, on her left are the framed autographed faces of Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix, and Jim Morrison. On her right are Brian Jones, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, and Pete Ham.

Bonnie finds herself in a medieval-style lounge area as the double doors close behind her. A bit startled, she convinces herself that this is probably all just part of the club's mystique. As she walks forward, she hears the clacking of her heels on the marble floor. The room is dimly lit, the colors dark, rugged and mysterious. There are large pieces of wooden furniture, chunky and dark, with intricate carvings.

As Bonnie's vision becomes clearer, she notices the figures of two women seated in over-sized chairs. On the floor in front of them is an antique treasure chest serving as a coffee table. The women seem to be in a deep but playful conversation, laughing and drinking from big brass goblets.

“When I sang, I felt like you do when you're first in love,” shared one of the women. “It's that first point of connection. But it's gigantic, multiplied by the whole audience. I got chills. On stage, I made love to twenty-five thousand people, then I went home alone.”

Bonnie feels the blood drain from her body. It was Janis - Janis Joplin, the belle of the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test ball. She is messy and beautiful. Janis has always been Bonnie's avatar for her raw and daring side. Janis is wearing layers of bracelets and necklaces. Her layered outfit includes a tank top with a vest and two leather belts hugging a pair of purple and pink striped bell-bottoms. Janis' face beams beneath a crown of flowers.

Seated next to Janis is a woman with a dramatic, yet undefinable style. She has black hair sculpted into an exaggerated beehive, dark winged eyeliner, and a skin-tight satin and velvet dress. To complete the look, her arms were covered with tattoos.

“I wasn't a natural born performer, but I was a singer. I was quite shy, really. You know what it's like,” the woman reflects.

This must be Amy, Bonnie thinks, recognizing the British accent.

The woman continues. “I don't mean to be sentimental or sappy, but it was a little like being in love, as you say, when you can't eat, you're restless. It's like that. But the minute you get on stage and start singing, everything's okay.”

Janis responds, “Music is the only kind of love I can deal with.”

Bonnie is trying to figure out how any of this makes sense. Janis died five years ago. She remembers crying for a week after that. It was a tough year for rockers, losing Janis as well as Jimi, Tammi Terrell, and Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson.

Janis continues, “The last time a guy spoke to me about love, it was Jim Morrison. He kept following me around writing poems about me. It was all too much. I ended up hitting him over the head with a bottle of Southern Comfort!” They both lean back laughing, and Bonnie, caught up in the moment, joins in. The two women stop and turn to Bonnie - a frozen moment. Bonnie is awe-struck.

“Oh, ducky! You've made it!” squeals the beehive woman. “It's me, Amy. We talked on the phone, remember?” Bonnie nods in acknowledgment, wondering when she’s going to wake up.

Leon Russell's “A Song For You”

is now playing.

Janis says to Amy, “Looks like she's havin' a come-to-Jesus moment, don't it?” She laughs.

Janis invites Bonnie to sit in the empty chair across from them.

“Thank you,” Bonnie says nervously. “I don't quite understand...What is this place?”

“Rock ‘n’ roll purgatory, sweetheart,” declares Amy.

Bonnie’s eyes widen as she asks, “You mean I'm...”

“Hell no, darlin'. You ain't dead. You barely even got started. You haven't sacrificed enough yet, though. Ain't that right, Amy?”

Amy hoists her goblet high in approval.

Janis' bracelets jingle as she also raises her hand in the air and a small glass tumbler spontaneously materializes. She hands it to Bonnie. “Bourbon, right?”

“What? Oh yeah...sometimes.” Bonnie accepts the offering and takes a sip. She shudders as the bourbon goes down.

Thoughtfully, Janis says, “I prefer to call this place a stopover to paradise. We poor souls only come when we're needed. For some reason, you're the only one who can figure out if you need us for something. But it's a good scene, baby, so don't trip.”

...I love you in a place where there's no space or time. I love you for life, you're a friend of mine...

Bonnie wonders if it's the bourbon, but she is now feeling comfortable. These wonderfully complicated ladies are looking warmly at her. Why do they even care? she wonders. “You know...” Bonnie relates, “I often feel my loved ones that have passed on. I feel them looking over my shoulder...so yeah, this is pretty profound.”

Amy smiles, “You're so beautiful, luv. May I ask your age?”

“I'm twenty-six,” answers Bonnie.

"We're twenty-seven...as always.” Amy proclaims, rolling her eyes.

Janis examines Bonnie. “Look at that long, foxy hair! You could be a pop star, child!” she cackles.

Bonnie laughs. “I'm not that beautiful. And I sure as hell don't want to be a pop star!”

Janis continues, “As far as all the stardom stuff, I promised myself when I left Texas to always to just do what I love and never bullshit myself.”

Amy chimes in, “Ducky, most people our age spend a lot of time thinking about what they will be doing for the next ten years. The time they spend thinking about their lives, I would spend drinking.” She laughs and holds her goblet high. “I'll have another Rickstasy, please.” She lowers the goblet to her lips and takes a sip. “Mmmmm...thank you.”

“Hey, what's in that stuff anyway?” asks Janis.

“Well...it's three parts vodka, one part Southern Comfort, one part banana liqueur, and one part Bailey's.”

“That's a lot of parts,” quips Bonnie. She is feeling really comfortable now.

“Way too fancy for me,” winces Janis. “I'll take just the Southern Comfort and I'll be a happy lady! In fact...” She reaches inside a carpetbagger shoulder bag and pulls out a bottle. “Eureka!” she shouts, delighted at the vision of her favorite amber libation.

The music changes again. The sound of a demented organ announces the start of

“Strawberry Fields Forever”.

“I got into my first band because they were my friends and the scene was happening. It was all my scene and my people,” Janis recalls with obvious nostalgia. “In small towns like the one I came from, you're supposed to get married right out of high school, have a brood of children, and keep you mouth shut.”

“I wouldn't say I was a feminist, but I didn't like girls pretending to be stupid just to get along,” adds Amy.

Janis grimaces. “Yeah, I would've never quit music to become someone's old lady.”

Bonnie smiles and leans in. “You know what? We have a choice. We ain't no amoebas.” The three women share a quiet moment of solidarity.

Janis is on a roll. “I never wore cardboard eyelashes and a girdle and played Vegas, but I was always just Janis.” Her eyes open wider. “I just did it on a slightly different level!”

They laugh again.

Amy looks Bonnie up and down and declares, “You must have found religion, duck. Your voice and melodies are simply angelic.”

She heard me sing? She heard me play? Bonnie wondered.

Bonnie takes another sip of bourbon, “Religion is for people who are scared to go to hell. Spirituality is for people who have already been there.” The other women nod in agreement.

Bonnie continues, “I feel that I was somehow brought here to be inspired."

“Who you are is what you settle for, you know,” Janis interjects.

“Every bad situation is a blues song waiting to be written, darling,” says Amy.

Bonnie sits back in her chair. She is silent for a moment, and then sighs. “It's the fear. The reason I can't write songs. The fear is paralyzing. I worry it won't be good enough. I mostly fear the naked honesty of the process.”

“I get it, sister. I always wanted to write my own stuff,” Janis confesses. “I was always a victim of my inner self. There was a time when I wanted to feel and explore everything. But what I found scared me. But Bonnie, that's where to good stuff is, where great writing comes from. Unfortunately, by the time I figured that out, I died.”

Willie Nelson’s “Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground” flows gently through the room. They embrace the song with reverence.

“I tried to write a song once, but when all was said and done, it turned out to be another version of ‘Stormy Monday Blues’.” Bonnie shakes her head and grins.

Janis faces Bonnie and says, “Never be frightened of being vulnerable, sweetie. There's no point in saying anything but the truth.”

Bonnie sits back and closes her eyes. The music changes again.

...just look to your soul

and open your mind

Crystal Blue Persuasion...

When Bonnie opens her eyes, she sees two very dusty chairs in front of her.

There's a knock at the door. “Miss Raitt? Are you okay? Miss Raitt? What are you doing in the storage room?” asks the maître'd.

Bonnie's head is spinning as she arrives back at her apartment. Am I inspired? Do I feel touched by a divine power? Have I gone stark raving mad? She doesn't know, but something is different. Feeling a powerful urge to write, she picks up her guitar.

Come on girl, you can do this!

Twenty minutes later, Bonnie has produced ten crumpled sheets of lyrics on the floor.

An hour later, she is pouring her second shot of Jack Daniels.

An hour after that, she is strumming a galloping rhythm on her guitar.

By midnight, she is asleep on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

...Climb in the back with your head in the clouds

And you're gone...

Lifting her head, Bonnie realizes that her living room is filled with pot smoke. Oh crap! Did I set the place on fire? When the smoke begins to clear, she can't believe what she is seeing: John and Yoko, in bed wearing their famous white pajamas.

Bonnie: Oh my God! Am I losing my mind?

John: Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.

Bonnie: John...uh..and Yoko? You guys are having a bed-in in my living room?

John: Anything for a good cause.

Bonnie: Rumor has it that you gave up making music, is that true?

John: Bonnie, that's just about as true as the existence of “Shaved Fish”.

Bonnie: In the sixties, you wrote the truth of a generation.

John: The thing the sixties did was to show us the possibilities, and the responsibility we all had to pursue them. It wasn't an answer, it just gave us a glimpse of creative opportunities.

Bonnie: When I was growing up, I saw my father become a successful performer largely by staying in the lane that was provided for him. When I try to carve out my own lane, I get lost.

John: Most kids draw, write poetry, and create art. Some of us continue into our teens before someone says, “That's not good enough.” We're told that all our lives. “You don't have the talent.” or “It's not supposed to be done that way.” It happens to all of us. If somebody had told me all my life, “Yeah, you're a great artist!” I would’ve been a more secure person.

Bonnie: It just seems that the process of writing, really good writing, the kind people can really feel, is such a personal and solitary experience.

Yoko: Music and lyrics are both art forms in and of themselves. But when music is combined with a powerful, honest message that needs to be expressed, there are few things more incredible than that!

John: Bonnie, listen to me very carefully. There are two basic motivating forces in life: fear and love. When we're afraid, we withdraw from life. When we're in love, we become open to all life has to offer. All hope for a better world rests in being fearless and open enough to embrace others as well as ourselves.

Bonnie: I have to figure out what I can write that people can feel.

John: Our role in society - any artist or poet's role - is to try to explain or describe feelings we have in common. We don't tell people what to feel.

Bonnie: But I don't know when I will ever be able to achieve that.

John: There is no time but the present. Anything else is a waste of time.

Well we all shine on

Like the moon and the stars and the sun

Well we all shine on

The phone rings. Bonnie opens one eye. The phone rings again. “Hello?”

"Hi, Ted. What ya got?” Bonnie quickly stands, knocking the ashtray to the floor.

“Oh shit! You ain't shittin' me, are you, dude?"

"Okay, sure."

"You mean they want me to do those cover tunes?"

"Two of them?"

"Oh, just one."

"Sure. Well, no, of course it's good news, Ted."

"Okay. Thanks, Ted. See ya.”

Bonnie is booked to be the opening act for the Doobie Brothers at the Troubadour, something she has really wanted. Her feelings are equally divided between elation and terror. She lights a joint, inhales its smoky courage, and releases it with a sigh of decisiveness. She puts out the joint and picks up her guitar. Come on girl. Cover tunes are fine but I think I have may somethin' to talk about. She takes a deep breath.

A tarnished frame traces us from long ago...

It's gig night at the Troubadour, West Hollywood's biggest little club, which is packed to capacity. The Troubadour is hallowed ground for the L.A. music scene. When the sound man gives Bonnie the two-minute warning, she gently squeezes her guitar. She now realizes that her music - all music - is communication. She has a new awareness that no one else can communicate what only she has to say.

At this moment, Bonnie remembers Janis: “Never be frightened of being vulnerable, sweetie. There's no point in saying anything but the truth.”

After Bonnie is introduced, she takes center stage. She has been through this many times over the years, starting with sharing the theater stage with her father as a child. But tonight, she feels naked. She has decided not to try to touch people through other people's words and music, but instead through her own. Bonnie waits until the club is silent. She tosses the guitar strap over her shoulder and steps up to the microphone.

“Hello, Troubadour! My name is Bonnie Raitt, and I hope you all enjoy this.”

She starts to play the intro with her eyes closed. When she gets to the verse, the melody is shimmery, clean, and crisp.

A tarnished frame traces us from long ago

It was taken the night we saw that Vegas show

Beside it is a picture of a much younger me

With shining eyes beside a Christmas tree

She takes a breath.

I'm a prisoner in my skin, unseen, unheard within

But I try to be the me I'm supposed to be

I play the part so well, you could never even tell

That the woman lying next to you isn't me.

A smattering of murmurs ripples through the audience.

An old married couple walked down the road

ahead of me

Their hands were joined together like a tangled tree

I would love to feel that kind of

authentic connection

Instead, my yearning comes from every direction

A tear falls.

But now, I've been freed from within. I'm seen.

I'm hear., I'm open.

I am no longer the me I'm told to be

I got lost and I fell. Now you can tell

The woman lying next to you is me

As the applause grows, Bonnie feels her heart lift.

One by one, and then in groups, the audience stands - clapping, whistling, and shouting. The Doobie Brothers are cheering from just offstage. From the back of the club, the spotlight envelopes her, as if it's God's official blessing. Bonnie takes her bows, waves, and leaves the stage.

As the Doobie Brothers start their set, Ted takes Bonnie aside. He looks irritated. “I thought we agreed you were going to do a cover tune.”

Bonnie was too happy to worry.

“I'm really pissed, Bonnie.” Ted breaks into a broad grin. “I'm upset that you've been keeping your talent hidden.” He holds up a stack of business cards. “Do you know what these are, Bonnie?”

Bonnie shrugs. “I dunno. People you owe money to?” she laughs.

“No. They're producers, record companies, and artists who really want to work with you.”

Bonnie is called up onto the stage to join the band on “Black Water”. The rest of the night is filled with compliments, hugs, and high fives. She is approached by old friends, old enemies, and strangers. Bonnie has received plenty of praise in her twenty-six years, but this is different. For the first time, she is being acknowledged not for the talent she brings to other people's words and music, but to her own. People are connecting to what her heart has to say.

As the club empties, Bonnie walks onto the stage to retrieve her guitar. Suddenly, the spotlight reappears. She shields her eyes and looks toward the seats in the very back of the club. There, she can barely make out the silhouettes of two women. The shape of a large beehive hairdo, surrounded by swirls of smoke, makes Bonnie smile.

“I knew you could do it, kid!” crows a familiar voice.

Bonnie picks up her guitar and walks off the stage...a songwriter.

#fiction #short story #supernatural #27 club #janis joplin #amy winehouse #bonnie raitt #music #ghosts #70s #songwriter #fame

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thegempage · 1 year

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i went into this evening intending to write more beyond the divide (linked bcus i do still like it, pls go read my fic) but instead my brain started thinking about an incredibly sad btd au that i'll finish one day. so have some previews of that

and like. it's an apocalypse story and it is sad. this is not a story with a happy ending, so fair warning that that's the vibe of these pieces (but i'm gonna stay away from the worst ones)

He has told four people the world is ending.

Part of him feels guilty for not telling more people, but with one-hundred and sixty-three days left before it all crashes down, it’d only cause more issues than it’d solve. Staring at the ceiling, Dave somehow still regrets telling the four other people he did.

(But he couldn’t not tell his mom, she’d been worried sick about Rose, and after two weeks of seeing her cry and fret he couldn’t hold back anymore that she was probably never coming home, because she’d done something and now the whole world was on a timer.)

(And he couldn’t keep it from Roxy or Dirk because they’d come down to see him after their mom had called them and asked if they’d heard from Rose and how could he explain why their mother hadn’t come out of her room in three days except with the truth?)

(And Jade he regretted the most, but she’s his friend -- was Rose’s friend -- and she didn’t deserve any more lies than Rose had already given them.)

(He doesn’t have the heart to tell June. He hasn’t asked if Jade has or will. He tells her every time she asks that Rose is off on her own and she must’ve broken her phone or something and the lie won’t hold forever but maybe it’ll hold for another one-hundred and sixty-three days. Or maybe one-hundred and sixty-two, so he can make sure to tell her goodbye.)

(He has accepted the dual truths that he is in love with Karkat and will likely never be able to indulge in what that would’ve meant, but that doesn’t make him ache any less, doesn’t rid him of the constant need to be close.)

Karkat looks startled for a moment but he settles against Dave’s shoulder with a grateful sigh. “It’s not actually that exciting,” he confesses, and Dave can’t tell if it’s his imagination or if Karkat is staring at his hand. “Mostly it’s just… a day you take off together. You’re supposed to spoil your partner on their birthday, you know? Get them food they like or help them cook or watch something they like or… whatever normal intimate shit you don’t always have time for. My dads like to spend the whole day sightseeing since it’s hard to find the time otherwise.”

There is a possibility that the question he wants to ask will backfire. Dave is too used to having Karkat around, now, the idea of losing him, of spending the rest of the world alone again, tears his stomach to pieces, but it doesn’t even bother coming out as a question with how hot it burns on his tongue. “I could, I dunno, do that for you.”

sup june

by this point we've either sent out our last texts to you or you haven't heard from us in a few days, but im not sure which. this is a gift, an explanation, and a goodbye, because rose wouldve gotten a kick out of the amount of efficiency i crammed into this thing.

our world is ending.

like full-on, universe-destroying, doomed-timeline ending. rose made a mistake but none of us got to her in time to help fix it nor can we leave this world without just dying anyway so its curtain calls for us. i wish youd gotten to see it honestly, its pretty dope, and we wanted to invite you for your birthday but. nothing to do about it now huh. so im sending this

sup june

our world is ending.

Dave does not cry thinking about his family. He can’t, he has nothing left to give that he won’t need for tomorrow, for giving Karkat the best he can manage at the end of the world. He is haunted by the realization, the slow, creeping realization, that he is the last one left.

It doesn't feel as shocking as it should. It's not hard to be the most careful in a family of risk takers.

and that's it jfkldsafds this au does in fact make me want to cry so <3 hopefully one day i'll finish it and inflict it on everyone

#little rock.txt #homestuck #ciaran does the art #it's a davekat au about the world of btd ending btw #i might work on this more idk jfklafdsf

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daddy-ul · 3 years

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I'm putting this forward: if they do this, I will cry a river and then some.

#HOW DO I NOT THINK ABOUT IT #for real. FOR REAL.#listen. forgiveness is a theme v dear to my heart #tumblr user daddy-ul admits it #shame. forgiveness.... that's the stuff #and the idea that maybe MAYBE by the time i'll be sixty... i'll be able to forgive myself?#it's worth striving for. it's worth it. i want it #parasocializing moment or whatever: i do hope that james will always be able to forgive himself #song related #UN3 #the unforgiven iii #the unforgiven trilogy #jinn contemplates life. metallica and life.#jinn out #oversharing is my mo

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elles-writing · 3 years

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Dragon Sickness

Thorin x reader

Based off on 'Imagine Thorin becoming a dragon after getting gold sickness'

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one, though I'd be able to make it a whole series with how many ideas I got, but here it is as a one shot. You guessed the character, @iwenttomordor !!

I'll probably translate this fic to Czech, if I will be in a mood for it.

Taglist: @guardianofrivendell @anjhope1

Breathe in, breathe out.

All Thorin could see, was darkness. He had no idea where he was, or what happened. The only thing he knew, was that if he was still able to do something, anything, it would mean he was still fully by his senses.

He felt deep growl coming out of the back of his throat. He opened his eyes, but then blinked. There was brightness everywhere, and he had to groan again. Did Fili and Kili forgot to blow the candles, played another stupid prank on him, and he passed out? Or did he fell asleep, while telling them a bedtime story?

Thorin opened his eyes again, when he seen endless piles of gold, and that it was not cadle light, but the shine of gold inside Erebor, and that Fili and Kili were not dwarflings anymore, but adults. They went on the quest with him and joined the Company, and...

Thorin blinked. Why was he alone?

"Fili, Kili!"

He expected to hear echo of his voice, but instead, he heard only deep growl and royar. He quickly looked around, up and down.

Was Smaug still there?

Thorin carefully looked around, but he couldn't see anything, that would remind of the dragon, who entered the Mountain over sixty years ago.

He decided to carefully look around, to see if his nephews and the rest of the Company was alright, without waking up the dragon, if he was still there.

Thorin made a step, when he noticed a reflection, in a huge mirror, in thick gold frame.

It was a dragon, with dark brown, almost deep black body and wings, long and pointy tail, and icy blue eyes. The light created shadows and pools of light, dancing across the texture of the dragon's body, making it seem rough and yet somehow highly gentle, even delicate, as the fire of candles flickered with the beast's every move.

Thorin looked away, and deep royar shook the walls of Erebor.

I need to find my nephews, he thought. Panic started settling in him, as he realized Kili was mortally wounded, and Fili stayed with him.

I belong with my brother.

He also remembered you. You did got wounded, too - you broke your arm, during the escape from Mirkwood. As a human, your body was much more fragile.

Thorin felt like he was losing his mind. He didn't cared for the gold, or the Mountain, anymore.

And with another wall-shaking royar, the dark coloured, blue-eyed dragon flew up, and left the inner part of Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo looked over at Balin.

"Where-where did that dragon came from? I'm sure there was only-only Smaug before," he said in high-pitched voice, he would be embarrassed about on any other occasion. Balin sighed and looked to the direction, of where did the dragon disappeared.

"I do not know, Bilbo. Now we need to find Thorin, and make a plan what to do. We didn't counted there would be two dragons, instead of one."

As Bilbo was trying to process what happened (the hobbit seen a lot of things on the journey, but this was really something he did not count on), Thorin looked over the Laketown. He noticed the people escaping the burning ruines of their houses. Smell of burned wood, skin, hair, mixed with smell of water and something he recognized as human, dwarf, and elves, got into his nose. He felt the soft breeze, and for a second, he thought dragons perhaps aren't that bad. It was calm up there.

Thorin looked over the town, and noticed a small boat. When he realized there was the rest of the members of the Company (and Bard's children), he let out a relieved breath. He felt like a rock fell off of his heart.

As he wanted to yell out "You are alive!", so they would hear him, a powerful royar escaped him.

You looked up, as Fili nudged you.

"What is it, Fi?"

"There is another...dragon," Fili said. You frowned.

"No way, Fili, that's-" you looked up as Kili pointed towards the sky. At the same moment, a powerful royar shook your whole body. You shivered.

"W-what the-" You whispered, and clutched your injured arm.

"It's flying down!" Bofur yelled out.

"We need to get away-" Someone yelled, but it was far too late.

The dragon flew down, and it seemed like it was observing you. It let out occasional growls, along with watching you by it's huge blue eyes.

He looks like Thorin, you thought. There was the panic, that others gave you, but deep down, you were not afraid.

The creature tilted it's huge head, and it was as if it's eyes saddened. You got up and walked to the front of the boat, so you'd be closer to it. Bofur turned to you.

"I don't think that's a wise idea, lass-" The dragon let out a huff, and you softly pushed Bofur behind you.

"What are you doing here? Where did you came from?" You carefully said. The dragon growled out something, but then turned to Lonely Mountain. You guessed it probably was the direction, where did it came from.

"Are you going to...hurt us?" You whispered. The dragon shook it's head, firmly.

"Alright, um...why are you here?" The dragon's eyes gave you a little stern, but mostly relieved and flustrated look, and then they shifted to Fili and Kili.

"Thorin would be worried about them too," you though aloud, before you could stop it. The dragon huffed, and let out a groan, but his eyes seemed to light up.

"Thorin?" The dragon nodded his head. You looked back, to see if it was truth. There was no way this would be happening.

Kili was pale, as well as Fili. Tilda and Sigrid were eyeing the dragon - Thorin, and the rest of the Company seemed like they were about to faint.

Well, not really. They seemed to be just paler than usual. A lot paler.

"Thorin, you are-you are a dragon...but how?" You stared at him. He looked around, until he pointed towards simple golden necklace he gave you as a courting gift.

"Gold...D-do you mean the...the sickness?" You looked up.

Thorin simply nodded.

When you got safely to Erebor, you noticed the rest of the Company rushing towards you.

"Thank Mahal, you are alive!" Someone said.

"Did you see the dragon?" You nodded.

"Well, yeah. He's not dangerous." You replied in firm voice.

"Lassie, every dragon is dangerous," Balin said, as Oin looked over your injury again.

"This one is not, because...well, the 'dragon sickness'," you quoted,

"The dragon sickness is not really about obsession over gold. It transforms that person into a dragon, who is obsessed with gold," you said, as you looked over your shoulder. You wasn't sure where exactly Thorin was, at the moment.

"I understand, but why would you say that, lassie? We still haven't found Thorin yet," Dwalin looked at you. Before you could answer, small epcheeew made an echo in the hall, and a piece of the wall was covered with frost. You giggled.

"How did you do that?" Thorin dig his eyes into you, as if saying 'Don't ask, please,', and jumped up on your shoulder.

"Well, he found us." You muttered. Everyone stared at the dragon-Thorin in silence for a while.

As the evening approached and most of the Company went to sleep, Thorin, in his regular size, you guessed, was carefully walking on the piles of gold, and you just sat there. You sat there, because you could not sleep, and so that Thorin would not be lonely.

You watched Thorin, as he was walking around the room, in the endless river of gold.

"You know, maybe it's better you still have clear mind, Thorin," you said. Thorin turned to you and set his gaze on you, as if asked you to continue. And so, you did.

"I won't lie, I do not know how to break this...spell, or whatever it is," you said, and Thorin looked away, huffing.

"But at least you are alive, and have clear mind," He looked back at you, and his eyes seemed to soften a little. You got up.

"Well, look, if you'd like to...I got an idea," you offered. Thorin curiously looked at you.

"We could go out, neither of us can sleep anyways," Y/N said, and Thorin looked around.

"Well, you can change into the...more petite form," you said. Thorin huffed out.

I'm not a bird or a cat.

Y/N blinked. Did she just heard Thorin's voice in her head?

It was probably nothing.

"Let's get outside."

As they seated outside, on the top of the Mountain, her eyes were set on the starry sky.

Thorin's eyes slid over the starry sky, then down at Y/N. The breeze brushed her hair in a gentle, delicate motion.

He was glad he has Y/N as his One.

He suddenly felt the urge to fly, which he tried to deny, but then he flew up, and took Y/N with him.

You couldn't even scream at first, but then you felt as if you were falling down - when all of sudden, you fell on something firm, but warm.

You opened your eyes, slowly at first, but then you realized what happened.

Slowly, you looked over the edge of Thorin's dragon body, and your eyes widened.

You flew high, and though you couldn't see a lot, due to the darkness, you recognized some lights. But the real beauty started, when you looked up.

The stars seemed to be close, as if you would just reach up your arm, you would be able to touch them.

The clouds felt soft, but cold and wet. You closed your eyes, and let that feeling to go through your whole body, as Thorin flew through one of the clouds.

When you opened your eyes, you realized the clouds moved away, and so the moon was illuminating the landscape underneath you. You looked down, and watched the scenery in awe.

You had no idea how much time has passed, but honestly, you didn't cared. You felt safe with Thorin, even if he was locked up in the body of dragon.

When the sun started raising, Thorin flew down to the top of the Mountain again. You could barely keep your eyes open.

That was amazing, you thought. You felt like you heard Thorin's soft chuckle in your head.

Indeed, Amrâlime.

Y/N didn't had much time to think about it, before she fell asleep with the sounds of birds' song, lullying her and sending her to the land of dreams.

When she woken up, she realized one thing: warmth. Y/N looked around, and realized that the warmth was coming from Thorin's body, who was protectively lying around her, inside of some room. He seemed to be soundly asleep.

As she moved, a huff escaped Thorin, and Y/N quickly looked back, to see what happened.

You woke me, she heard in her head.

Sorry, I just need to go to-

Before you could finish your thought, he let you go. You felt the shivers running down your body. Well, it's a mountain. It's not like it would be exactly warm here.

When you came back, you sat down, across Thorin, and he set his eyes on you. You started thinking about what was happening.

You can hear me, you thought, and he nodded.

So I, he replied.

But neither of us could do that before, right? You furrowed your brows, and Thorin shook his head.

Is this is permanent? You thought quicker than you could stop it. Thorin's gaze coldened and hardened, and you could feel the confusion, disgust, hurt and sadness.

I'm sorry Thorin, I-

Keep your words.

No, Thorin, listen to me, I'm sorry, it's just- You quickly jumped up, but he was on his way out.

Who from dwarves would want their king to be a dragon? He snapped. At this point, you runned behind him, trying to stop him from flying away.

"THORIN NO, COME BACK-" you yelled out, but it was far too late. Thorin was quickly disappearing on the horizone, and you cried out.

The dragons in Middle-Earth never had a good reputation. You knew someone would try to hurt him, or kill him, eventually.

You sank down on your knees, and started sobbing.

You felt his pain as your own, and he felt yours.

Who from the dwarves would want their king to be a dragon? Thorin thought, as he flew up on the sky. He knew he was right. He felt shame. He was a Durin. But now, he was a dragon, one of the creatures he hated.

You are not the dragon, Thorin. You are good. You are still Thorin we all know.

He let out a royar. He was in this body of a dragon, and he hated every second of it, and he hated himself.

You looked over the tent, and sipped on your tea. It felt wrong and weird, but you didn't exactly complained either.

Thranduil and Bard discussed something, and you wished Thorin would be there with you.

They aren't that bad, Thorin. Nothing.

You told me that Erebor is going to be pulsing with life, again. I know you hate the body you are locked in right now, but we will find a way to turn you into dwarf form again, Thorin. Please, return here.

No answer. Just silence.

You sighed. You felt Thorin was alive - you just knew, so you were not so worried, but still. Bilbo placed his hand on your shoulder.

"He will come back, I'm sure of it. You know Thorin," he muttered, and you nodded. Thorin was really stubborn, even for a dwarf, and once he thought of something, there was almost no chance in convincing him otherwise.

The rest of Company woke up as they heard your screaming. They found you, and took inside of the Mountain, to give you blankets and tea. Then Bilbo came, that Gandalf was there, to warn you about another dragon. You talked for a while, and eventually, you told him what happened to Thorin, and you needed a medication, but he flew away, and since then, he didn't came back.

Bard and Thranduil weren't really fond of Thorin, but because it was you, who was Thorin's One (and Thorin was the rightful king of Erebor, though Thranduil, especially, didn't liked that idea much), they decided to help to you find a way to heal Thorin's sickness.

"I think Smaug got mad, and the sickness consumed him entirely. Thorin actually had clear mind, it's just...his body changed," you muttered. Even Radagast was there.

"Well, maybe...maybe it's not really a sickness," someone piped up. You looked around.

Who said that? You thought.

"Maybe-maybe it's just a spell!" Radagast said and looked excitely around.

"You have a bond between you two," Radagast told you, and you nodded.

"Are you suggesting, that the spell could be broken by...something?" Bilbo looked around for someone to help him finish up his question.

"Well, Thorin is not answering me, but he is alive, somewhere. I think he maybe...he thinks the dwarves wouldn't accept their king, even if he is in the body of a dragon," you said.

"Orcs! Orcs are everywhere!" Elvish soldier runned inside the tent.

"How many?" Thranduil's gaze hardened.

"A lot of them, I've never seen more in my whole life," The soldier answered.

"Azog," you whispered. You realized what that could mean - Azog came here for Thorin.

"We all need to fight together, there is no point nor time for arguing," Gandalf said, and you got up.

"No, you will stay here, lassie. If he finds out Thorin is not there, you will be right next," Bard said. You frowned.

"I won't run from a fight." You gazed at him, but he was out already, along with most of others, to prepare for the battle.

I won't risk anyone I love to be killed, you thought, and went to find some armour.

Thorin felt all those emotions going on - worry, fear, anger, loyalty, and more worry. Something in him was pushing him, to come back, to go back to you. He felt the danger, and that convinced him, without any other thoughts, he needs to protect you, and his kin.

Durin's folk does not flee from fight.

When he heard the sounds of a battle, he tried to find you. He couldn't hear your thoughts anymore - nor fell the feelings you felt. Only soft waves of emotions.

Is this the end of you, or him, when he could not hear your thoughts anymore?

He hoped not.

It didn't took long, when something inside him made him to look into one place. He noticed Azog, and someone he realized was you, though he had no idea how did he knew that.

He flew lower, and lower, until the only thing he heard was the blood in his ears, the royar he let out, and the royar of his biggest enemy.

Thorin fell to the ground on all fours. It felt as if the battle stopped. As if the time stopped, whe whole world paused. He looked up at you, kneeling down and covering your head.

You looked up, as you heard the royar. Thorin! You thought. You felt relief he was okay, and alive.

"Don't shoot!" You heard Thranduil to yell out to his soldiers when they spot Thorin, and you felt thankful to the Elven King.

Azog thought you were Thorin, until the helmet fell down, and disgusting smirk made it's way over his face. You losed strength, you were tired, and wounded - he managed to make you some cuts, over your shoulders and cheek, and you guessed one your arm was not fully okay. He prepared to kill you, but the royar was coming closer, along with the huge shadow. You covered your head and ears and fell on your knees, to protect your body.

The royar Azog let out shook you, but when you heard the silence after, you felt relieved.

The huff close to you made you feel lot safer. You looked up, and you knew your face light up.

"Thorin," you whispered and cried out. You stood up and hugged him.

"Don't go away like this, ever," you whispered, as tears rolled down your cheeks. Then, you felt some movement, but the warmth was still the same, and you thought Thorin was just moving around.

"I won't ever leave your side again, I promise, my One," His smooth voice made way to your ear, and then, you felt his lips pressed against yours. You ran your hands across his back, and felt the tunic he had on, just as he changed into the dragon form.

He rested one of his palms on your cheek, and when you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, while gazing deeply into your eyes by his deep blue orbs.

"Thank you for coming back," you whispered.

"I would never let anyone hurt you," he muttered, and pulled you back for another kiss, as the soft snowflakes danced in your hair, with the breeze.

#thorin #thorin x reader #kili x reader #bilbo x reader #fili x reader #thranduil x reader #bard x reader #bard #thranduil #fili #kili #bilbo #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #x reader #the company x reader #thorin x you #thorin x y/n

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lilmissuncreative · 2 years

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @alwaysupatnight

I have nothing to show WIP wise. So, I’m cheating and sharing the other SethKate Pushing Daisies AU that I abandoned undercut.

No idea who to tag with this, so play along if you’re keen.

So this was what I wrote out first. I had just started editing and then my brain decided “oh, wait. I can make this sadder” and that’s what ended up on AO3. Warnings for major character death. There is no proof reading and poor editing. Also, liberties where taken with the Pushing Daisies lore because I could.

11:55pm.

It's been days since Kate went missing.

Hours since they dug up her body from the shallow grave in the nearby cemetery.

Minutes since Richie laid her on the lumpy mattress and went to scope out the number of, hopefully, very seedy criminals calling the motel home for the night.

Seth's just sitting on the chair next to her. He hasn't been able to move far from where she is.

All he can think is that none of this feels real.

Seeing Kate, lying on a too white bedsheet in a crappy motel… Seth can almost pretend that she's only asleep.

But her chest never rises or sinks.

Her heart doesn’t beat.

She'll never open her eyes on her own again.

Seth hears himself sigh out loud. He feels the sort of tired that sits in your bones. It's been a long, fucking… life for him. He can't remember the last time he had a full-night sleep and woke up feeling rested.

His eyes dart to the clock-radio on the bedside table.

11.57pm.

The door opens and a loose receipt, the cleaning crew missed, flutters off the nightstand and across to the bed.

He's a second away from reaching for it before he stops himself.

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, and it stays dead forever.

There's no room for missteps or fuck-ups. He has one chance to get this right. Only one touch.

One touch that has to last a lifetime.

"Sixty seconds won't be enough," Richie says from the doorway.

"It won't be sixty seconds," Seth says as he sits up straighter on the rickety chair next to the bed.

"You do a couple of homeroom experiments on your own and suddenly you know how your gift works?"

"It's a curse, Richard. It's not a gift."

Richie always has some comeback when he says that, but his silence now feels louder than any sarcastic comment he could've made.

"I'll make it work," Seth adds, when he hears Richie close to the room door and make his way towards the bed with Kate.

"Eighty seconds won't be enough either," Richie answers with a scoff. "And Kate's a lot bigger than the cat you tried this on."

He's not wrong. Seth knows this. All they have is their little, working theory that as long as he's holding onto Kate, it counts as one touch. The one minute grace period only starts when he let's her go.

They got it to work with a few tiny critters - maybe 90 seconds without paying a price.

They've never tried it on a human.

There's never been a human they had to bring back.

One touch. And then he never touches her again.

But at least she'll be alive.

12:04 am.

"There's another way, Seth."

"Richie…"

"She doesn't have to know about the other person who has to die."

"Richie, we've been over this," he says with a glance at Kate, as he stands and walks over to Richie. "Buddy, you know we have to let her decide. It has to be her choice."

"And what if that choice is wrong, huh, Seth? She's there. She's right there. And you have the power to bring her back to us. Are you really going to kill her again if she says so?"

He puts his hands on Richie's shoulders to stop him from pacing around the room. "We'll get her back, Richie."

"Seth, you know she'll never allow someone else to die in her place."

"I'll convince her, okay. We have time as long as I'm holding onto her."

"Sure, Seth. Whatever you wanna tell yourself."

He grabs onto Richie by the scruff of his neck and looks him in the eye. "She'll listen, Richie."

"How do you know, Seth?" Richie asks, brushing him off. "Have you met Kate Fuller? How do you know she would ever be okay with someone else sacrificing their life for hers?"

"BECAUSE SHE HAS TO, OKAY.

"Because I can't do this without her," Seth finishes lamely, with a glance back at Kate.

Of course he knows she won't agree immediately. She needs time. But he's Seth fucking Gecko. He has a strong grip and nowhere else to be.

He's gonna get his girl back if it kills him.

"Okay, Brother," Richie replies from where his bony ass is suddenly lounging on the bed next to Kate. "You want me to hold her down while you convince her?"

He thinks this is the first time he's seen Richie smile in days, and it makes him breathe a bit easier.

"You just get ready to jump as soon as Sleeping Beauty here gives her okay," Seth warns as he makes his way back to Kate's side.

"You should maybe clean up a bit first, Seth. That hair alone could shock a woman to death."

"Shut up, Richard."

12:17am.

Seth slumps back into the chair and closes his eyes for a second. Digging up a grave really takes a lot out of a man.

"So, shall we Prince Charming?" Richie asks, disturbing his moment of silence. "You're not getting any younger."

"I suggest you stretch, so you don't pull her a muscle sprinting to your car, Speedy."

He's trying to keep the mood light, but he knows they can't delay this much longer.

He sees Richie shifting from the corner of his eye. He's leaning over Kate, and before Seth can ask what the fuck he's doing, Richie takes Kate's right arm and extends it towards him.

"Seth," he starts.

"Yeah, I know."

12:20am.

Seth grabs Kate's arm from Richie. Then grips her tight when his brain catches up to what's happening.

The only movement in the room is Richie shifting back to the other side of the bed.

With all their trash talk, they both know they weren't ready for this moment.

Seth's not even sure he's breathing.

Kate's eyes open slowly. They watch her blinking, testing them out like she's forgotten how to see.

She looks over at Richie first and smiles.

And fuck, it feels like this is the first time he can breathe since Kate went missing.

He sees when she realises there's a hand on her arm and finally looks at him, giving him that soft smile and wiggling into the mattress like she does when she used to wake up next to him.

"Hey, you," she says, softly.

That's when he fucking knows.

Richie's right.

No amount of time in the world will convince Kate Fuller, the brightest damn soul to ever grace this Earth, to sacrifice someone else's life for her own.

But he also knows that he can't let her go, now that they have her back.

He gives his brother a look, and Richie knows instantly what he's thinking. Richie nods, lifts Kate's left hand up to lay a kiss on her knuckles and says, "Welcome back, Katie Cakes."

"I thought I told you never to call me that again," she answers in protest, but Richie's already off the bed and halfway out of the door.

"You can remind me of that tomorrow. But it's my queue to leave."

"Where are you going?"

12:20am.

Shit. He should've set the stopwatch.

"Kate…" he starts, but trails off quickly. He's not gonna tell her about the other dead body coming out of their extracurricular activities, but he still has to tell her what happened.

And why this is the last time he'll get to hold her like this.

"Seth, what's going on?" she asks, quietly.

"Sweetheart, you have to listen to me."

"Where are we?" she asks, sitting up in bed and looking around the motel room.

"Kate, honey. Listen to me."

"What is going on with you? You can let go of my arm, now."

The easy smile on her face is dropping. She knows something is wrong, and if he doesn't explain what's happening soon, she's going to panic.

He has to keep control of the situation.

"I… I'm going to," he starts, softly and steady. "But I need you to understand what's about to happen, okay? Tell me, Kate. What's the last thing you can remember?"

"Besides you acting weird?"

"Sweetheart, I need you to think."

"Seth," she says in that voice that means she's done with his shit. "I need you to give me my arm back."

"Think Kate," he insists. He knows she must remember something. She just needs to focus.

"I… I don't know… " she says, with furrowed brows and a slight tug of her arm.

"Kate."

"I don't know, okay! It was late. I was doing something... It was cold. It felt like someone was following me."

Seth grips her arm tighter and wants to fucking murder the people who did this to her all over again.

Kate places her free hand on his and squeezes. "It's okay, right? I'm here with you now. Everything is okay."

"What else do you remember?" he asks before she gets off track trying to care for him.

Before she can argue with him again, he says, "Please, Kate." He looks into her bright, beautiful eyes, and hopes that she can tell that he's not joking. Not about this.

Kate closes her eyes and he watches her face change as she concentrates.

He watches her free hand reach to touch the back of her head.

Where they hit her.

"I think someone," she says but hesitates. "I think someone attacked me. Hit me and put something over my face."

She shakes her head like she can't believe the words coming out of her mouth. "Seth. I couldn't breathe. I tried to fight them off, but I…"

He's careful not to lose his grip on her arm as he pulls her towards him. But fuck. He needs to hold her now. Know she's here. Know she's safe.

"Baby. It's okay," he says with his lips on her forehead. Everything is gonna be okay."

She buries her head into the crook of his neck, and tries her best to pull her right arm free from him, but fails.

"Seth. What is going on?" pulling back to look at him. "And why can't you let go of my arm?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Tell me.

"Please," she adds with a whisper, as she threads her fingers through the hair at his temples.

"Tell me," she says again with a small smile of encouragement.

"Seth… please," she whispers.

Her free hand cups his cheek and he leans into the feel of her without thought.

It's exactly like she used to wake him when he had that real bad flu, and he can almost… almost let himself forget…

Kate Fuller.

His angel in human form.

Asking him the one thing he can't fucking bare to say out loud.

He has to clear his throat a few times before he manages to say, "Someone took you, Kate. They took you and they hurt you, and I fucking made them pay."

"Okay," says slowly. "But you found me right? I don't remember any of it, but you saved me."

He hangs his head as he says, "Not exactly."

Fuck, he's practiced this speech a million and one times, but saying the words feels harder than getting clean from smack.

"What does that mean?"

He grips her tighter, lifts his head to look her straight in the eye and says, "You didn't make it out alive, Kate. You died."

She just stares at him for what feels like forever, and then breaks into a laugh. "Seth, I'm not…"

"They found your body," he continues before she can finish. "Scott had to… We tried to get to you before the funeral, but we couldn't get your brother away from you."

"Haha, Seth. Very funny. How can I be dead, when I'm here listening to you?" She tries to lean back and pull out of his grip.

Maybe he should let her, Richie should be far enough away by now. He can call him to come back when the 60 seconds are over and they can explain how she's a special version of undead together.

But he's not ready to let go of her yet. Forever.

"Kate. Think."

"This isn't funny, Seth," she says, the smile long gone from her face. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore. You can let me go now."

He pulls her towards him, almost into his lap. "Kate. Think. Remember."

There's a moment, when the expression in her face changes and he can tell that she's starting to believe him.

"I…" she asks slowly. "But I can't be…"

He wants to say something to her, to make her understand, but the words just won't come out.

She's staring at him with her bright eyes. Asking him silent questions he doesn't want to answer.

"But. I'm alive now, right?" she asks, slowly.

All he can do is grip her tighter and nod.

"Then did Richie…"

"No," he answers quickly, knowing exactly where her head went. "You have to be alive for the venom to work."

"Then how, Seth? I don't understand what is happening."

"I… err…" he stutters. "Well… turns out, Sweetheart that I can bring things back from the dead."

Kate scoffs at him. "Yeah, right. Next thing you'll tell me is that you found God and you're letting Jesus take the wheel."

"I'm no Jesus…"

"Next thing you'll tell me," she continues, "is that you've joined the priesthood."

"You don't believe me?" he asks, a little surprised that she thinks he's joking.

She gives him her classic 'I'm done with Seth Gecko' look, and it makes him laugh.

Fuck, it feels good to laugh with her again. He almost wants to tease her. He wants one minute where he can forget that she died. One glorious minute, where Kate is just her beautiful, obstinate self and he can pretend everything was back to normal.

But he knows this won't be easy for her. And he still feels too raw to joke about it.

"Katie," he whispers. "I wouldn't lie about this." He pulls her closer and drops his forehead to hers.

Fuck. He doesn't want to be having this conversation with her. He doesn't want any of this to be happening. He just wants him and his girl, on the beach, with no other motherfucking person in sight. But he's made it this far in explaining, it's not much more left to it.

When he pulls back and looks at her, Kate's focus is on something else. He can see her eyes flit from the white dress they buried her in, to the pair of shovels in the corner, to the set of dirty work gloves and boots they wore earlier.

The expression on her face tells him that it's finally all hitting her.

He feels like his heart is breaking all over again.

"So, I died?" she eventually says.

"Yeah."

"But I'm not dead anymore."

"No."

"And I'm not a culebra?"

"No, Sweetheart."

"But am I… alive alive?"

"I. I…" he stutters. He slowly trails his finger along her jaw, revelling in the feel of her skin while he still can. "This didn't exactly come with a how-to manual."

"I'm not gonna turn evil or try to eat people?" she asks as she grabs his hand to hold in hers. "Can I even eat? What does that make you? A necromancer? Are there others like you? What happens when…"

"Kate. Honey," he says, lifting his free hand to kiss her knuckles. "We have plenty of time to figure all of that out."

"But I have so many questions. It's…"

"I know, Kate."

"I died," she states, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"I know."

"Have there been others?"

"People? No. Not since we figured out how it works." He has to look away when he says, "It comes with strings attached."

"Like what?"

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, and it dies forever.

"Kate, I can't ever touch you again."

"You what?" she asks, holding tighter onto him. "Never? What happens if I touch you?"

"You're back into being food for the worms, Sweetheart."

"Delightful." She scrunches up her nose and he has to run the tip of his finger along the ridge of it. For the last time. "So, as long as you're holding my arm…"

"Counts as one touch," he finishes for her.

"But there'll be no second?"

"Not as long as you want to stay alive."

She nods her head.

Runs the tip of her fingers along his hairline.

12.23am.

"Anything else I should know about my new state of not dead but not alive?"

Keep a dead thing alive for more than a minute and something else dies in its place.

She'll hate them for not telling her. She'll argue. She'll probably try to leave. She'll hate them for God knows how long. Seth can live with that. But at least she'll be alive.

"So, what do we do now?"

"I dunno," he says, honestly. He never thought it through to this point. All human had on his mind was bringing her back.

He traces the tip of his finger along the length of her nose, along her soft lips, and finally rests his palm on her cheek.

"We have to tell Scott," she says suddenly.

A sudden flash of Scott's very sharp swords springs into Seth's mind, and he flinches.

She leans harder against him as she says, "He'll be upset at first, but he'll come around."

"Yeah."

"So, this is the last time we get to touch?" she asks.

"Afraid so, Princess. You better get your worth then."

The second before her lips touches his, Seth thinks, Richie was right. He couldn't risk telling her the truth and having her choose to die anyway.

#sethkate

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sweeterthankarma · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Druck | SKAM (Germany) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fatou Jallow/Kieu My Vu Characters: Fatou Jallow, Kieu My Vu Additional Tags: S6E10: Bis in die Unendlichkeit?, Post Mittwoch 18:31, more healthy communication between kieutou, aka what we deserved in canon Summary:

“I wanted you from the day I met you. Really,” Fatou tells her, and she wonders how many times she’s going to have to say it for Kieu My to get it, how many old texts between her the Cash Queens are going to have to be dug up, displayed as half-ashamed, half-victorious evidence of her infatuation. “You were the only one on my mind, all the time. From the very beginning.” “You were too, you know,” Kieu My says.

Title comes from the song "Worst Behavior" by Ariana Grande.

I adore these two so much! If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know, comments and kudos make my day!

“I hated fighting with you,” Fatou says. It’s barely audible, just a murmur in a room robbed of sensory indicators— nearly pitch black, with a white noise fan to the left of the bed, a radiator pumping heat in the diagonal, perched between a bookshelf and a closet. Fatou wonders if it’s intentional, meant to drown out the sounds; if Kieu My’s parents are home, if they know anything about her. That’s a question for another time.

“I forgot what we were even fighting about after a while.”

Kieu My doesn’t react, not right away, but Fatou knows she hears her both times she speaks. Tonight, she’s heard her more than ever, perhaps more than anyone ever has, and Fatou is hoping, praying, willing with all of her might that that statement alone will remain true for a long time to come.

Kieu My’s heartbeat is steady against Fatou’s ear, slow; her chest smooth, heated, bare. When Fatou nods, mostly to herself, Kieu My feels it, her chin bobbing with the movement of Fatou’s head beneath it.

“But I think at the time, we needed to be on our own, to process things. A lot was happening, you know?”

Kieu My chews her lower lip, looks up at the ceiling. Fatou doesn’t have to look at her to know this. She sees it even when she closes her eyes, lets the darkness of the room blend into the blank shield her eyelids provide, so similar that when she opens them, there’s no way to even tell the difference. Kieu My is all new, rapturous, something to be discovered, but just the same, Fatou knows her well. She wonders, distantly, if Kieu My knows her tics and habits too, if she can predict minute reactions seconds before they happen, almost like second nature. A part of her doesn’t want to know the answer; another part of her wants Kieu My to know every single piece of her, every ounce of spirit and soul, chopped up and served for her observation alone, her entertainment.

“But not anymore,” Fatou finishes, and it’s palpable: Kieu My’s exhale. Her relief.

It takes some maneuvering, some twisting of blankets and bedsheets and a shove of a pillow that somehow got caught under her armpit, but then Fatou is on her stomach, a leg slung across Kieu My’s splayed thighs. She keeps her eyes on her, watching, and Kieu My is reluctant, wavering, when she responds, “I was afraid you didn’t want me anymore.”

Fatou frowns. Doesn’t know how to react, what to do, except spit out the only truth she knows: “I always wanted you.”

Fatou isn’t sure what time it is. Two AM, maybe, maybe earlier or maybe far later. Time is bending in Kieu My’s room, becoming a clandestine oasis, defying physics, shifting just for them. She’s thankful for it, knows it’s working in her favor either way, especially when Kieu My hums beside her. Fatou knows what that means, can interpret it like broken English that’s slowly finding its way into a pile of knowledge in her brain marked “I get this”: Kieu My is thankful, honored, a little bit indignantly disbelieving.

“It’s true,” Fatou says. She tightens the hook of her knee, her ankle around Kieu My’s legs. Irritation brews in the pit of her stomach, primarily directed at herself because Kieu My doesn’t get it, Kieu My doesn’t know—

“I wanted you from the day I met you.”

This time, from this position, Fatou can see it happen as Kieu My worries her lower lip, twists minutely under Fatou’s weight. Not protesting, not leaving, just reacting.

Fatou’s hand breaks away from its position, sandwiched between the two of them and now dangerously close to being encompassed by pins and needles, falling asleep. She finds Kieu My’s face, turns it toward her. Kieu My doesn’t protest, not this time.

“Really,” Fatou tells her, and she wonders how many times she’s going to have to say it for Kieu My to get it, how many old texts between her the Cash Queens are going to have to be dug up, displayed as half-ashamed, half-victorious evidence of her infatuation. “You were the only one on my mind, all the time. From the very beginning.”

“You were too, you know,” Kieu My says.

It surprises Fatou. It’s not the kind of conversational turn that she was expecting— Kieu My’s hand is pressed against the arch of her spine, snaking up the lower seam of her bralette— and suddenly the fan in the corner seems ten times louder, almost deafening.

Fatou doesn’t mean to sound so meek when she replies, “really?”

Kieu My laughs, full-on and vibrant, and Fatou can’t help it, she’s sitting upright, wide awake and giving Kieu My a glare she won’t be able to decipher. Damn the dark, Fatou thinks, why doesn’t Kieu My own a nightlight or something, because she wants to see this now, wants to see everything. She could before, back when the moon was lower in the sky and traffic passed by consistently. Now, she finds Kieu My’s knee under her clasped hands, an unintentional touch but certainly not one she’s going to pull away from under any circumstances, and uses her imagination to see everything she wants to, everything she knows is there.

In the heavy seconds that follow— it can’t be more than six, but Fatou swears it feels like sixty— she’s almost expecting Kieu My to abandon the idea she’d brought up altogether, to give up talking and kiss Fatou until she’s dizzy instead.

(Or maybe rush off to the bathroom, come back with water and snacks— two things that she had done earlier when Fatou had asked, love-drunk, if Ismail had ever brought up the top or bottom discourse to her as well. To be fair, Kieu My had proved the question to be rather invalid moments before, so she’d giggled, skipped the whole way to the sink, almost tripping on the rug in her effervescent haste.)

“You really didn’t notice?” Kieu My asks. She sounds small again. She’s shifting, ever-changing, maybe more like a chameleon than a turtle, and Fatou marvels, reaches out again. She strokes her thumb atop Kieu My’s shin and Kieu My finds her fingertips in the dark, holds on tight.

“It was always you for me, too,” she admits. “I was just…” she trails off, turning to look the other way— Fatou only knows because she hears the swish of her hair against her tank top, the creak of the bedframe beneath her— “...I wasn’t sure you’d ever go for someone like me.”

“Serious?” Fatou replies. She can’t help the way it comes out a bit like a laugh, one that shatters the sanctity of the moment between them, or at least transforms it into something of a different breed. Something lighter, fuller, sanctified for the hundredth time in one evening. “You are so my type.”

Kieu My laughs then, too. Fatou feels herself breathe, relax again, become giddy in that way that she’s only ever known as love love oh scheiße I’m in love. This time, somehow it’s better, different, stronger than ever before. This time, it feels like it’ll last.

“Like, you’re completely my type. One hundred percent, in every way. How did you not get that?”

Kieu My gasps out another chuckle, slings her arm around Fatou’s neck. She finds her lips in the dark, Fatou’s eyes closed long before she gets there. “Well, I know that now.”

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babieyangyang10 · 4 years

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violent ends (chapter 8)

(chapter 8)

series masterlist

genre: hunger games!au

pairings: huang renjun x oc, na jaemin x oc

warnings: language, mentions of blood, fighting, deaths, mentions of sex

A/N: I’m curious, tell me if you’re team Renjun or team Jaemin!

previous | next

Athena's POV

Sixty.

That's how many seconds I have before I have to step off this metal circle. It's all the time they give us to survey our surroundings. I look around to see the other tributes scattered randomly, all facing towards the cornucopia. Heart thumping, I spot Jaemin on the complete opposite end.

There are supplies almost an arm-length away from me, however everyone knows that the most useful supplies is placed in the mouth of the Cornucopia. Almost beckoning for me to take one, knifes are displayed on the walls.

Thirty Seconds.

I'm counting down in my head. Should I grab the book bag in front of me in case there's a weapon in it? But then, by the time I get to the Cornucopia, others will already be waiting for me with their fresh pick. However, if I'm quick enough I could get them while their backs are turned.

Twenty seconds.

Breathe. I look around to see no other than Haechan placed exactly to my right. That's a huge problem. No matter what I choose, he's going to be right on my trail. But the bag is so close!

Bag or Cornucopia?

Fifteen seconds.

My eyes dart, back and forth trying to come up with a decision. Then, suddenly I question how I will even be able to find Jaemin during the chaos, if he decides to ditch me and run away to the lake. He wouldn't, right?

I look him in the eyes and discreetly nod towards the Cornucopia, praying he gets the message. Or that he even saw it, considering he's about 20 tributes away from me.

Now back to the bag situation.

10 seconds. Big, yellow letters appear on a screen in the Cornucopia, counting down.

Back and forth, I struggle to come up with a quick decision on which I should do first. However, when I look over to my left, over two tributes away is Renjun. Noticing my visible distress, he shakes his head at me.

"Don't." He mouths.

I get into running position and keep my eyes on the knifes. Guess I'll give up on the backpack. Although, since Renjun is officially my competition now, should I trust his input?

Is this a secret plan between the three of them to collectively slash me to bits?

5 seconds.

Fine, I've made up my mind. Okay, Huang Renjun, I'll forget the dumb fucking bag.

3 seconds.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Breathe you fucking moron, before you pass out.

2 seconds.

Then, I hear it, the gong. My body takes over and I'm sprinting as fast as I can. I'm so close now, I can practically already feel the blades in my hands. My lungs are burning, but I don't care.

I reach out and grab several, random knifes from the wall. However, once I turn around, my whole body collides with the sharp wall behind me. A boy from District 5 has his bare hands around my throat, making me drop the knifes.

Pivoting my body to the right, I strike his arm with my left palm. Once he falls forward, I use the same arm to lock around his neck. Squeezing as hard as I can, I grab whatever I can from the wall with my free hand and thrust it into the side of his neck.

Blood violently seeps in squirts from the wound onto me, as I release him from my hold. I grab my dropped weapons and a backpack by my ankle. When I look up, I am greeted by absolute madness.

Lee Jeno is standing over a young girl from District 3 with an axe stuck in the middle of her head. Meanwhile, Renjun has just slashed open the District 8 boy's neck. Too occupied, they don't even notice me running past them. However, I feel someone leap on my back, causing me to crash face-first into the ground. I use all my strength to roll the large boy off of me, before stunning him with a sharp and painful punch to the nose. Wasting no time, I jab a knife into his throat, before pulling it out to keep.

Jaemin.

I desperately try to look for the blond boy, but he's nowhere to be found. There's beginning to be less people, meaning the Careers will spot me if I stick around much longer. While they're occupied with hacking away at the poor tributes, I decided to immediately follow Taeyong's advice of collecting water. It's important that I get there before Renjun does the same. I sprint through trees, trying to achieve a safe distance.

Once I've gotten away far enough to no longer hear the deafening screams of the dying children, I could softly hear the sound of moving water masked under the chirping birds. At this moment, I can't help but feel jealous of them. They have no idea what's truly happening beneath them. Stuck in their own little world, safe from harm's way in the trees. Even if something where to happen to them, they have wings to fly away with. I guess, they remind me of the people from the Capitol.

As the sound of water gets louder, I make sure to tread quietly. The Careers can't be far, and right now I'm alone and vulnerable. God, I wish Jaemin was here right now.

Noticing the dirt become muddier as I walk near the sound, I know I should be extremely close by now.

Snap.

Alerted, I quietly crouch behind a tree. Knife ready, I wait until the crunching of leaves get close enough, before I jump out and tackle the noisy perpetrator to the floor.

They put up a good fight too, attempting to push me off their back. During our wrestling, I notice them looking around frantically, probably looking for their weapon since they dropped it during the tackle.

Suddenly, the head becomes locked in one direction. Following his gaze, I see a trident laying on the forest floor.

A trident?

They notice me pause, throwing me backwards into the ground. My head smacks backwards against it, my eyes shutting in pain.

Once they open, I am face-to-face with the sharp prongs of the trident.

Cowering backwards, I frantically say, "Jaemin! It's me."

Once he realizes, the alerted look on his face fades away into one of concern, "Athena, are you okay?"

Jaemin chucks his weapon to the side and thoroughly looks over my face and body for injuries.

"It's not my blood," I assure him, "Ran into some people at the Cornucopia."

"It's literally everywhere. Here, follow me to the lake, so you can wash it off." He gently pulled me up off the ground.

Grabbing his trident in one hand and my own hand in his other, he leads me to the lake. We crouch down by the waterside. My hands scooping up some water to cure the dryness in my throat. Then, I began scrubbing off the blood from my face and body.

"What happened out there? I couldn't find you at the Cornucopia." He asked, curious.

I watch the blood fading away into nothing in the river, as I speak, "I made it to the center. The guy from District 5 tried to choke me out right away. Then, after I started looking for you, I got tackled by a guy I couldn't see."

Frowning at the now clear water, "Honestly, for a second, I thought you left without me, when I couldn't find you there."

"I wouldn't leave you. We're in this till the end, okay?" Jaemin promises.

"Til the end, then," I agree, "What happened to you?"

"I only got to this," He held up his trident, "before Haechan is launching at me with bow and arrows. He kept chasing me, and before I know it I ended up far behind the back of the Cornucopia.That's where I spotted this lake from. He kept calling out for me, but eventually I guess he just gave up. That's when I decided to leave and set out to find you."

Taking in his words, I point out, "It sounds a lot like they were trying to purposely separate us, so they could kill us easier. Don't you think?"

"It makes sense, " He suddenly laughed, "it's funny though, we almost killed each other for them."

"I'm sorry for tackling you like that." I apologized.

"It's fine. Is your head okay?" Jaemin softly patted the back off my head.

"It is now." I bat my eyelashes, playing it up for the cameras. Looking around, I notice some flowers sticking up through the water, surrounded by Lilly pads.

"What are these?" He curiously picked one from the water.

"They're pond lilies. They're good for infections and burns. Plus anti-inflammatory too." I remember what Taeyong taught me.

"Hm, so smart," He smiles down at me, before tucking the flower behind my ear, "and pretty too."

I don't hide the way my cheeks flush. Just like they did last night, when I was with Renjun.

Distracting myself from the thought, I decide to look throw the bright orange back pack I picked up after killing the District 5 guy. While rummaging through it, I found a pack of crackers, a pack of dried beef strips, a bottle of iodine, a box of wooden matches, a bit of coiled wire, glasses, and an empty black water bottle.

Grabbing the bottle, I began to fill it up with water for later. Then, I place it back in the backpack along with some of the knifes I've been holding onto. While doing so, Jaemin proceeds to try on the glasses.

"Wow, these really do suck. I can still see the sun." He murmurs, looking around.

"Then, they're probably supposed to be used during night. That'll be useful for hunting. Speaking of hunting, you hungry?" I ask, feeling my stomach rumble at the first mention of food.

"Yeah, let's go."

Renjun's POV

Jeno, Haechan, and I had decided to turn the Cornucopia into our own little camp. We had all the supplies we could ever need. I mean, sure, there's about ten bodies just laying around, but home sweet home, right?

However, right now it wasn't feeling too sweet.

"What the fuck happened out there, Haechan? The plan was whoever was closest to her would kill her as soon as she stepped off the platform. You were the closest." complained an irritated Jeno.

I don't feel guilty that Haechan is unknowingly taking the hit for me. In fact, I was the one who stopped her from getting that bag and immediately dying by the bare hands of Haechan. I'm not sure what made me do it. I keep telling myself that maybe I was thinking about her being defenseless and unable to put up a fair fight would be unfair.

Or maybe I'm just pussy-whipped after last night, I don't know. My hand subconsciously goes to the hidden mark she left near my collarbone. Although I can't see it, I can feel the slight pain as my fingers pass over it. A reminder of last night.

Ripping my hand away, I try to tune back into the argument to avoid popping up a boner, while on live national-fucking-television.

"She was just too fast. I was sure that huge dude from District 5 was going to finish her off for me," Haechan suddenly remembered something, "Besides I was the one who made sure they were separated like our Plan B said to do."

I guess he's right. If we were able to kill them, we were going to do our best to separate them. Without Athena, Jaemin probably couldn’t survive, since District 4 is entirely a beach district. That fish boy probably has no idea how to survive for a week in the woods.

On the other hand, Athena, for some reason, needs him just as much. The three of us had debated on the reason why. Maybe she’s using him for his fame and sponsors? Although, she had received a lot of positive attention based on her own charms. She didn’t need him for that.

That’s what led us to the conclusion that she had a little girl crush on him. The thought makes me sick. I thought the Lee Athena I grew up with, would never waste her time on a guy like him.

As the sky becomes dark, I wondering what they’re doing now. Are they dead? Or still all alone? I can imagine Athena, hiding in a tree all by herself, frightened and scared. A little part of me wonders what would happened if she joined the Careers. Would she be here right now sitting next to me? Listening to these annoying boys bicker with each other.

Where are you, Lee Athena?

Maybe they found each-other. Maybe they’re looking up at the same sky right now.

I can see it. Them huddling close together, blaming it on their need to keep warm for the night. His arms wrapped around her, tightly. Her head resting against his check, watching the stars.

God, it makes me sick.

#nct dream smut #nct smut #nct au #nct #nct dream #nct dream imagines #renjun #jaemin #jeno #haechan

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harryfreakinstyles2 · 5 years

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Torn (Part 1) H.S.

The sunlight is streaming through the curtains and gleaming off the vinyl flooring of my apartment while I try to force myself to roll out of bed. My alarm is screaming at me for the tenth time this morning. My eyes strain against the intrusion of light as I reach for my phone on the nightstand to stop the ringing in my ears from that damn alarm. I glance at the text on my screen from my best friend that I must have received after passing out around one am last night while trying to finish my essay.

Julie is almost the complete opposite of me in every way. She's unorganized and scatter brained and way more adventurous than I will ever be. But she also makes our little two-bedroom apartment feel like home even with the dirty dishes she leaves in the sink and as crazy as she drives me, I would honestly be lost without her.

Me: You know I had that essay to finish! But it sounds like you had fun like usual! I might have to join you next time! We'll see! Lol

I text back and head to the bathroom to hop in the shower before class. I turn the water on and wait impatiently for it to heat up, my tiny bathroom becomes filled with steam as the hot water helps wake me from my zombie state and relaxes my muscles. I'm dreading class this morning. My stupid elective class I took because I figured it would be an easy A to fill in the extra credits I need to graduate in May, but I am starting to realize that the easy A might not be worth the painful boredom of sitting in that stupid class twice a week. I hurry along getting ready as the morning is rushing by faster than I realized and soon I'm running out the door praying I have time to get coffee on the way.

I stick my key in the lock of my apartment door still sipping on my iced coffee. I feel mentally drained after having to put so much energy into staying awake in class, luckily it's the only class I have on Thursdays. I can smell the scrambled eggs as soon as I walk into the apartment. Julies favorite hangover food, I will never understand how that girl can go out so much during the week and still go to work and finish all her school.

I walk into the kitchen and I laugh to myself while taking in Julies disheveled appearance, the aftermath of her late night out.

"Shut up", She groans glaring at me from her spot in front of the stove.

"I'm sorry, but you look pathetic" I laugh again not being able to hold in my amusement.

"Don't be a bitch, you're just jealous that I had a blast last night while all you did was write a paper all damn night." Julie snaps at me but I can see the hint of a smile on her face.

"Alight alright" I say with my hands up in surrender not wanting to actually piss her off. I pull a barstool out from under the counter and take a seat across from her.

"I was serious when I said you are coming out with us this weekend" she huffs, "We are going to this cool hipster club that just opened down the road. It is going to be a lot of fun. And I'm not giving you a choice, so tomorrow night, we'll head out around ten." Her words rush out fast. I am assuming it's so I won't have the chance to interrupt her and make an excuse of why I will not be doing anything of the sort. I roll my eyes when she turns back around to flip her eggs.

"I really don't want to... It's been a long week between work and school and all I want to do is sit on the couch and watch a movie." I groan at my relentless best friend. This is her third attempt in the past two weeks to try and get me to go out.

"Allie, you're 21, not 81. Would you please stop being so lame and just come out with us!" She pleads with me, "It'll be fun I swear!"

"Ughhhhh fine but if I hate it and get bored then I'm coming back home!" I say giving in but still hating the idea.

"Fine fine! Ahhhh yay!! It's going to be great!" Julie excitedly jumps up and down like she is twelve and are moms said yes to a sleep over on a school night. Finally she stops, leaving her dark brown hair messier than it was before, if that is even possible. I try my best not to laugh at her again.

"Alright I'm going to go to my room for a bit before I have to go to work at 6. Do you work tonight?" I ask. Her work schedule is constantly changing every week I can never keep up.

"Yea unfortunately, I wanna call out but I can't because I have tomorrow night off to go out and I actually need to make some money for a change." She says with a groan.

"Okay then I'll see you tomorrow! Be sure to put on your best fake smile and maybe brush your hair or something or you won't be getting very many tips tonight" I tease her as I walk to my room. I turn around just in time to see her middle finger raised in the air at me with a smile on her face.

My evening shift at the local coffee shop blurs by as the hipster kids and sorority girls shuffle in and out throughout the evening. I found I was convincing myself that going out tomorrow night is exactly what I need to get out of this comfortable rut I have found myself in the past few months. With graduation about three months away I should probably have some actual fun before my college days come to an end even though night clubs are not exactly my idea of fun.

I wake to a loud pounding on my bedroom door. "Allie!!! Get up! We have to pick out an outfit for you for tonight! I have to leave for work soon! Get up! We won't have time later!" Julie continues banging on my door.

"Ugh, Jules! Give me like 10 minutes!" I groan back at my annoying best friend. She insisted last night that she had to pick out an outfit for me because I don't know what a proper "club outfit" is.

Ten minutes later I've brushed my teeth and changed into some shorts and a t-shirt. I open my bedroom door to find Julie sitting impatiently at the counter with a cup of coffee.

"Okay, come on in and let's get this over with." I say to her rolling my eyes. This is not what I want to be doing at nine am.

"Oh stop being so dramatic." Julie mumbles at me as she walks past me and into my room.

I follow behind her and sit on my bed as she starts to dig through my closet for her version of an acceptable outfit for this evening.

"Okay, so we want something sexy but also comfortable. Maybe some skinny jeans and a cute tank top. Or even a jean skirt," she says excitedly.

"Sexy. Really. You know I can't pull off sexy." I mumble at her. Does she honestly think I can be sexy. She has definitely lost it. In the thirteen years she has known me I have never been sexy. I don't even own anything that could be considered sexy.

"Yes, sexy. You have the curves all you're missing is the attitude Al."

I don't have the first clue on how to come off as sexy, but I have a feeling Julie is going to teach me. This was such a bad idea. I can already tell that tonight is going to be a disaster.

Twenty minutes later I'm standing in front of my closet staring at myself in the floor length mirror in one of Julies jean skirts that rests nicely on my hips and stops a few inches above my knees and only makes me slightly uncomfortable. She has paired her jean skirt with one of my low-cut white tank tops and a pair of short strappy black heels. Lucky for me it has been a warm winter and it only gets into the mid-sixties right now at night here in Georgia. Especially considering Julie told me I am not allowed to wear the gray cardigan I tried to put over the tank top.

"So? What do you think?" Julie asks me while I stare at myself in the mirror. She's beaming, obviously proud of her work.

"Umm I like the outfit, but I'm not sure," I mumble.

She rolls her dark brown eyes at me, "Allie, you look hot trust me. You just have to own it. That is the key to being sexy, it is all about the confidence."

"Alright," I try to say with a sense of confidence, but my voice betrays me and I sound even more unsure than before.

"Shit, I have to go I am going to be late for work" Julie says as she rushes out of my room. "You look amazing! I will be back in time for us to do our hair and makeup before we leave! See you later girlie!" She yells to me before she slams the front door closed behind her.

I let out a breath I didn't notice I was holding as I look at myself once more in the mirror. My chest fills the tank top nicely threatening to overflow because of the pushup bra Julie forced me to wear even though she knows I hate wearing it because it makes my boobs look even bigger than they already are. She doesn't understand that problem seeing as she barely has any boobs. The tight tank top paired with the fitted jean skirt shows off my tiny waist and curvy hips. The jean skirt goes down just far enough to cover my full upper thighs. Overall I don't hate the outfit as much as I expected to, if I wear my long blonde hair down and maybe curl it a little I think I might be able to pull it off.

I groan staring at myself in the mirror one last time before collapsing onto my bed. I have no idea what to expect tonight I haven't been out since my freshman year. Even though Julie will be there I can already see myself sitting in the corner the whole night. I hope the night won't be a complete disaster. At least all our friends will be there and I can catch up with Emily. I push away the anxiety as I hang my outfit for tonight back up and head to take a shower.

I'm sitting on the couch buckling the straps of my black heels as Julie walks out of her room looking like a Victoria Secret model in her tight dress that leaves little to the imagination. She spent an hour doing my hair and make up after she got home from work and I spent most of that hour telling her to tone it down. It has always been that way with us. She is the one who wears full make up and heels almost everyday and I am the one who forces myself to put on eyeshadow every now and again and wears converse as much as possible. But somehow we always seem to balance each other out, she helps me step out of my comfort zone and I keep her from being arrested.

"See this is why I don't go out with you!" I grumble at her.

"What are you talking about? I didn't even do anything!" Julie says defensively while grabbing her matching clutch off the kitchen counter.

“You didn't have to, you just come out looking like that and when I stand next to you I look like a freakin sack of potatoes!"

"Are you kidding me!?! Look at you! I wish I had those curves! We both look great and we are ending the conversation there." Julie says annoyed at my comment.

"Whatever." I mumble back.

"You are not going to start this night pouting, so get over yourself and let's go the Uber is ready downstairs!" she says sternly. Julie is the kind of person who has no problem telling you how it is, she has been that way ever since we were kids.

The Uber ride to the club lasted barely five minutes leaving just enough time for my stomach to get queasy with nerves. The car comes to a stop in front of a building littered with people stumbling in and out of the doors. Julie says a rushed 'thank you!' to the Uber driver as she pulls me out of the car behind her.

"Come on! Everyone else is already inside!" she says as she pulls me along after her and into the crowded building. I glance at my phone it is now ten o'clock, I will stay till at least midnight and then leave I decide.

The room is so dark it is hard to see the faces of the strangers as we shove our way through the crowd to find our group of friends waiting for us. There is a slight stench of smoke in the air and my heels stick to the floor just enough for me to notice. I hate this already. Julie is aggressively pushing her way through the overly friendly crowd of strangers. I decide that my best bet is to stare at the back of her head and follow closely behind her so I don't get lost. Suddenly Julie does a high pitch squeal letting me know she has found our friends. Our usual group of friends are standing around a high top table toward the back corner of the club. There's Maya, who Julie and I met in freshman English. Julie gets along with her better than I do because they have similar personalities and Maya will go out with her any day of the week where I will not. Then there is Dylan the common frat boy with the perfect hair and teeth, wearing his usual khaki pants and button up shirt. Maya and Dylan have been dating for a little over a year now. Next to the already drunk Dylan is his best friend Sam. Sam is in the same frat as Dylan and despite being best friends, Sam is sweet, polite, and funny unlike Dylan who is usually obnoxious. Sam is much more attractive than Dylan with his light brown hair cut short and his muscular arms looking perfectly tanned in his white button up. On the other side of the table there is Tabitha and Emily. Tabitha and Maya have known each other since middle school so they are really close similar to Julie and I. Wherever Maya is, Tabitha is usually close by. I get along best with Emily out of the three girls. She is quieter than the others and although she has no problem going out and having a good time she has a lot of other priorities she is focused on as school is coming to an end. We tend to sit and talk whenever we are all hang out while everyone else is drinking and goofing off.

"No way! Allie you actually came!?!" Maya says too dramatically bringing the attention of the whole group to me. "I mean Julie said you were coming but I thought she was just joking!" Maya continues with an annoying giggle and I force myself not to roll my eyes at her.

"Good to see you too Maya. Can someone point me in the direction of the bar please." I say to hopefully change the topic. I am going to definitely need a drink to get me through this night.

"I was just about to go get myself a drink if you wanna come with me?" Sam offers with a smirk making me blush like always.

"That would be great! Thanks," I say with a smile.

Sam is quiet most of the time but he is charming. And he is one of those guys who is absolutely gorgeous and has no idea.

Julie rushes over to the girls and the giggling starts instantly as Sam and I walk away from the group.

We make it to the bar with Sam only having to guide me past one group of drunk guys. Even with heels on I am still quite short making navigating the crowded club difficult as I can't see where I'm going. I order my usual crown apple and sprite, and try to refuse when Sam wants to pay for my drink but ultimately he wins as he hands the bartender cash and walks away with me following behind.

"So are you as ready for graduation as I am?" Sam awkwardly starts conversation over the loud club music as we make our way back to our group of friends. This was the usual with Sam. For a guy who is this attractive and has girls falling all over him, he always comes off awkward when we try and talk.

"Yeah I'm so excited, but also incredibly nervous. There is too many decisions still left to make," I awkwardly laugh.

"I get that. You would think that since we are finally finishing we would be less stressed out not more," Sam says with laugh.

I turn to respond catching his blue eyes, leaving me speechless. I am saved as we arrive at the table and Sam is greeted by Tabitha begging him to dance with her. She clearly already had a few drinks and Sam is too sweet to say no.

The night feels like it is dragging on forever. I'm not having a bad time but there is definitely other things I would rather be doing and on top of that Julie seems to be in a crap mood for some unknown reason so she is not making the night any better for me. It has been about an hour and a half and I've had three drinks making me just tipsy enough that my nerves have vanished.

"Jules I really have to pee!" I whine at her again.

"Okay okay, just give me a minute," She says staring at her phone.

"I've been waiting like ten. Just point me in the direction of the bathroom. I will just go by myself," I say back irritated as I sway back and forth to help with my urgent need to pee.

"Okay fine, go towards the bar and to the left," She instructs me without look away from her phone. I am trying not to get annoyed at her but she begged me to come out and has barely said two words to me since we got here.

"Thank you!" I say dragging the words out dramatically.

I make it to the bathroom without any issues to my surprise considering the three drinks I have had and the crowd seeming to have grown in the last hour. Luckily there is only one girl in line and I don't have to wait long. I wash my hands and check my make up in the mirror surprised it still looks almost perfect. I walk out of the bathroom and reach down pulling the hem of my skirt further down my legs as I walk.

"Ugh fuck!" I mumble as I collide with something solid and liquid pours down my skirt and legs.

"Oh shit! Sorry!" I hear a thick English accent respond.

I look up to find bright green eyes staring directly into mine. They are slightly covered by a mop of beautiful dark brown curls. His eyes stay locked on mine so intently that I have to look away so he can't see me blush under his gaze.

"It's fine. It was my fault I wasn't paying attention." I say faster than I intended as I wipe at my skirt.

"Wait a minute, let me uhh...." the handsome stranger starts to say as he looks around and then disappears and reappears with a rag from the bar.

"Here, I'm really sorry," He says again holding his hand out to me with the rag in it.

I take a second to glance at the tattoos covering most of his left arm. Quickly dragging my attention back to the liquid running down my legs I grab the rag hoping he didn't notice my staring. I wipe at the remainder of whatever he had in his cup off my legs and look up to find him staring again.

"Thanks," I mumble quietly despite the loud music as I hand him back the rag. My cheeks feel like they are burning, partially from the alcohol in my system and partially from his staring.

“The least I could do. I'm Harry," He says with a smile revealing large dimples in his cheeks while holding out his empty right hand for me to shake. I stare at his outstretched hand for a minute before grabbing it.

"Allie, nice to meet you. Sort of," I say returning his smile and taking his hand in mine. His large hand makes mine feel even smaller.

"Allie." he repeats with a smirk. His accent making it sound beautiful while his eyes continue to stare into mine making my stomach flutter. I am so happy I downed that third drink or his stare alone would have made me a mumbling mess by now.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry #harry edward styles #one direction #one direction imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurb

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darapnerd · 7 years

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G33k HQ Presents: MC Front-A-Lot Interview

Interview Questions From G33K-HQ & Darealwordsound (Wordy): Nerdcore Interview Collaboration Questions

MC Front: Thank you for bearing with me! So sorry to continually drop the ball on this. Here you go.

Wordy: What was your first creative outlet? MC Front: I seem to remember kindergarten involving a lot of drawing. First and second grade had poetry exercises sometimes. But the way we played D&D between 2nd and 6th grades was how my imagination really got fired up. We didn\'t like dice and maps that much. We\'d take turns DMing and just sort of freestyle the stories to each other at recess. Wordy: What was the first rap album you ever purchased? MC Front: It was also my first CD. DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, He\'s the DJ, I\'m the Rapper. Wordy: Who are your biggest music inspirations?

MC Front: Tom Waits, Public Enemy, Bjork

Wordy: Describe your studio to us.

MC Front: I have an Ikea desk that\'s been out of print for 10 years so I get fussy when anyone leans on it. Creaky, cheap old thing. It\'s the only one where you can bolt the rotating side shelves at any height. Perfect for the near-field monitors and re-aiming them for any version of the stereo field. I mix there in my bedroom which isn\'t treated, but I\'ve been in there so long that I can work around most of the room effects. I have a coat closet fully treated, very dead and dry, for vocals. I keep some buttons in there to engineer myself, but everything\'s still happening on the studio computer. My pre-amp and mics and monitors are satisfactory. I could use a better ADC/DAC.

I will record occasional hand percussion, etc, in that closet booth, but very little fits in there. For other acoustic capture, I\'ll rent time at a real studio (any time I\'m tracking my drummers) or I\'ll go field-record strings at someone\'s apartment.

A solid two thirds of the non-vocal sound on the albums is electronic, and I can get keyboard performances or work on drum machine material in the project studio without worrying about the ambient noises of Brooklyn.

Wordy: Describe your ideal home studio if money wasn\'t a problem.

MC Front: A proper treatment of the mixing room would be great. I guess I\'d have twenty of these Avalon pre-amps and a little drum room, as well as a booth big enough for upright bass or cello. There is almost unlimited fanciness available in the hardware market... I guess I\'d have to make a hobby out of shopping. I\'d still use Reaper as my DAW, though -- the least expensive version of that kind of software, and also the best. I could probably spend sixty grand on plugins.

Wordy: What is your creative process for writing and or producing a song?

MC Front: Baddd Spellah, my Canadian beatsmithing partner, has been kind enough to work on grooves with me for the last fifteen years. Usually I will start with something he\'s been kicking around, or he\'ll take a pass at some live drum that I\'ve been chopping up, and we\'ll add keyboard material from Gm7 (Gaby Alter), my longtime music co-writer. When there is a verse-appropriate groove that is in pretty good shape, I\'ll leave it on loop and write. Once in a while, I\'ll write a hook over a groove that feels like a chorus, and start from there. After I\'ve got most of a lyric, I\'ll put down a scratch vocal so that Spellah and I can build a full song arrangement. Then I\'ll record too many takes of the final vocal, and spend too many months dicking around with the comp, the mix, and all the instrumental details. Finally I\'ll listen to it on as many different devices as I can, fine-tune the mix, and stay up for a week and a half making increasingly bad decisions about everything on the album, leading up to the mastering appointment I foolishly committed to several months prior.

Wordy: What is your happiest On-Stage Moment?

MC Front: I think a PAX crowd demanded a second encore once. That makes you feel like a superstar.

Wordy: What was your favorite song to write or record?

MC Front: Maybe Stoop Sale? But that might be because the video came out so well. For the most part, my happiness with the process relies entirely on the result: it makes me happy to listen to a track if I don\'t just hear a barrage of fuckups that it\'s too late to go back and fix. But there aren\'t very many of those. Of all my lyrics, I\'m probably proudest of Two Dreamers from the Question Bedtime album. I feel like I worked out every bit of the story and then obscured it just enough that the listener\'s careful attention is rewarded.

Wordy: What advice do you have for aspiring artists?

MC Front: Practice a lot, develop your talent. Get the skills you need to properly communicate with whoever your creative partners are. Take the craft seriously but give yourself a break for not having mastered it -- that is a lifelong process with no actual end goal.

Wordy: What project do you feel best describes you as an artist?

MC Front: The Nerdcore Rising documentary probably says more about me and the band than I\'d ever be able to, and in kinder words. Of my own projects, I like the Zero Day and Solved albums as a window into whatever it is I\'m trying to say about nerdcore.

Wordy: How do you feel about the disconnect between \"Nerdcore\" and \"HipHop\"?

MC Front: Well, hip-hop is a cultural movement with very specific origins and elements. Rap is a formal music style that emerged from hip-hop. Any \'variation\' or \'new perspective\' that someone brings to rap is fine -- if meaningless. It might matter that you came up with a new thing to say, but the fact that you chose an unusual form for your expression should be the least interesting thing about it. You can write a march for your peace movement, even if marches come from military music, because the march itself is just a formal style of composition. You\'d be smart to note the ironic relationship there, or you\'d be dumb to suggest that there isn\'t one, or that your choice to use a march as an expression of pacifism somehow reaches backward and affects the origin of the form. Anyone who thinks they\'re \'expanding\' or \'liberating\' hip-hop from its roots by rapping about things that haven\'t been rapped about traditionally is probably an idiot.

My idea about hip-hop was only to observe that it was cool. Like, it was the coolest thing happening in American culture when I was a kid, and it probably still is. Breakdancers were the coolest kids on the playground. Graffiti kids were the coolest outlaws in fourth grade. And rappers were the coolest possible composers of verse.

To want to compose and perform verse in that formal style without having any direct connection to hip-hop, and without being cool, is the sort of desire nerd kids might express by themselves, away from arbiters of hipness, and share only with other uncool kids. The idea of nerdcore went no deeper than that, originally. I\'m glad that a lot of other DIY rappers have found that resonant enough to expand upon.

Wordy: Do you feel more \"Nerdcore\" rappers should know about its roots in \"HipHop\"?

MC Front: Definitely. I remember trying to write a Villanelle in a college poetry class. First, we had to read and dissect a sheaf of them. The professor was of the opinion that we would all flounder in the assignment, because there had been only a handful of good Villanelles ever written. I\'m sure none of us wrote one of lasting value. The point was to learn how formal composition connects works, and to appreciate the complications. You can always just do it anyway. But knowing where it comes from and how it\'s been attempted before teaches you how to try to do it well. I think anyone who wants to compose lyrics within the rap genre should know all they can about how raps have been composed so far.

That doesn\'t even begin to address the cultural issue. Some artists misidentify nerdcore as comedy music, and worse yet, think the joke is \"it\'s rap, but white kids are doing it.\" I think that outlook leads to the weakest possible songs, and is generally disrespectful of hip-hop in a way that concerns me and offends anyone who cares about American culture. Of course, not all of the nerdcore rappers are white, but all of the schticky ones are. I wonder if a delve into hip-hop\'s history would cure them of that impulse, or at least afford them the humility to hush it up.

Wordy: Are you involved in any philanthropy in your local communities or abroad?

MC Front: I try to do something in support of Child\'s Play every year. I\'m going to contribute to the upcoming Worldbuilders album project.

Wordy: Can you freestyle? Meaning rap off the top of the head? If so, can we see you drop a few bars next time live?

MC Front: I never do this! I think I\'ve conditioned myself into a certain kind of vanity. Almost everything on the albums is rapped in complete sentences, with rhymes that I\'ve never used previously. Freestyling doesn\'t work that way. I\'m too ashamed to let anyone see me freestyling about the frog, on a log, in a bog, who got sog-gy.

Wordy: Do you consider yourself a “GEEK”?

MC Front: Of course.

Wordy: In your own words, describe what the word “GEEK” means to you?

MC Front: I decided at some point a long time ago that geeks are all direct descendants of the side-show geek, whose job was biting heads off of chickens. They weren\'t special in any way, except that they were willing and able to do that thing, and it was a fairly extreme thing to do. But because nobody else at the carnival was willing to go to that extreme, the geekery came to seem like a highly specialized skill.

That\'s why you can be a geek about anything. You just need a topic where your knowledge or expertise is so specialized that it seems distastefully extreme to non-geeks. You can geek out about fantasy novels or about robot AIs. But you can also geek out about car engines or cooking. You don\'t have to be a nerd to geek out.

Nerds are almost always geeks, and their subjects of geekery are often recognizably nerdy. But a nerd is something else, a person who was already too weird or too smart, and felt alienated, and embraced geekery as an alternative to whatever broader pursuits the cool kids enjoyed.

Wordy: What is your earliest geek memory?

MC Front: I was a Star Wars geek starting at age three and a half when the first one came out. It was the only thing I wanted to do. I made adults take me to see it 11 times before Empire came out (I kept careful count). I collected the Kenner figures obsessively until they stopped making new ones a year or two after Jedi.

Wordy: What is your \"Geek\" hobby? Do you collect comic books? Anime? Video games?

MC Front: I do still love comics, but I own too many. Video games take up less space. I spend more time gaming than I do working on music, occasionally 70 or 80 hours in a week. It\'s as much an emotional self-medication as it is a hobby.

Wordy: Who are your Top 5 emcees dead or alive?

MC Front: In no order: Busdriver, MF Doom, Del, Q-Tip, Chuck D

Wordy: When is your next show or tour?

MC Front: When I get the dang old album done! Maybe spring 2017 for tour. PAX South is the soonest lone show.

Wordy: Do you have a new album coming out?

MC Front: It\'s called INTERNET SUCKS, and it is going to have a heavy \'get off my lawn\' vibe. Everyone will be mad at me, yet secretly agree with every word on the record. Watch for it to take your feeds by storm.

http://frontalot.com

more at darealwordsound

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