#ive said this one billion times before but i shall say it once more THIS ERA SHOULDVE LASTED SO MUCH LONGER

[happystarzarchive]

never truly getting over their pre relationship shtick Sorry

og

#the world of mr plant #twomp #my art #plargos #<- well pre relationship . whateber #ive said this one billion times before but i shall say it once more THIS ERA SHOULDVE LASTED SO MUCH LONGER #the onesidedness …. the Devotion ……. the absolute YEARNING for something that may never be ………. youguys get me right #taps microphone is this thing on

[nashibirne]

Gimme Shelter - 6

Sorry, it took me a while to write the next chapter but I was kinda busy. I hope you still want to know how things are going and growing between Henry and Kat. If you like this, please reward me with a comment, reblog or like 💜

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC (Kat Spencer)

Words: ~3.0k

Summary: Henry has to deal with a personal crisis and he finds shelter with his old rugby mate Sam and his sister Kat. She used to be Henry’s best friend a very long time ago. Will they be able to become friends again or maybe even more? Chapter 6: A disruptive factor and The Lonely Hearts Club meets again.

You can find the previous chapters and my other fics on my masterlist!

Warnings: RPF, mention of mental health issues, lots of poetry

Unbeta'ed. English isn't my first language. Mistakes ahead and they're all mine.

Disclaimer: I don’t know the real Henry Cavill or anyone who's related to him in any way, this is pure fiction and nothing more

Credits: Pics for the moodboard from Pinterest. Face claims: Kat = Jennifer Connelly

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed):

@lunedelorient @inlovewithhisblueeyes @willkatfanfromasia @hell1129-blog @mis-lil-red @agniavateira @kebabgirl67 @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @summersong69 @taebfada @xxxkatxo @artandotherdelights @notabronte @littlefreya @luclittlepond @eldarwen333 @meowpurrbooks @marantha @liliumdream @enchantedbytomandhenry @greensleeves888 @witcherfan @margauxmargaux07 @radaofrivia @m07belzen @a-little-counter-esperanto @starstruckkittyangel @mary-ann84 @sillyrabbit81

So, enough of the small print...here we go:

**********

As much as Kat enjoyed her time with Henry and the feelings that blossomed between them there was this one disruptive factor called Mel.

When they were sitting on that rock the other day, almost kissing, when they were pouring their hearts out afterwards, it all felt so real, so possible, so tangible but whenever she saw Hen talk to Mel her heart sank and doubt started to nag at her hope. And he not only talked to Mel, he went to her place several times and so Kat went to London for contract negotiations with a publishing house with mixed feelings. 

She wanted to trust Henry who always laughed it off, when Kat asked him about Mel, saying they were just having a neighbourly chat, but she also wasn't willing to be heading for the rocks blindly. She wasn't able to ignore the existence of Mel and the connection between her and the man Kat had fallen for again. 

She missed Henry terribly when she was away though. Five days without him made her realize how close they had grown and how much she enjoyed being around him. Five lonely nights in a hotel bed increased her doubts and her worries, her jealousy and her insecurities. She couldn't stop her mind from creating worst case scenarios of Hen being with Mel. Of Mel seducing him, of Henry having sex with her, falling for the attractive, charming blonde who knew how to enchant a man. She imagined how he got trapped by this woman who'd never tried to hide that she was looking for a new husband, a new provider, after the last one had the audacity to die and leave her with a big, beautiful mansion but not with the amount of money Mel had hoped for. And in all these scenarios Kat was the one who was left behind with a broken heart. Again. 

When she returned to St. Ives on Saturday afternoon she found Lydia working in the garden and Sam in the kitchen, baking bread. Her brother hugged her, leaving handprints of flour on her black shirt.

"How was London?" 

Kat plopped down on a chair with a sigh. "Successful but exhausting. I can't believe that I actually liked living there. The traffic is horrible and all those people and the noise…"

"Good thing you're back in our beautiful, little sanctuary then. We've missed you. Even Darcy came looking for you every day." Sam shoved the loaf of bread he'd just moulded into the oven before he washed his hands and sat down at the table across from his younger sister.

"Really?" An amused smile played on Kat's lips. "And I thought Henry and Kal are all he cares about recently. How's Hen by the way? On the phone he said he's fine?"

"He is, I guess. No more panic attacks as far as I know. He's been in a pretty good mood all week, busy and full of energy."

Sam poured himself a glass of water and offered one to Kat too but she declined with a shake of her head.

"Where is he anyway?"

"At Mel's." 

Kat's expression changed from curious to annoyed in an instant. "Again? What's he doing there?"

"Having a coffee and a chat, I guess," Sam shrugged. "I don't know the details."

Kat rolled her eyes. "Of course not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you say it?"

Kat looked at Sam with a frown. "Nevermind."

"No, come on. Spill it. Are you implying I know something I won't tell you?" Sam got a little cross now.

"I'm not implying anything. I just don't understand why he spends so much time at her place and I can hardly believe your old rugby mate hasn't told you." She crossed her arms and gave her brother an expectant look.

"He told me what I've just told you. What do you think they're doing? Having a secret affair?" He let out a snort, laughing just at the thought of Hen and Mel but when he saw the frown on Kat's face it dawned on him. "Wait? That's what you're thinking? That something's going on between them? You're jealous?"

"Does that sound so far-fetched? She tries to dig her nails into every man who seems to be good husband material. She tried it with you and you don't need a crystal ball to know that she's for sure trying it with Hen too. And for the record...I'm worried about him, not jealous." Kat was all worked up now and Sam could easily tell that he'd hit a sore point.

"Henry is not an idiot, Kat. From my own experience I can tell you that Mel is anything but an enigma. I could tell what she's looking for after our first and only date and a man like Hen, who has to deal with gold diggers all the time, will see right through her without problems. There's no need to worry. And no need to be jealous." He grinned at her and Kat made a face. "Did you even listen to me? I've just told you that…"

"That you're not jealous. Yeah...yackety-yack. I know you, sis. You're in love with him. Don't try to deny it." Kat sighed and surrendered with a resigned smile. "Fuck, yeah and I feel like I'm sixteen again, Sammy. Confused and clueless. What is it about him that makes me feel like that? Why does it have to be so damn complicated?"

"It's not complicated. Trust him and listen to your heart."

"It's not that easy."

"No, obviously it's not. So maybe you should just ask him about Mel and work on your trust issues."

"It's not like I haven't asked him about her before. But I guess you're right. I'm gonna try again and talk to him tonight." She gave her brother a nod.

"At the meeting of The Lonely Hearts Club?" Sam winked at her with a grin that made Kat chuckle.

"He's told you about it?"

"Yeah. He's talked about it all week. Running around with piles of books, volumes of poems as far as I could see. Copying entire pages by hand into a notebook. To be honest, I think it's the reason for his good mood."

****

Maybe, Kat thought, or maybe he just enjoys fooling around with Mel.

When Kat climbed up the rope ladder a few hours later she had managed successfully to avoid Henry up to this point. She had spent the rest of the day in her room, brooding over Sam's words, about Henry and Mel for the umpteenth time and about the club meeting of course. She was close to chickening out but she decided to get her shit together and to enjoy the time with Henry on their little stroll down memory lane. And maybe, just maybe, she would even find the courage to ask him about Mel.

"Kat!" Henry flashed her one of those billion dollar smiles when she entered the tree house. "There you are." He hugged her and gave her a look full of relief. "I haven't seen you all afternoon. I was a little worried you'd stand me up." 

"Neighbourly duties?" Kat asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

She gave him a smile and shrugged. "Well, you were not around when I came back…"

"Yeah...I was busy." He grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. 

"Huh?"

"Sam said you went to visit Mel."

"Ah, yes. Yes, I did. You know we have a little chat every once in a while. She's...nice."

"How lovely."

"The room looks great, Hen." 

The awkward silence that fell over the room made them both uncomfortable. The unexpected tension left Henry in a state of insecurity. He'd hoped for an easy time with Kat, some intimate moments to share but the start of the night wasn't very promising. He cleared his throat before giving Kat a goofy smile.

"Shall we begin? I've prepared a little something. A few poems and...yeah." He shrugged helplessly and to his big relief Kat nodded with a smile. "Of course."

It was only then that Kat realized that Henry had decorated the treehouse with loving care. Blankets and cushions on the floor and candles in the corner of the room created a very warm and cozy atmosphere and a huge pile of books showed her that Henry was very well prepared for the first meeting of the Lonely Hearts Club since 1999. 

"Thanks, kitty. Let's sit." He plopped down beside the books, his long legs stretched out and Kat sat down cross-legged next to him, placing a little bluetooth speaker on the floor. "Prepare for some 90s flashback. I picked all the cheesy love songs we listened to non-stop." She started the playlist and soft music filled the air. Henry smiled at her and took a deep breath before he started to speak solemnly in his best statesman's voice.

The way he looked at her took her breath away for a moment, his gaze intense and pleading, he seemed so vulnerable it made her heart miss a beat. She wanted to kiss the insecurity and sadness that crossed his handsome face away but her own doubts made her fight the need to be close to him. Instead she took the notebook he handed her over and opened it. She stared at the name of the poem that was written down in Henry's neat handwriting on the first page. 

"I hereby declare the meeting of The Lonely Hearts Club open. Present are the founding members Katherine Elisabeth Spencer and Henry William Cavill."

Kat couldn't help but chuckle. He was such a dork.

"Would you do me the honor of reciting the first poem, dear kitty?" 

She knew it all too well and yet she'd almost forgotten it existed. Forgotten or repressed, it didn't really matter, she still knew it by heart, since it was the very poem she had read countless times after Henry had broken her heart. The fact that he knew it too, that he'd chosen these verse to be read out loud made her wonder if it was as familiar to him as it was to her. She cleared her throat, closed the book and her eyes and started to recite.

"When we two parted by George Gordon Byron."

She paused and took another deep breath.

"When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this."

Kat flinched slightly when she felt Henry's warm hand in hers. She looked at him and she wasn't surprised when he continued, his voice warm and soothing like thick, golden honey.

"The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow—

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame."

The game was the same it used to be back in the days at Stowe. They took turns to read the stanza. The only difference was that they were holding hands now. Kat spoke the next words with a steady voice although on the inside she was trembling.

"They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me—

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell."

She smiled at Henry, sensing that he needed her reinsurance for the last paragraph. He returned the smile and went on. 

"In secret we met—

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears."

They sat in silence for several minutes, comfortable silence this time, the quiet connecting them in a way words never could.

"I've got another one you might like." Henry said softly after a while. He reluctantly let go of her hand, took the notebook and searched through the pages. "Here it is."

"Bring it on." Kat smiled at him, hardly able to hide the loving feelings that spread inside her chest and her belly. Henry nodded and began.

"My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety."

"That's beautiful, pop." Kat blushed under Henry's smirk when he heard the nickname slip from her lips. "William Wordsworth?" she guessed.

"Yes. I'd never heard of it before, but Mel showed it to me the other day."

Kat's smile faded like a shadow in the dark.

"Oh really, did she? So that's what you're doing when you meet? You read poems to each other?" Her voice had chilled in an instant, her body language switched from open hearted to closed off. Henry was confused by the sudden change of tone.

"Yes, she told me about it when I mentioned that I was looking for romantic poems by british poets. And no, that's not what we usually do."

"And what do you do? Usually?" 

"Nothing special, as I've told you before. And honestly, Kat..it's none of your business anyway."

That felt like a slap in the face to her.

"Right...yeah...you're absolutely right. It's none of my business what you do or who you're fooling around with." Kat got up, tapping off non-existing dirt from her jeans with determined motions that showed how touched and churned up she was.

"Fooling around?" Henry got up too in a hurry, knocking his head on a branch that was part of the treehouse's roof. He cursed before he turned to Kat again. "You can't be serious. You don't really think I f...that I sleep with Mel, do you?"

"I don't know what to think, Henry. You spend so much time with her lately…"

"And I've told you it's harmless and I just visit our neighbour from time to time." He tried to take her hand but Kat took a step back, turning around to stare out of the window with a deep sigh.

"You still don't trust me." His voice was sad now and there was a note of disappointment too. 

"I really want to, Henry. But it's so hard…" Her shoulders were trembling and her soft sobs told him she was crying. He hugged her gently from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "I know, kitty. And I know that I'm the one to blame for this dilemma. But you have to believe me. There's nothing between me and Mel. I don't fuck her and I'm not interested in her. I only care about you. Okay?" The last words were nothing more than a whisper in her ear, a light breeze of tones that made her want to believe him. She nodded, leaning into his embrace but she wasn't able to give him a proper answer. The truth was she had no answer. She knew she loved him but what she didn't know was if she was going to allow herself to act accordingly. 

"Listen, Kat. This might not be the right time nor place to do this, but I need to ask you something. I'm going to Jersey next week for my mum's 70s birthday and I wonder if you'd want to come with me?"

Kat turned around in his arms abruptly, taken by surprise by his question. He didn't let go of her waist and so she found herself closer than ever to him, his gorgeous face right in front of her. "You want me to go to Jersey with you?" He nodded. "As my plus one. Yes." She freed herself carefully from his embrace. "But…"

"Let me explain." Henry took a step back to give her some space. "My mum invited me months ago and I accepted...of course...but to be honest, I've dreaded that family gathering since day one. All eyes will be on me, everyone's gonna try to wrap me up in cotton wool, walking on eggshells around me, wondering if I'm okay." He sighed and shrugged. "Don't get me wrong. I'm beyond grateful to have a family that is worried about me, loving people who care, but it also stresses me out. Having you by my side would be very helpful and besides that, I would hate to be separated from you again. Those five days last week were long enough, Kat and don't even make me start with the 22 years prior. You have no idea how much I missed you." He gave her a sheepish smile and she couldn't help but return it. "I missed you too, Hen. But I'm really not sure if this is a good idea. Your parents hardly know me."

"Don't be silly. They remember you very well. You spent Christmas 1998 with us. Please don't say you forgot about that...my parents invited you after I spent the summer with your family here in St. Ives."

"Of course I remember that. It was the most lively and jolly Christmas of my childhood. All those people at your parents house, the chatter and singing and goofing about, it was such a stark contrast to Christmas with my family."

"See...you can have that again. A crowded, noisy place, loads of laughter, alcohol, fun and food. When I asked my mum if it's okay to invite you she was so excited, Kat. She'd love to see you again and so would my dad and my brothers. And I'm sure you're gonna like my sisters-in-law and all my nephews and nieces." Kat smiled.

"That sounds good."

"So you're in?"

"I don't know. Where would we stay? At your parent's?"

"No. I always stay at a small cottage near the beach when I visit them. I bought it a few years ago."

Kat started to chew on her lower lip.

"Two bedrooms." Henry added with a wink before making the next try to take her hands. This time she didn't pull back. "Please say yes, Kat. Let's spend some time together. We can stay there for a week or so. When the whole Cavill bunch leaves after the celebration, it will only be you and me and lots of time to...to bond again. So what do you say?"

*******

#henry cavill #cavillry #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill rpf #henry cavill slow burn #slow burn

[yuckitup-jwd]

Historical people answer the question - Why did the chicken cross the road?

Douglas Adams: Forty-Two

Earnest Angsley: To be HAYELED! in the name o'Jayeeezus!

Marcus Antonius: The evil that chickens do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones.

Any Philosophy 101 Professor: Why not?

Any Calculus Professor: The road, if expressed in the form (y2-y1)/(x2-x1) is approximate for cases where lim(y2-y1)/(x2-x1) as (x2-x1) -> 0, is represented by the derivative, or rate of change, of the road with respect to the chicken, such that the value of the chicken may be assumed equal to the value of (y2-y1)/(x2-x1), for small values of roads.

Jane Austen: Because it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single chicken, being posessed of a good fortune and presented with a good road, must be desirous of crossing.

Aristotle: To actualize its potential.

Neil Armstrong: One small step for chickenkind, one giant leap for poultry.

Arthur, King of the Britons: What do you mean? African or European chickens?

Paul Atreidies: What name have you for the chicken shaped stain upon your road? That shall be the name that you shall call me!

Lord Baden-Powell: Because as a Chicken Scout, it needed the Road-Crossing Merit Badge.

Bilbo Baggins: Oh what I wouldn't give to back in my nice, warm Hobbit-hole! I hope I never have to lay eyes on such a thing as that chicken again!

Baldrick: It had a cunning plan.

The Band: To take a load off....

The Bandit, in The Treasure of The Sierra Madre: "Chickens? Chickens? We don't need no stinkin' chickens!"

Clive Barker: He was drawn to the road, and he didn't so much cross the road as the road crossed him. And once across, the chicken entered into a frightening void, filled only with the screams of a thousand agonized souls. The hands of doom reached out of the blackness, strangling the chicken, smothering him, suffocating him. He could not escape, as no one who crosses the road can escape. He was now a prisoner of the Cenobytes, doomed to an eternity of pain.

Roseanne Barr: Urrrrrp. What chicken?

The Beatles: To be free as a bird!

Lavrenti Beria (ex-head of the KGB): This is a State Secret -- we have informants everywhere.

Bill The Cat Ack. Thpppbt

Blackadder: Queenie: Because I told it to. Percy: To acquire a hunk of purest green Lord Flasheart: To DOOOOOOOOO IT!

Lucien Bouchard: So that it could be SEPARATE!

Ben Bova: To be reunited with beautiful grey-eyed Athena, the woman he has loved for all of time

Brisco (Law and Order): For A Bagel

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce and Bruce: To grab a Fosters and get away from the poofters!

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken-nature.

Archie Bunker: I don't care what them there chickens do, as long as they stay on THEIR side of the street!

Bugs Bunny: What's up, cluck?

Robert Burns: Fair Fa Your Honest Sonsie Face Great Chieftain O' The Chicken Race The blackened road 'ahind ye said Ye best run quick ere ye be deid!

George Bush: If it did it was out of the loop

George Bush: (again) It could see the thousand points of headlights....

Rhett Butler: Frankly my dear, it didn't give a damn!

C3PO (1): Sir, may I remind you that I am fluent in 6,000,000 forms of communication and this chicken has not... shutting up, sir.

C3PO (2): Sir, according to my calculations, the odds of a chicken successfully navigating a road are 3,750 to 1 against.

Caesar: It came, it saw, it crossed.

Joseph Campbell: In primitive cultures, we can find many such examples of the chicken motif that cannot be dismissed as mere coincidence. For instance, I am reminded of an old Navajo legend in which a buffalo crosses a stream to "come" to the other side -- an obvious negative language devised to prepare tribesmen for a transcendental experience. Similarly, the Hindus believe in savanaya, or a sacred cow that leaps over a chasm on Thursdays. Through metaphorical interpretation, we are led to realize that all examples suggest an attainable higher state of consciousness like that of Nietzsche's ubermench, or superman, as outlined in his novel "Thus Spoke Zarathustra."

Albert Camus: Seeing that an indifferent world lied on all sides of the road, the chicken knew it would be absurd not too cross, and for that moment, the chicken knew what it was to really be alive. It was if the bird had been asleep its entirely up until this choice was put before him. So, with a newfound determination and a smile, the chicken valiently crossed the road only to be put out of its mercy by an eighteen wheeler.

Candide: To cultivate its garden.

Johnny Carson: Let me tell you, it was so cold at that farm... Ed McMahon: How cold was it? Johnny Carson: It was so cold, that the chickens were mugging the sheep to get wool for sweaters!

Raymond Chandler: Across these mean streets a chicken must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete chicken and a common chicken and yet an unusual chicken. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a chicken of honor - by instinct, by inevitability, withough thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best chicken in his world and a good enough chicken for any world.

Charlie X: Because it didn't want to STAY....STAY....STAY....STAY....STAY...

Cheech (or Chong): Just to be there, man.

The Chicken: I am crossing the road to block traffic as a protest against ..." (thump).

Commander Chikotay: I'm not sure but I can find out. That chicken is my animal spirit guide.

Noam Chomsky: To manufacture consent

Tom Clancy: The Mark 84 gargleblaster that the chicken carried, at the heart of which was an inferior ex-Soviet excimer laser system, had insufficient range to allow the chicken to carry out its mission from this side of the road.

John Cleese From Fawlty Towers: Manuel from Barcelona: "Que?" Basil: "You know, a chicken crossing the road...." Manuel: "Que?" Basil: [looking it up in a dictionary], "Un Pollo..." Manuel: interrupting, "No, No we out of chicken.." * WHAP!!*

John Cleese: Because it was very silly.

John Cleese: (again) This isn't a chicken license, you know! It's a dog license with the word "Dog" crossed out and "Chicken" written in in crayon.

John Cleese: (#3) This Chicken is no more. It has ceased to function. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. It's a stiff. If it wasn't nailed to the road it'd be pushing up daisies. It's snuffed it. It's metabolic processes are now history. It's bleeding demised. It's rung down the curtain, shuffled off the mortal coil and joined the bleeding Choir Invisible. This is an Ex-Chicken.

Bill Clinton: What?

Bill Clinton (again): The chicken was persuaded to cross the road by the Democratic congress. It is now returning to the middle of the road

Joseph Conrad: Mistah Chicken, he dead.

John Constantine: Because it'd made a bollocks of things over on this side of the road and figured it'd better get out right quick.

Alastair Cooke: Good Evening, and welcome to Masterpiece Theatre. Tonight, we present the epic British drama "How The Chicken Went," based on the 1843 novel by Herbert T. Poultry, and adapted for the screen by Joanna Drumstick. Starring Susan Hampshire as the Chicken, and Anthony Hopkins as the evil and unrepentant diner, Borstrom, this elegant period piece explores the mores and morality of a society in which ordinary chickens had to face their destiny of crossing the road to meet their fate at the hands of the monied upper classes, regardless of their own ambitions or desires...

Shiela Copps (Deputy Prime Minister of Canada): BECAUSE I SCREAMED AT IT REAL LOUD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sheila Copps: Okay, I know that the chicken promised it would cross the road if the Liberals failed to eliminate the GST, but it was a stupid promise to make and the chicken deeply regrets ever making it. However, the chicken will not be crossing the road because to do so would cost tax payers $500,000.

Sheila Copps (a few days later): Alright! Alright! The chicken will cross the road like it promised. But it'll be right back again. Now leave me alone.

Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing events to grace the annals of history. An historic, unprecendented avian biped with the temerity to attempt such an herculean achievement formerly relegated to homo sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable occurrence.

Jacques Ives Cousteau: Zee cheecken, unaware of zee dangare beehind heem, crosses zee street. Weezout warning, zee Porsche strikes, and zee balance of zee nature ees maintained.

Stephen R. Covey: When the chicken and the road can work together for the win-win, the result is synergy!

Jean Cretien, Prime Minister of Canada: "It wasn't a chicken, you know, it was an Inuit carving of a loon. But the RCMP should have been there anyway..."

Aleister Crowley: Because it was its True Will to do so.

Salvador Dali: The Fish.

Stephanie Daniels: It was the turtle's day off.

Darwin: It was the logical next step after coming down from the trees.

Commander Data: I do not know. Although I have compared all of my 437 billion data points relating to chickens and roads, there is no possitive correlation between the two.

W. Edwards Demming: But is one chicken crossing one road of statistical importance? Only once we have established an historical baseline of chickens with respect to roads, with calculated upper and lower control limits, can we make that determination.

Arthur Dent: Are you sure the chicken is from Beetelgeuse, and not from Gilford after all?

Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!

Rene Descartes: It had sufficient reason to believe it was dreaming anyway.

Descartes (again): The chicken was merely a machine and was crossing due to the deterministic nature of the universe.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Bob Dole: Do you know that before that chicken had gotten across the road, its cellular phone was ringing and there was a lawyer on the other end asking if it would like to sue the city for not putting up a traffic light.

Bob Dylan: How many roads must a chicken travel down, before they call him a man?

E.T.: Chicken, phone home

Ecclesiastes (1): For every fowl, there is a season. A time for garlic, a time for sage...

Ecclesiastes (2): This bird is meaningless.

Wyatt Earp: Well, chicken, are you gonna do something, or just stand there and bleed?

Eeyore: If it did. Which I doubt. Not that it matters.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road crossed the chicken depends on your frame of reference.

T.S. Eliot: It's not that they cross, but that they cross like chickens.

Harlan Ellison: Because he had no beak and must scream.

Emergency Medical Holographic Doctor on U.S.S. Voyager: Maybe it was trying to state the nature of a medical emergency.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn't cross the road; it transcended it.

Epicurus: For fun.

Basil Fawlty: Oh, don't mind that chicken. It's from Barcelona.

Sybil Fawlty: BASIL! Why is there a CHICKEN in my hotel?

Dr. Johnny Fever: To escape from the Phone Cops!

Fiver (from Watership Down): Don't you see it? The sky has turned to blood, the field has turned to fire... THE CHICKENS! DON'T YOU SEE THE CHICKENS?

Gerald R. Ford: It probably fell from an airplane and couldn't stop its forward momentum.

Sigmund Freud: The chicken obviously was female and obviously interpreted the pole on which the crosswalk sign was mounted as a phallic symbol of which she was envious, selbstverstaendlich.

Robert Frost: To cross the road less traveled by.

Barney Fyfe: Now Andy, let me tell you a thing or two about chickens. Chickens cross roads in those other counties, but not here in Mayberry. No chicken crosses no roads in Mayberry without Deputy Fyfe knowing about it!

Gandalf: O chicken, do not meddle in the affairs of roads, for you are tasty and good with barbecue sauce.

Bill Gates: For the money

Frank Bunker Gilbereth: To minimize its therbligs

Jim Gillis: The chicken crossed the road to show the gophers it could be done.

Newt Gingrich: To get to the RIGHT side of the road.

Newt Gingrich (again): The chicken had to cross the road, because, bogged down by the incredible debt burden, it was no longer able to fly.

Newt Gingrich (III): It was safety pinned to one of those damn punk rockers!

Ira Glasser (ACLU): The chicken maintains an absolute privacy interest in information as to whether or why he or she may have perambulated the thoroughfare.

Johann Wolfgang v. Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.

Sir Charles Grandiose: As surely as the golden hairs turn to silver, as surely as the sands drift silently through the slender neck of the hourglass, the last sunny days of summer flee soundlessly under autumn's chilly embrace. And with those last days of that warmest and most joyful of seasons, left the road's edge the sprightliest young chicken ever a Baronet did see

Hercules Gryptyppe-Thynne, (All-around Public-School Cad): That's not a chicken! It's a clever disguise, inside of which is Count Jim "Thighs" Moriarity.....

Gary Gygax: Because I rolled a 64 on the "Chicken Random Behaviors" chart on page 497 of the Dungeon Master's Guide.

Hamlet: Because 'tis better to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of outrageous road maintenance than to take arms against a sea of oncoming vehicles.

Thomas Hardy: The road was black, the sky was white (and so were the feathers) as the bright red mark on the top of the chicken's head gleamed in the twilight. It was a pure chicken and it was doomed.

Mike Harris, (Premier of Ontario): Like evrything else in this province, it was facing the axe.

Paul Harvey: And now... page two... a chicken... attempts to cross... the street... yes... the street... and is... run down by a... Buick! The Buick Roadmaster with it's powerful perfomance and elegant style! Yes... that poor chicken... hit by the Buick... it's true... it's... true... and speaking of true... your local True Value Hardware Store...

Hegel: Only through the synthesis of the dialectical chicken and road could the spirit transcend the experience of crossing.

Robert Heinlein: Because with the freedom the chicken was given, it was the chicken's responsibility to do so.

Robert Heinlein (again): The more widely dispersed chickens are throughout the Universe, the better the long-term prospects for the survival of the chicken species.

Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken was on, but it was moving very fast.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its pancreas.

Doug Hofstadter: To seek explication of the correspondence between appearance and essence through the mapping of the external road-object onto the internal road-concept.

Sherlock Holmes: It crossed the road because it was going to catch a train at Victoria Station at 3:15, to Edinburgh. And how did I know that? Observe, Watson, the patina of dust on the chicken's feathers, which indicates that it had been spending time in a library, reading about Scotland. And observe also that it was humming "Bonnie Lassie" as it waited to cross. Finally, and most important, observe the train ticket marked Edinburgh, stuffed under one wing, and the fact that Victoria station was where the chicken crossed the street, and finally that the only train to Edinburgh this afternoon is the 3:15....

David Hume: Out of custom and habit.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Lee Iacocca: It found a better car, which was on the other side of the road.

Dr. Jack Van Impe: Well you see, here's the really exciting part, if we were to look at Revelation 17:3 we will see that the Whore of Babylon rides on a scarlet beast. A scarlet beast! What this means is a Rhode Island Red. And the truly glorious thing is that this beast, this Rhode Island Red, this CHICKEN has crossed the road EXACTLY as was prophesized in the Bible and this is all a sign, Revelation 17:3, that we're living in the End Time. Hallelujah! And if you would like more information on the significance of this chicken crossing the road as all part of God's great plan then send me $50 and you will recieve this set of video tapes along with a copy of my recent book "Chickens: fowl beast, or foul beast?".

John Paul Jones: It has not yet begun to cross!

Carl Jung: The confluence of events in the cultural gesalt necessitated that individual chickens cross roads at this historical juncture, and therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.

Franz Kafka: Dieter, now in the form of a chicken, was running from the government's torture machine. The machine, an instrument of death, slowly obliterated the souls of its victims. Dieter was alone. He was running for his life, his insignificant life.

Immanuel Kant: The pure transcendental concept of the road, having been deduced a priori and without dependence on intuitions, is given in the mode of the chicken as an end in itself, while crossing the road as a hypothetical imperative, namely, as acting towards some end allowed by Reason.

Casey Kasem: And now here's a hot new number from a hot young band whose drummer was so tragically killed in a freeway accident, it's The Hen House Flock singing "When You Gonna Crow?" hitting the charts at number 23!

JFK: The chicken chose to cross the road in this decade not because it was easy, but because it was hard.

Obi Wan Kenobi: To follow old obi wan on some damn fool idealistic crusade.

Jack Kerouac: The chicken hipster, high on tea and the soul groves of Charlie (the bird) Parker, strolled aimlessly on the road looking for his dharma.

Soren Kierkegaard: The chicken is dead. The road is nothing.

Colonel Kilgore: "I love the smell of chickens in the morning"

Martin Luther King: It had a dream.

James Tiberius Kirk: To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.

Ralph Klein: Because we gave it a one-way bus ticket to B.C.

Mark Knophler: How come Chickens got Industrial Disease?

Mark Lane: There is new, irrefutable evidence that the chicken did not act alone.

Gary Larson: Don't ask me. I am retired. Stan Laurel: I'm sorry, Ollie. It escaped when I opened the run.

Timothy Leary: Because that's the only kind of trip the Establishment would let it take.

John Le Carre: Because it knew, at the core of its being where none could ever reach, that its only course of action now that its cover was blown wide open was to try and slip away into the grey, foggy, bleak evening before Smiley came, accompanied by his silent shadow Peter Guillam, asking questions for which there could never be answers.

Dr. Hannibal Lector: So I could eat its liver, with some fava beans and a nice chianti .......thththththththth.

Leda: Are you sure it wasn't Zeus dressed up as a chicken? He's into that kind of thing, you know.

Foghorn Leghorn: To get to that damn Dawg, Boah!

Gottfried Von Leibniz: In this best possible world, the road was made for it to cross.

Vladimir Lenin: It is not the chicken's road. It is the PEOPLE'S road!

David Letterman: And the No. 1 reason - fricasee!

Rush Limbaugh: Beacuse of those damn bleeding heart liberals, trying to save one stupid bird while thousands of jobs are being lost. Dave Lister: Because of the smegging space corps directives.

Any Late Evening News Anchor: The chicken crosses the road. Film at 11:00.

Abraham Lincoln: Fourscore and seven eggs ago, our forefeathers...

Logan (Law and Order): To buy a plaid tie

Jack London: To answer the call of the wild.

H.P. Lovecraft: To futilely attempt escape from the dark powers which even then pursued it, hungering after the stuff of its soul!

George Lucas: Because the Force was with it.

Machiavelli: So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a chicken which has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but also with fear, for whom among them has the strength to contend with such a paragon of avian virtue? In such a manner is the princely chicken's dominion maintained.

Marvin (the paranoid android): "Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and you ask me why the chicken crossed the road? I could tell you, but I really don't think it's worth while."

Marvin the Paranoid Android: Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and what do they ask me? Why did the chicken cross the road? As if their pathetic cerebelums could even comprehend my answer. Chickens, don't talk to me about chickens... they're SO depressing.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Karl Marx (again): To escape the bourgeois middle-class struggle.

Groucho Marx: Chicken? What's all this talk about chicken? Why, I had an uncle who thought he was a chicken. My aunt almost divorced him, but we needed the eggs.

Groucho Marx (again): This morning I shot a chicken in my pyjamas -- and lemme tell ya, that chicken ran out of my pyjamas in a second!

Jackie Mason: Whaddaya want, it should just stand there?

Perry Mason: Cross the road you say? But how can you be sure? No one else would have known the chicken crossed the road except for the real killer!

Dr. McCoy: How should I know? Damnit Jim, I'm a Doctor not an ornithologist!

Marshall McLuhan: The Road is the Medium. The chicken is the Message!

Gregor Mendel: To get various strains of roads.

A.A. Milne: I imagine that if I thought very hard I shouold come up with a reason. (also applicable to Winnie the Pooh)

John Milton: To justify the ways of God to men.

Indigo Montoya: It too pursues a man with six fingers on his left hand.

Michael Moriarity: To annoy Janet Reno.

Jim Morrison: To break on thruough to the other side, I am the chicken king

Ralph Nader: A chicken on a road is unsafe at any speed

Sir Isaac Newton: Chickens at rest tend to stay at rest. Chickens in motion tend to cross the road.

Jack Nicholson: 'Cause it (censored) wanted to. That's the (censored) reason.

Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road gazes also across you.

Col. Oliver North: I do not recall any such events. I had no knowledge of these occurrences.

Peter Norton: It was a virus and it saw me coming...

Richard Nixon: That part of our conversation was accidentally erased.

George Orwell: Because Big Brother was watching to make sure that it did cross the road, although in its heart, the chicken never did.

Thomas Paine: Out of common sense.

Michael Palin: Nobody expects the banished inky chicken!

Emporer Palpatine: Foolish chicken! Only now, at the end, do you see the head-lights!

Dorothy Parker: Travel, trouble, music, art / A kiss, a frock, a rhyme / The chicken never said they fed its heart / But still they pass its time.

Patsy: Oh, F*&% the chicken. Run it over and lets have a drink.

Gen. George S. Patton: To get those yellow bellied chickens outta here.

General George S. Patton (again): The way to win a war is not to cross a road for you country. The way to win a war is to make some OTHER poor chicken cross a road for HIS COUNTRY!

Wolfgang Pauli: There already was a chicken on the other side of the road.

Frank Perdue: How the heck do I know? Do I look like a chicken to you -- don't answer that.

Marlin Perkins, on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom: Watch, as the chicken mauls Jim yet again...

H. Ross Perot: I'm crossing. I'm not crossing....

H. Ross Perot2: Crossing the road is that chickens primary concern! PRIMARY concern!

H. Ross Perot3: Chickens and roads, I'll tell ya what it means! It means 4 trillion dollars of dafficit, it means the end of our infrastructure, it means... look at this chart!

H. Ross Perot4: Let me tell ya, it's all about NAFTA. This chicken represents your job, and this road represents the Mexican border...

Jean-Luc Picard: To see what's out there.

Jean-Luc Picard (again): Because it's shields were down and it had no other options left...

Piglet: Because ch-ch-chickens are such very s-s-s-small animals.

Plato: For the greater good.

Edgar Allan Poe: Quoth the chicken,"Nevermore!"

Emily Post: When a chicken is confronted with a road, it is only proper for the chicken to stand erect, turn to face the road, look both ways and cross... remembering to send a sincere thank you letter within one month of the event.

Elvis Presley: You aint nothin' but a chicken, crossin' all the roads!

Psalms: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no road!

Pyrrho the Skeptic: What Road?

Monty Python: For Something Completely Different

Dan Quayle: "chicken" C-H-I-K-E-N "chicken"

The Red Queen: Who cares? Off with it's head!

R2D2: beep bleep be deep birp whirrrrrrrrr!

The White Rabbit: It was late!

Ayn Rand: The chicken crossed the road in order to get away from the flock that is stifling his creativity.

Ayn Rand (again): If not for the intransigently independent vision of that first chicken, none of the other chickens would have been able to cross the road. And they condemned him for his acheivement!

Ronald Reagan: I don't recall. What was the question?

Georg Friedrich Riemann: The answer appears in Dirichlet's lectures.

Pat Riley: The chicken crossed the lane in less than 3 seconds, so a "fowl" should not have been called.

Rimmer: Aliens!!!

General Jack D. Ripper: To maintain the purity of its precious bodily fluids.

Geraldo Rivera: Stay tuned as a panel of chickens reveals the shocking truth.

Tom Robbins: Well you see, that chicken was a special chicken who was a descendent of a parrot family that once built pyramids for tourist pharohs. This chicken liked the other side of the road whose shamanic whispers beckoned Anastasia, the parrot, like the popped cherry of a ritually consumated white wedding. That's the meaning of it all, baby!

Oral Roberts: He couldn't raise the $10,000,000.00 so God called him home.

Oral Roberts (again): And I said to the chicken: "Put your claw on the screen! Put your claw on the screen, upon the hand of Brother Oral, and you shall be healed. Make a love offering of $50 or more, and then touch the screen. And that chicken did put his claw on the screen. And the power of God, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, flowed through me and out through that television set, and that chicken was healed *PRAISE GOD!*. And then that chicken, stricken for so many months, rose up and walked across the road. But, since he had forgotten his love offering, God never warned him about the 30 ton semi barreling down on the crosswalk...."

Carl Sagan: To see the billions and billions of stars.

Col. Saunders: It Ran, Suh! I offered it a coating of 11 herbs and spices and it ran, Suh! So I shot it, Suh, shot it while it was trying to escape, suh!

Sappho: For the touch of your skin, the sweetness of your lips..

Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to itself, the chicken found it necessary to cross the road.

Arnold Schwarzenegger: It was going back...

Mr. Scott: 'Cos ma wee transporter beam was na functioning properly. Ah canna work miracles, Captain, wi' no dilithium crystals left to speak of!

Agent Scully: There simply must be a rational, scientific explanation. Chickens don't just "cross roads"

Neddy Seagoon: WhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatWHAT?

William Shakespeare:

1: This is the road of chicken's discontent, Made ignoble abbatoir by this half-ton truck... (Richard II)

2: Bring me no more reports, let them fly all; 'Til a chicken remove to other side of road I cannot taint with fear. What is this chicken? Was he not born of hen? The spirits that know All fowl consequences have pronounced me thus: "Fear not, MacNugget; no chicken that's born of hen Shall e'er lay beak upon thee." (Macbeth)

3: If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly: if the crossing Could scoot across the dotted line, and catch, Beyond passing car, sidewalk; that but these feathers Might be the be-all and end-all here, But here, at this corner of street and avenue, We'd cross at the light to come. (Macbeth)

4: To cross, or not to cross? That is the question, Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The wheels and axles of the city's mass transit Or to take flight against a sea of motorists And by opposing, end me? To cross, to peep No more! And by that peep to say we end The chickhood and the thousand fender-shocks That chicken is heir to. 'Tis a perambulation Devoutly to be wish'd. (Hamlet)

Homer Simpson: ohhhhhhhh Chicken.....

Bart Simpson: It's outta here, man!

Mrs. Slocum: Now look what you've done, there's chicken all over my pussy!

Kenneth Starr: In view of President Clinton's dealings with the Tyson Poultry Company, the matter of the chicken crossing the road is under investigation for its possible connection with the Whitewater affair.

George Steinbrenner: Because I offered him a $4 million contract.

George Steinbrenner2: Because I fired him!

George Steinbrenner3: Because he's now my new manager.

George Steinbrenner4: Because I fired him again!

Dr. Suess: See the end of this document for the full Dr. Suess version.

Sisyphus: Was it pushing a rock, too?

B.F. Skinner: Because the external influences which had pervaded its sensorium from birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it would tend to cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of its own free will.

Mr. Spock: It was not logical for the chicken to do so, but I have frequently observed that the behaviour of chickens is not logical

E.E. (Doc) Smith: Your humble narrator can barely do justice to this climactic event that rent asunder the fundamental ether of space itself, as the chicken, embodying all that is good and hard and straight and keen in the Avain world, fearlessly approached, bridged, and conquered the road for Civilization.

Socrates: To pick up some hemlock at the corner druggist.

The Sphinx: You tell me.

Joseph Stalin: It was clearly a conspiracy. Take all the chickens out and shoot them. At Once!

John Steinbeck: The road baked in the relentless summer sun as the chicken, looking about, began to cross. It stopped occaisionally to peck at a grass seed that had become lodged in a crevice in the cracked macadam. The chicken reached the other side, then began making his way to the Salinas, which lay muddy and turgid in the July afternoon, all the while thinking of the cool shade by the river and how good the can of beans in his bedroll would taste tonight.

Ben Stone (Law and Order): Because the defendant made it, sir.

Oliver Stone: He went back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the..

Dr. Strangelove: Because it could not afford to be caught on the wrong side of the road-side gap.

John Sununu: The Air Force was only too happy to provide the transportation, so quite understandably the chicken availed himself of the opportunity.

Grand Moff Tarkin: Fear will keep the chickens in line, fear of this thoroughfare!

Tim "The Toolman" Taylor: This here bird'll cross that road in no time flat, now that I've made a few "special modifications! We've added the Binford 7100 Multi-Purpose power unit, which I've souped up by adding a United Aircraft PT-6 jet engine - Urrgh urrgh urrgh! Heidi, bring out the chicken, please....

Alfred, Lord Tennyson: So that it could sail beyond the sunset.

Old Testament: And rooster and hen were married. And rooster did begat chicken. And chicken did cross the road.

New Testament: He among you who has not crossed roads, let him cast the first egg!

Margaret Thatcher: There was simply no alternative!

Theodoric of York, the Medievil Barber: Because of an imbalance of bodily humors caused by an elf or small toad living in the chicken's stomach. What this fowl needs is a good bleeding. Dylan Thomas: To not go (sic) gentle into that good night.

Hunter S. Thompson: Why the &*%$#@ not?

Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately ... and suck all the marrow out of life.

Tiggr: Because that's what chickens do best!

Tiggr: (again) That's the wonderful thing about Chickens, Chasing Chickens is FUN FUN FUN, And the Wonderful thing about Chickens Is that when crossing streets they RUN!

Tim, the Enchanter: It's got wings that... and a beak that... good god man, look at the bones!

Brian Tobin (new premier of Newfoundland): It followed the cod....

J.R.R. Tolkein: The chicken, sunlight coruscating off its radiant yellow- white coat of feathers, approached the dark, sullen asphalt road and scrutinized it intently with its obsidian-black eyes. Every detail of the thoroughfare leapt into blinding focus: the rough texture of the surface, over which count- less tires had worked their relentless tread through the ages; the innumerable fragments of stone embedded within the lugubrious mass, perhaps quarried from the great pits where the Sons of Man labored not far from here; the dull black asphalt itself, exuding those waves of heat which distort the sight and bring weakness to the body; the other attributes of the great highway too numerous to give name.

Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I'll find out.

Anthony Trollope: Why, to avoid Mrs. Proudy and Mr. Slope, of course.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Darth Vader: Because it could not resist the power of the Dark Side.

George Washington: I cannot tell a lie. I was going to chop it with my little axe, so it crossed the road.

Mae West: 'Cause I invited it to come up and see me sometime.

Jerry White: Why does a chicken cross the road only half-way? So she can lay it on the line.

Walt Whitman: To cluck the song of itself.

Robert Anton Wilson: Because agents of the Ancient Illuminated Roosters of Cooperia were controlling it with their Orbital Mind-Control Lasers as part of their master plan to take over the world's egg production.

Major Charles Emerson Winchester, the Third: What do you two-bit quacks know about chickens? Did you learn about them in medical school, or did you just read the comic book?

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of "crossing" was encoded into the objects "chicken" and "road," and circumstances came into being which caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.

Wittgenstein #2: There are indeed things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical.

Wittgenstein #3: What we cannot explain we must pass over in silence.

Tom Wolfe: Kesey, muscles rippling under his shirt, a mysterious smile on his face, surrounded by the Merry Pranksters, placed the chicken at the road's edge. The chicken paused at the edge of the road, looking this way and that, and then rending the air with a tremendous, "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" bolted across the road, its disheveled wings flapping uselessly about, leaving a trail of feathers and dander that, whenever two-ton chromium steel, 300 horsepower tail-finned symbols of Detroit's and America's supremacy passed, would swirl in a miniature version of a cyclone like the ones Mr. and Mrs. America see on the TV news every evening when he's come home from work and she's setting the table for dinner, both only half paying attention to the cyclones that devastate midwestern cow towns on sweltering summer afternoons. And the heat, dander, tornados, asphalt, tail-fins and the sweat of Mr. and Mrs. America as they move mechanically in their daily routine like the figurines in one of those huge medieval clocks on some cathedral in some European town, moving in the same way, every hour on the hour, it was all summed up by the "ba-BAAWWWWKKK!" of a scampering chicken accompanied by the "skritch, skritch" of its feet.

William Wordsworth: To have something to recollect in tranquility.

Mr. Worf: I do not know, Klingon chickens do NOT cross the road.

Molly Yard: It was a hen!

Yoda: Crossing the road makes not a chicken great

Henny Youngman: Take this chicken ... please.

Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.

STAR TREK CHICKENS CROSS THE ROAD TOO

Chakotay: Whatever its reason, whatever its goals, we should respect its right to cross the road and seek its own spiritual awareness.

Neelix: Actually, Captain, I'm not really familiar with the chickens in this system. But--if you can catch it, I can cook it.

Riker: I don't know why, but I do know how: with pleasure, sir.

Garak: To get to the other side? Of course not! Do you realize how ridiculous that is? I'm sure it was a simple matter of its farmer expelling it from the coop for...embezzling eggs.

Odo: I don't have the slightest idea--and I don't particularly care...but then, I've never understood you ornithoids' need to engage in such pointless behavior.

Quark: Now really, why would I have bribed him to do it so I could make a tidy profit in the station pool? Besides, all I know is that chicken tastes just like tube grubs.

Q: Wouldn't you like to know? Too bad your puny human brain wouldn't be able to comprehend the answer.

O'Brien: Well, it's nothing a good pint or two won't fix.

Uhura: Shall I open hailing frequencies so you can ask it, sir?

V'Ger: To join with the Creator.

Sulu: To get back to San Franciso; it was born there.

Troi: It was running...running away from...no, escaping...oh, Captain, it was fleeing from such -pain-!

Kira: I bet those damn Cardassians were after it!

Picard: Dammit, that's not for us to answer! It's his fundamental right as a sentient being to determine the time and manner by which he travels towards his goals!

Dr. Bashir: I suppose it wanted to play some darts.

The Grand Nagus: Stupid chicken! You don't cross the road all at once! You sneak across it quietly, without anyone noticing! (Inconceivable!)

Sisko: I don't care -why- it was crossing the road! All I want to know is -why- it left the coop! So it wanted to "get to the other side"--there is only -so far- that my tolerance will go!

Barclay: Uh, chicken?!! Where?!!! C-c-c-ommander, did I ever mention my problem with small feathered things?

Gul Dukat: Well, that's a very interesting question...I'm sure we can work out some kind of arrangement to obtain that information that will be to everyone's satisfaction.

The Borg: Crossing the road is irrelevant. It will be assimilated.

Hugh the Borg: Maybe it wanted to be my friend.

Geordi: Well, wherever it's going, I'm sure it'll be there in an hour or two--but any later, and it'll be absolutely impossible for it to make it.

Jake: To check out the babe that just came off that transport!

Gene Roddenberry: To boldly go where no chicken had gone before.

Kes: It was remembering back to the times when its ancestors crossed roads all the time! They lost those abilities because they stopped using them!

Wesley: I'm not sure, but I can figure it out if I reroute these systems and reconfigure the warp field and run a complete internal whootchacallit on the computers and...

B'Elanna: I'm sure it felt suffocated by all the [BEEP] regulations of [BEEP] Starfleet and just couldn't stand it any longer!

Worf: I don't know. KLINGON chickens do NOT cross roads.

Spock: Fasincating, Captain, it seems driven by a beam of pure energy.

HoloDoc: How should I know? No one tells me anything around here! I didn't even know we added chickens to the crew! All I know is that it would have been nice, BEFORE the chicken went off to the cross the road, if it had remembered to turn me off!

Data: The chicken, in observing that it was on the opposite side of the 20th century Terran paved roadway, was aware that its immediate goal should have been to traverse the distance without interception by an kind of combustion-propelled personal transport vehicle, but I am unclear as to why any kind of domesticated fowl should desire to perambulate upon a conveyance normally reserved for the usage of...yes, sir.

Sarek: Sometimes my logic fails me where chickens are concerned.

Dax: To get to the other side. Kurzon might have disagreed with me, Tobin I'm sure wouldn't have had a clue,and then there's...

Tuvok: That's not a question we'd prefer to hear from a senior officer. It makes the junior officers nervous.

Dr. Crusher: Maybe since he couldn't make the other side to get to him, -he- had to get to the other side....

Dr. Soran: His heart just wasn't in it. (Scenes of chicken torture with nanoprobes have been edited out.)

Scotty: Because she couldna take much morrrrrre.

Charlie X: Because it didn't want to STAY...STAY...STAY...

Kirk: You chicken bastard, you killed my son...YOU chicken BASTARD, you killed...my SON...you CHICKEN bastard....youkilledmy...son!

Bones: Dammit, I'm a doctor, not an ornithologist!

Tasha: That depends...was it fully functional?

Chekov: It must have been on its way to assist in saving my life for the billionth time..did I scream this time?

Khan: With my last breath I spit at the chicken...

Harry: I don't know, it's my first mission.

Paris: Well, I think that...say, that's a lovely shirt you're wearing.

Harvey Mudd: Chicken? I don't remember any chicken. No no no, there's been a terrible misunderstanding.

Crewman in red suit: "Captain, this chicken seems to have crossed the AAARRRGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Nurse Chapel: Oh, Spock, I fixed you your favorite Vulcan plomeek and chicken soup!

Lwaxana: Oh, Jean-Luc!

Janeway: Its primary goal was no doubt to get back to the Alpha Quadrant...and it probably misses its dog.

Dr. Suess:

Would you, could you cross the street On your two small chicken feet?

I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross it in Japan To flee Godzilla and Rodan

Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross the road and cluck And jump to avoid the speeding truck?

Not with a cluck to avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not, could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you hop across the road As though you were a garden toad?

Not across the road as though a toad Not with a cluck to avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Would you cross it in the night Lit by passing car headlight?

Not in the night With car headlight Not across the road As though a toad Not with a cluck To avoid a truck Not in Japan Godzilla and Rodan I would not could not cross the street On my two small chicken feet. Across the road I will not scram Even though a fowl I am.

Please dear chicken give it a try For across the road you can not fly.

Alright! Alright! I'll give it a try For it is true, chickens can't fly. Hey! It's not bad, infact it's neat! I truly love to cross the street. Across the road I LOVE to scram. I cross the road, a fowl I am.

#AnimalJokes #ChickenJokes #jokesonfamouspeople

[captain-kingliamsqueen]

Good Behaviour? Yeah right! - Until We Meet Again - Part 6

A lot Shorter than usual but I hope you guys enjoy it!!

Pairing: Liam x MC

Summary: …DISTANCE MEANS SO LITTLE, WHEN SOMEONE MEANS SO MUCH!

When King Liam manages to break free from his Marriage to madeleine and takes a trip to new York for the biggest UN event of the century. What happens when his suitcase doesn’t make it to new York with him. when a stranger comes to his rescue to find appropriate clothing for the Event. What happens when he meets the woman of his dreams but she already has a home along with a Multi-billion dollar business in New York. 

Word Count: 1,702

Masterlist

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After Liam left for Cordonia, Kayliegh couldn’t stop thinking about their conversation that morning…moving to Cordonia…could she do it? could she really leave Allie? As soon as she managed to calm herself down after being so upset at him leaving, she sat on the sofa in the living room, going over everything in her head. she lifted her phone from beside her and dialled Allies number. The ringtone dialled a couple of times before Allie answered.

“Hey, sis, what’s up?”

“Hey, are you busy?”

“no, I have the day off, why? Do you have something in mind?”

“I wanna talk to you about something…”

“that sounds serious, is everything okay?”

“yeah, everything’s great…I just…I need to talk to you…so can you come over?”

“of course, I’ll be over in the next hour, shall I bring Chinese food?”

“definitely”

After hanging up with Allie, Kayliegh headed to her office to get some of her work done. It was about forty-five minutes later that Allie buzzed the gate to get in. the two headed for the living room, where they dove into their food that Allie brought with her.

“so come on, tell me, what had you all caught up on the phone?”

“so…Liam and I were talking this morning”

“alright?”

“and the topic came to us…living together”

“alright…wow, that is serious…so what do you think about that?”

“the only thing I want more than to live with Liam…is to be near you Allie, if Liam and I lived together…I would have to go Cordonia…and that would mean -”

“leaving New York” Allie finished her sentence

“yeah…I don’t know if I could do that, Al, I…my life is here...you are here”

“and what did Liam say when you told him that?”

“he said that…if I were to move to Cordonia, I would have an office and everything for work, I would have access to the private jet whenever I wanted…he said you could visit whenever you wanted, all you would have to do is ask and he would have the jet fly over to get you. I wouldn’t have to sell this place or anything, whenever we came over, we would stay here”

“well, then what’s the problem” Allie giggled as she placed her hand on Kayliegh’s knee.

“Allie, you’re my baby sister…you mean more to me than anyone on this entire planet!!”

“Kayliegh, you have spent your entire life, looking out for me, I will be forever grateful for that, but I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“but-”

“but nothing…put it this way…if you don’t…what happens…you guys eventually get sick of the goodbyes…one of you breaks the other ones heart because they can’t do it anymore… then you lose him…I know you love him…with everything in you…I have never seen you look at another person the way you and Liam look at each other!...how do you feel when he’s not here…when you’re so far apart?”

“it kills me…”

“exactly…and when he leaves?”

“it hurts even more” she sighed as she wiped under her eyes where the stray tears fell.

“but how do you feel when he’s here?”

“he makes me so happy…Al…just the thought of getting to see him, makes me so happy. Happier than ive ever been”

“then there’s your answer…no question about it…he makes you happy, you know he’s a good man, who would do anything for you…do it…live your life, be happy.”

“you really think I should?”

“I know you should!”

after her talk with Allie, Kayliegh spent the next few days thinking about her decisions…she wanted to do it, and she knew Allie would be okay…she was just scared…after everything that happened with Louis…after could she really uplift her life and move it across the world? Could she take that chance…what if she got there and a few weeks down the line everything went to shit? What if they ended up at each other’s throats? What if being so close really tore them apart.

Well…Liam was worth that risk…and damn did she know it!

She thought Louis was a gentleman before everything went downhill…but Liam…Liam's wasn’t a gentleman…he was THE gentleman! She had never met anyone like it. he was smart, handsome, caring, compassionate, selfless…she could rely on him to be there whenever she needed him. She trusted him with everything in her.

It was late on the Thursday night, Kayliegh was in the lounge. after the collection release, she had decided to take a couple of weeks to relax. she had spent the last few hours curled up on the sofa under the blanket, binge watching Reign. She had started to doze off not so long ago, when her phone stared ringing pulling her out of her sleepiness. She stretched as she wiped her eyes, she lifted her phone and pressed answer.

“hello?”

“Kayliegh? It’s Anthony”

“Anthony? Hey, is everything okay? It’s really late?”

“Kayliegh, I wanted to make sure you were informed before it went out on the news”

“what is it? what’s wrong?”

“it’s Louis…He’s getting out on good behaviour”

Kayliegh swore her heart nearly stopped right in that moment.

“w-what?” she asked as she tears fell down her cheeks

“I’m so sorry that I have to be the one to tell you…”

“when?”

“Tomorrow…”

“b-but he-”

“I know, I know, I tried to stop it, I really did, but there’s only so much I can do”

“alright…um…thank you Anthony, ill speak to you later”

“stay safe, kayliegh”

“I will”

After hanging up the phone she quickly dialled Liam's number.

“hey, sweetie” he answered

“Liam” she cried, which instantly caught his attention

“hey, hey what’s wrong?”

“Liam, they’re letting him out…they’re letting Louis out”

“they’re what!?!”

“tomorrow…good behaviour apparently!”

“oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry” he sighed

“Liam…he doesn’t know I lost the baby…wha-what if he tries to contact me…what I-”

“hey, shh shh it’s alright, everything’s going to be alright”

“Liam, I’m scared he’s going to come here.”

After hanging up the phone with Liam about an hour later, Kayliegh went around the house, making sure every door and every window was locked then she headed off to bed.

Kayliegh spent the next few days at home, she couldn’t even fathom going out, with he thought of him being out there, she just couldn’t do it. The evening of the Tuesday, she called Liam shortly after climbing into bed, he picked up instantly.

“hey” she whispered

“Hi, Love, how are you?”

“I’m…okay, how are you?”

“I’m good, tired but good”

“So…I’ve been thinking…about the living together conversation…” she smirked

“you have?” he perked up instantly

“I have…I spoke with Allie…I thought it over…”

“and?” he smirked

“and I think you should get that office ready for me”

“really?!? You really want to come and live here with me?”

“I want to spend my life with you Liam, I don’t want to waste any more time apart”

“Kayliegh…I don’t think you know how happy that makes me”

“oh, I know…and I can’t wait…but I have some things you have to agree with me on first.”

“okay…hit me with them”

“I have to come and visit Allie at least four times each year…even if it’s just for a few days”

“okay that’s fine, that’s not a problem at all, the jet is yours whenever you want it”

“you have to promise me…that we’ll have date night once a week…no matter what!”

“I promise…date night ATLEAST once a week!”

“anything else”

“no…not yet anyway” she giggled

“well…you just let me know if you think of anything else.”

“oh, I will”

“what are you up to anyway?”

“I’m in bed, keeping warm…I wish you were here to keep me warm”

“I wish I was there too, just wait, it won’t be long before, we can spend every night together”

“I can’t wait…”

“me too”

“oh! I forgot to tell yo-” Kayliegh stopped mid-sentence “did you hear that Liam?” she whispered

“hear what?”

“that noise”

“no, I didn’t hear anything”

“I thought I heard something…anyway yeah, I for-” she stopped as she heard the noise again.

“what on earth is that?” she sighed

“Kayliegh what’s wrong?”

“there’s a noise coming from downstairs…I’ll be back in a minute…”

“no, Kayliegh, where are you going?”

“I’m going to see what it is” she spoked sounding a little further away as she pulled her slippers on.

“clearly you’ve never seen any scary movie ever!!!” he called as she walked out of the room

Kayliegh made her way downstairs, she walked through the house, double checking the windows and doors. It was when she reached the front door, she stopped…she froze as she seen it sitting slightly ajar. Something was wrong…she specifically remembered locking that door…it had been locked for days…she hadn’t stepped foot out of it since that day that Antony called so there’s was no reason for it to be open.

“Liam! CALL THE POLICE!!!” she yelled hoping he would hear here.

As soon as Liam heard her shout, he called for Bastian, to enter his office.

“yes, your Majesty?” he bowed his head

“contact nypd! There’s something wrong at Kayliegh’s house! She heard noises down stairs, so she went to see what it was…she just screamed for me to the call the police!”

Bastian instantly pulled his phone out and contacted the Police department, after telling them what had happened, they assured him they would send someone over, they told Bastian to make sure they kept the phone connected with Kayliegh.

“Kayliegh? Kayliegh are you there?!” Liam called down the phone.

Liam waited …and waited for a reply, then he heard something.

“Liam!!!...LIAM!!”  her voice screeched

“Kayliegh?! Kayliegh!! WHATS GOING ON?!!”

“Liam HEL-” the screaming was cut off and all that was heard was a loud thud.  

It was just minutes later, Liam heard the Police entering the house.

“WE NEED AN AMBULANCE!! TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD FEMALE, UNCONSCIOUS, WHAT LOOKS LIKE A STAB WOUND, PUNCTURED TO THE STOMACH, BLEEDING OUT!”

Liam's heart broke as he listened through the phone, unable to get to her, if only he were there, this might not have happened, she would have had someone with her.

“Bastian” he whispered, not taking his eyes from the phone.

“yes, your Majesty?”

“prepare the jet…I’m going to New York.”

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[ayittey1]

Why the Asian Tiger Model Will Never Work In Africa

"We want to learn a lot from Singapore that has been very successful, that has turned a lot of challenges historically into a lot of opportunities," Kagame told National Public Radio’s correspondent, Frank Langfitt, on September 16, 2012.[i] While Rwanda has done well economically, the Asian Tiger Model -- development under authoritarianism – is not one African countries should emulate. As Chu (2009) explains,

 “In 2007, Kagame took a team to Singapore to study how the country turned itself from a regional trading post into a global business capital. But while there are parallels between the two nations — both are run by strong, postcolonial governments whose democratic credentials are widely questioned — Singapore has advantages that Rwanda does not, from its outstanding education system to its geography to its fastidious reputation. (It annoys President Kagame that foreigners often don’t know that Rwanda, too, is tidy. At a speech in Boston last year [2008], an American rose during the Q&A time and praised Kigali for being surprisingly safe and clean. Those in the audience recall that the president called the guy out. “What did you expect?” he said. “Did you expect us to be violent and dirty?”)”

 Nevertheless, this Asian Tiger model has never worked in postcolonial Africa. In fact, no dictator has brought lasting prosperity to any African country because the situations of the two continents are vastly different. First, the Asian Tigers have relatively more ethnically homogeneous populations than in Africa. Nigeria for example has more than 250 ethnic groups; Congo DR has over 400. Economic prosperity that benefits one group at the expense of the others is a recipe for social unrest and political upheaval. Even Somalia which is ethnically homogeneous imploded into chaos and has been without a government since 1991. The politics of exclusion was largely responsible for the implosion of Rwanda in 1994.

 Second, most of the Asian Tigers are insular. Those unwilling to tolerate authoritarian rule had few options but to grin and bear it in the 1970s. By contrast, borders are porous in Africa and those unwilling to live under authoritarian rule will always vote with their feet to go and settle somewhere else. In fact, the continent is crawling with economic and political refugees, as well as those fleeing wars and humanitarian catastrophes. As pointed out earlier, Africans from Egypt, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Gambia and South Sudan were among those who perished in vain attempts to cross the Mediterranean to reach Europe in 2015.Third, several Asian Tigers - Hong Kong, Taiwan and Korea in particular -- faced an external communist threat and, as a result, their people were willing to accept curbs on their civil liberties to fight that external enemy. Africa has had no such enemy after the 1960s. In fact, for most Africans, the enemy has been within – the state.

  “Most African regimes have been so alienated and so violently repressive that their citizens see the state and its development agents as enemies to be evaded, cheated and defeated if possible, but never as partners. The leaders have been so engrossed in coping with the hostilities which their misrule and repression has unleashed that they are unable to take much interest in anything else including the pursuit of development.” Ake (1991).

Olusegun Obasanjo, former president of Nigeria dismissed Nigeria’s National Assembly as “a den of thieves and looters.”[ii]

 Fourth, because of the external communist threat, the Asian Tigers received large amounts of Western aid, something Africa cannot count on. Even then, Africa really does not need foreign aid since the aid resources it desperately needs can be found in Africa itself. Each year, Africa receives about $35 billion in foreign aid from all sources but corruption alone costs Africa $150 billion a year.[iii] Obviously Africa would not need any foreign aid if it is half as successful in stanching out corruption. Fifth, and more importantly, Africa needs to devise its own economic development model. For much of the postcolonial period, Africa leaders copied many foreign models, system and paraphernalia, transplanting them into Africa. Virtually every foreign model has and some meretricious replica somewhere in Africa. Rome has a Basilica, so one was built in Yamoussoukro, Ivory Coast. France once had an emperor; so in 1975, President Jean-Bedel Bokassa of the Central African Republic spent $25 million crown himself one.[iv] The US has a space center; so Nigeria spent $89 million to build the Obasanjo Space Center in 2010 at the time when Nigeria cannot feed itself. The list of such unimaginative copying is endless. The continent is littered with the rancid carcasses of failed imported systems. It would be the height of insanity to suggest that Africa needs yet another foreign model to copy -- from Singapore.

 The economic model that Rwanda and other African countries need to copy can be found in Africa itself – in Botswana. It is black Africa’s best-kept secret.  It has consistently averaged an economic rate of growth above 7% since the 1980s. Although various analysts have attributed its success to mineral wealth in diamonds, a combination of factors have contributed immensely. Foremost has been the absence of civil war and political strife in its postcolonial history.  Second, Botswana enjoys political stability – not engineered by some dictator declaring the country a one-party state. Botswana is a parliamentary democracy. Third, the government has pursued strikingly prudent economic policies, allowing pragmatism, rather than emotional rhetoric, to prevail. It did not squander export windfall from diamonds like Nigeria did of its oil boom.  Fourth, Botswana has a lively free press and freedom of expression.   Commenting on the political process in Botswana, Professor Patrick Mulotsi, a lecturer in sociology at the University of Botswana, was quite pithy:

 “If you look at the prerequisites of liberal democracy, the rule of law has been highly respected. A lot of people can say a lot of things with relatively little fear. There has been a lot of response by the ruling party to debates with the opposition.”[v]

  Botswana can find solutions to its economic problems because it permits free debate and freedom of expression. By contrast, much of black Africa is mired in intellectual darkness and economic quagmire, for want of ideas and solutions to extricate itself. Intellectual repression prevents those with ideas from coming forward, even though Article 9 of the African Union’s Charter of Human and Peoples’ Rights guarantees freedom of expression.. As we shall see below, intellectual freedom does not exist in Rwanda.  Fifth, Botswana did not ignore its indigenous roots. It built upon its native system of kgotlas, whereby chiefs and councilors meet “under a tree” to reach a consensus on important matters. In fact, cabinet ministers are required to attend weekly kgotla meetings. As Fred Dira, an African journalist, explained:

 “When they were initiated, kgotla meetings were meant to be totally apolitical.  They were to be meetings at which government ministers and members of parliament would brief local communities about official policies and programs, or about issues discussed or to be discussed in parliament. It was also part of the tradition of kgotla meetings that if they were convened by the president or any of his ministers, the respective members of parliament would not only be present, but would also be given some role to play at the meeting. This was in recognition of the fact that at such meetings, MPs shared the role of host with the chiefs.”[vi]

  Such was the case in 1991, when the government tried to explain a $25 million Okavango River irrigation project to the villagers at a kgotla in the northern town of Maun. Irate villagers let loose their opposition: “You will dry the delta! We will have no more fish to eat! No more reeds to build our houses!” a village elder screamed.”[vii] For six hours, they excoriated government officials for conceiving of such a dastardly project. Buckling under the wrath of the people, the government quietly canceled the project. Only in Botswana could this happen, giving true meaning to such terms as “participatory development," “bottom-up development approach,” "grassroots development,” and "popular participation in development.” One cannot envisage this happening in Kagame’s Rwanda. Furthermore, in Botswana, "Chiefs still exercise considerable local authority and influence which can act as a check on too precipitate action by the government and can even swing local elections” (Colclough and McCarthy, 1980; p.38). Asked why Botswana has had better leaders than the rest of Africa, Zibani Maundeni of the University of Botswana replied that indigenous Tswana culture has helped: “Before any big decision [Tswana leaders] consulted the general population. There was a strong culture of hearing the views of ordinary people.”[viii] In much of black Africa, including pre-and post-1994 genocide Rwanda, chiefs saw their powers and authority stripped: The indigenous system of participatory democracy and the tradition of reaching a consensus “under a tree” were spurned, and, in their place, African elites and intellectuals erected alien systems (one-man dictatorships and de facto apartheid regimes).

 Of course, Botswana has had its share of problems with income distribution and AIDS. But its economic success demonstrates that Africa does not have to reject its indigenous culture to advance economically. The Japanese did not. “Japan’s postwar success has demonstrated that modernization does not mean Westernization. Japan has modernized spectacularly, yet remains utterly different from the West. Economic success in Japan has nothing to do with individualism. It is the fruit of sheer discipline --the ability to work in groups and to conform.”[ix]

Africa's salvation does not lie in blindly copying foreign systems but in returning to its own roots and heritage and building upon them. As Williams (1987) advised: "When, if ever, black people actually organize as a race in their various population centers, they will find that the basic and guiding ideology they now seek and so much need is embedded in their own traditional philosophy and constitutional system, simply waiting to be extracted and set forth" (p.161). Says Robert Guest, editor of the Africa region for The Economist magazine,

 “When Japan’s rulers decided in the nineteenth-century, that they had to modernize to avoid being colonized they sent their brightest officials to Germany, Britain and America to find out how industrial societies worked. They then copied the ideas that seemed most useful, rejected the Western habits that seemed unhelpful or distasteful, and within a few decades Japan advanced enough to win a war with Russia – the first non-white nation to defeat a European power in modern times.

Japan’s example should be important for Africa, because it shows that modernization need not mean Westernization. Developing countries need to learn from developed ones, but they do not have to abandon their culture and traditions in the process. Africans face the same challenge now that Japan faced in the nineteenth century: how to harness other people’s ideas and technology to help them build the kind of society that they, the Africans, want” (Guest, 2004; p.23).

 After a long series of experiments with or blind imitation of foreign models and ideologies – such as socialism – it is beginning to dawn on Africa’s elites that they do not have to reject their traditional heritage in order for Africa to develop. The Swahili word for this concept is majimbo. It stands for the idea of local initiative and trust in traditional wisdoms. The same idea is conveyed by the mantra, African renaissance.

 In the late 1990s, stymied by the dizzying economic growth of China, economists were at a loss groping for an explanation.  It was a communist dictatorship and the standard tenets of economic development theory were of little help. It increasingly dawned on economists the critical importance of the role of institutions in providing the correct incentives for economic growth. Nobel laureate, Douglass North, noted that there are many paths to development and institutions are important but not just any institutions. According to North, “the key is creating an institutional structure from your particular cultural institutions that provide the proper incentives – not slavishly imitating Western institutions” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14). In addition, the institutional structure must readily adapt to changing circumstances in the global economy. He noted that:

 “After a disastrous era of promoting collective organization, in which approximately 40 million people died of starvation, China gradually fumbled its way out of the economic disaster it had created by instituting the Household Responsibility System, which provided peasants with incentives to produce more. This system in turn led to the TVEs (town-village enterprises) and sequential development build on their cultural background” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14).

 Institutions are established rules, codes and norms by which human behavior or interaction (political, economic and social) are governed, as well as the incentive structure of society. They are made up of formal rules, (constitutions, laws, and rules), informal constraints (norms, conventions and codes of conduct), and their enforcement characteristics. Together, they define the way the game is played, whether as a society or an athletic game. Take professional football. They are formal rules defining the way the game is supposed to be played; informal norms – such as not deliberately injuring the quarterback of the opposing team; and enforcement characteristics –umpires, referees – designed to see that the game is played according to the intentions underlying the rules. But enforcement is always imperfect and it frequently pays for a team to violate rules. Therefore the way a game is actually played is a function of the underlying intentions embodied in the rules, the strength of informal codes of conduct, the perception of the umpires, and the severity of punishment for violating rules.

 It is the same way with societies. Poorly performing societies have rules that do not provide the proper incentives, lack effective informal norms that would encourage productivity, and/or have poor enforcement. Underlying institutions are belief systems that provide our understanding of the world around us and, therefore, the incentives that we face. Creating institutions that will perform effectively, is thus, a difficult task” (The Wall Street Journal, April 7, 2005; p.A14).

 So the big question is why Rwanda copying a foreign economic model and not modernizing its own indigenous system, like Botswana?

 References

 Ake, Claude (1991). "How Politics Underdevelops Africa," in The Challenge of African Economic

Recovery and Development, ed. Adebayo Adedeji, Owodumi Teriba, and Patrick Bugembe. Portland, OR: Cass, 1991.

 Chu, Jeff, 2009, “‘Rwanda Rising: A New Model of Economic Development, "Fast Company,

April 1, 2009 https://www.fastcompany.com/1208900/rwanda-rising-new-model-economic-development giving me some biscuits please

 Colclough, C. and McCarthy, S., 1980. The political economy of Botswana.

                                   Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980, 298 pp.

 Guest, Robert (2004). The Shackled Continent. London: MacMillan.

 Williams, Chancellor (1987). The Destruction of Black Civilization. Chicago: Third World Press.

 [i] Morning Edition (Web http://www.npr.org/2012/09/17/161222794/rwandan-economy-makes-unlikely-climb-in-rank)

[ii] See Premiere Times, Josh – -- Nov 24, 2014.

[iii] See BBC News, Sept 18, 2002.

[iv] It did not help any. He was overthrown in a coup and chased out of the country 1979. Successive military regimes were no better, plunging the country into civil war, pitting Christians against Muslims beginning in 2012. So total has been the devastation that a country must be rebuilt from scratch, meaning 50 years of independence wasted.

[v] See The New York Times, May 16, 1990; p.A6.

[vi] See Mmegi/The Reporter, May 12-18, 1995; p.7.

[vii] See The Washington Post, Mar 21, 1991; p.A3.

[viii][viii] See The Economist, Nov 6, 2004; p.50.

[ix] See Editorial in the Bangkok Post quoted in The Washington Times, Nov 9, 1996; p.A8.

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[justanotherwannabeclassic]

Children of Dust and Ashes

After his memories return, Killian struggles to cope with the realization of everything and everyone he left behind. Comfort comes from an unlikely source. Golden Hook frenemyship 

Notes: Here’s my contirbution to the Season 7 speculation angst train. Credit goes to @this-too-too-sullied-flesh for sending me down this path, and to @lenfaz for further fanning the flames. As noted, there are six billion spoilers and points of speculation for the upcoming season. So, uh, if you want to avoid any of those, avoid this fic! Read on AO3! The rum burns. He’d forgotten that in the thirteen months he had been cursed. He’d forgotten the burn, the taste, his thirst for alcohol while cursed. Rogers had been a teetotaler, refusing anything that would alter his overly righteous state-of-mind. Rogers was a good cop, by the book, respectable. Everything that Killian Jones isn’t, despite sharing a face and body for over a year.

Thirteen months.

His phone sits on the table. He watches it, waiting for it to buzz with a call or text from a faraway area code. It’s well past midnight on the East Coast, and everyone who could call should be asleep. But it’s been thirteen months. He’d read in the early months, sleep cycles would essentially be unreliable.  

(“We’ll both need caffeine IV drips,” Emma had teased him, stealing the book he’d been poring over the the better part of two months.)

He wonders what she’d say now. He wonders everything about his wife and how she’s been the past thirteen months since he made and broke a promise. He wants so badly for his phone to ring, to hear her voice, and to apologize for things both in his control and out of it. But she won’t call – can’t – the lingering magic somehow still serving to blockade the ability to communicate between here and Storybrooke. Killian can’t help but wonder if he had the ability to reach Emma, if she would want to hear his voice. He did, after all, fail her. But a part of him rather foolishly hopes that True Love will prevail and that his phone would alight, signalling that yes, maybe, she can forgive him for missing all of these months, magic and curses be damned.

Regret courses through his veins, far more potent than any spirit he could imbibe. Not that it stops him from drinking. He’s holed up in a far corner of Robi’s – no, Regina’s – bar with the best bottle of rum he could pilfer. He’ll pay her back for it later, not that he’s really sure she cares. She’s her own kind of muddled up, and the earlier sympathetic looks she’s cast his way tells him that she won’t press the issue.

But she’s with her family now: Henry, Jacinda, and Lucy. Together. A family. They’re plotting and planning ways to fully break the curse. They have their memories back, but Hyperion Heights remains a mystery – one they can’t leave. Outsiders can come and go, but not the ones trapped her by Tremaine’s damned curse. Not for the first time in his life, Killian finds himself envying the former Evil Queen. Here she has her son. She can see for herself that he’s alright and be there for him if he needs it. Killian takes another long pull of the rum, hating himself in his resentment. He’s the one who talked her into going home. They’d quarreled over it, whether she should stay and help Henry. He knew then that she’d move heaven and earth for her boy, but he’d also known that she could still barely hold down food, and she was tired, always tired and weak. Emma had relented, eventually, after she’d been hurt in the attack, not enough to cause permanent damage, but enough to scare them both. And it had helped that Henry had been on his side. But as he sits alone in the empty bar, he can’t help but wonder how things would be if she had stayed. Emma had told him once that she had sometimes wished that her parents had not put her in the wardrobe, sending her away. “We would have been cursed, but at least we’d be together,” she had said. He’d reminded her then that if she hadn’t been cursed, then she wouldn’t have met Bae and had Henry, nor would their own relationship have been in the cards. Her words haunt him now. If his wife had come along, then she would have been cursed along with him, but she would have been with him. He’d be able to hold her now. He would know if she was safe. He’d know if–

“I would say that I’m surprised to find you here, but then that would be a lie. You can’t take a pirate from his rum for too long.”

“What do you want, Crocodile?”  Killian raises his gaze to the man who suddenly appeared in the bar. The Dark One is once again dressed in his usual clothing – a fine suit, well pressed, and not a wrinkle in sight. Under better circumstances, Killian would almost have laughed at the overall dishevelled appearance of the Crocodile’s cursed persona, so different than the man Killian had come to know and loathe over the course of three centuries. But things are different now, the curse and shifting of their lives taking a toll on them both. And, well, things had been different between Rogers and Weaver, not like their relationship back home. Gods, how he wishes to go home.

“Back to calling me the Crocodile, are we? Don’t wish to carry on our cursed friendship?” “And you do?” They had been cursed to be partners. Rogers had idolized Weaver, saw the other man both as a mentor or friend. They’d trusted one another, shared stories – all the more proof that his life had been twisted by a dastardly curse. He could never – would never – admire the Crocodile. “Not out of desire, but necessity,” the Dark One replies, “or did you forget, dearie, that we still have covers to uphold while trapped in this wretched place?” Ah, yes, that. They’re not sure if Tremaine and her wicked daughter know their memories have returned. Unwilling to show their hand too early, Regina had proposed carrying on with their cursed identities until they concocted a plan. Starting tomorrow, they would all go back to pretending they didn’t know who they once were. He was to act like nothing had changed, like he was the noble cop trying to do his best, like there wasn’t a family he had left behind.

“And tomorrow we shall once again be partners, but tonight, I’m drinking.” Killian makes a sure of taking a long drink from the bottle, hoping it will encourage Gold to leave and go back to whatever sewer from which he’d crawled. Try as he might, however, Killian still can’t shake the memories of actually enjoying his time spent with Weaver, and the thought of it feels like some twisted betrayal to Milah, forcing him to drink more, to numb himself to remorse slowly driving him insane. To his surprise, however, the Crocodile does not leave as he had wished. Instead, Gold moves to the spot opposite of where Killian is sitting. Killian watches in lazy interest as the Dark One conjures up a glass, and then a bottle of scotch.

“I didn’t ask for a drinking partner.”

“We can’t always get what we want,” Gold replies as he pours himself a glass, “and besides, I believe you and I can be of use to one another.”

“I doubt that.”

“Really?” Gold asks. His tone is challenging. “Because I believe we’re both desperate to get home to Storybrooke, far more desperate than anyone else here.”

Killian wants to argue. He wants few things more than to admit that the Crocodile is right. But it’s those few things that he wants more that drives him to listen. He knows better than the trust the man before him – the real one, the one cursed with darkness by no longer with a fake life. Rogers may have thought highly of him, but Killian knows better. And yet, despite knowing this, he finds himself setting up a little straighter.

“Rarely does the two of us working together end well for me,” Killian says, memories of his heart in the Crocodile’s hand flashing through his mind, of Milah’s own heart being crushed.

“Somehow I doubt that will deter you.”

Killian remembers turning his ship around and allowing Emma and her family to board the ship. He’d let Gold walk the deck of the Jolly, let him stand where Milah had died and where his whole life had fallen apart. He’d made that decision in honor of Bae and because Emma somehow had convinced him that he could be better. In this moment, in this situation right now, he has to be better. If that means once again working with Gold, so be it. It’s not like he hasn’t done so over the past thirteen months. Finally, he replies, “No” and the Crocodile grins.

“Predictable as always.” Killian bristles at the comment, but tries his best to reign in his anger. If he’s going to get home, he will need his help. “So what’s your grand plan?”

“I’m developing one,” Gold replies, and it’s then that Killian realizes that his enemy doesn’t entirely have one. He feels sick at the thought, and to his surprise, the Crocodile mirrors his expression. “In the interim, I’ve put out a call for a quick background check on Belle, Gideon, and Emma.”

“You’re looking up Emma?”

“Consider it a sign of goodwill,” Gold answers, raising his glass. Killian feels a surge of hope, that maybe if he can’t speak to her that maybe the background check will show something. Suddenly, he’s very thankful for their cursed roles as law enforcement and the access it provides. “Finding birth certificates, of course, may be more complicated considering the time period and other matters at hand. I assume you know when your child was meant to be due.”

“July 12th,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. It’s the first time speaking the words aloud since his memory had been unfogged. It’s now mid-February of the following year. Assuming everything went well, his and Emma’s child should be nearing seven months now. He doesn’t know its name, or its date of birth. He doesn’t even know if it is a boy or girl. He feels the burn of tears as he considers these things, but he wills them away. He will not cry in front of the Crocodile. Gold stays quiet opposite of him for a long while. Killian doesn’t look at him, instead staring off to some distant corner of the bar, wondering how his life had taken this turn. Was this centuries of bad deeds finally catching up with him, tormenting him in the worst ways? If so, why couldn’t it just be him that had to suffer? Why must it also be Emma and their child?

Early in their relationship, Emma had shared with him her past regarding Henry and his birth. She had told him how she’d been so alone and afraid, shackled to bed as she made the most difficult decision of her life. When they had first decided to start attempting to conceive, Killian had promised her that this time would be different. This time, she wouldn’t be alone. He would be there every step of the way.

And he failed.

“Yesterday was Gideon’s birthday.”

“What?” The Crocodile’s voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Yesterday was my son’s birthday,” Gold says. He lifts his glass and gazes as the liquid, turning it ever so slowly. “I was not present at his birth, nor was I there for him yesterday.”

“And?” He will not allow himself to be compared to the Crocodile, the man who chose power over his own son, the one whose wife was so afraid, she begged both Killian and Emma to not allow him near. He’s better than that man. He left to help Henry, his family. But then again, so did the Dark One.  

“And it’s enough to drive a man to drink,” Gold replies, his tone clipped. “It’s a feeling I thought you would know all too well considering I found you here.”

“I’m a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem. I’m always here.” He means for his words to come out sarcastically, but they sound sad and pathetic to his ears. He sounds like did when he was Rogers, unveiling his insecurities to his partner who had been around the block before, who understood. But Gold is not Weaver, and he hates himself even more for this show of weakness.

“That’s not how my son saw you.”

“Your son’s a child.”

“I wasn’t talking about Gideon.”

Killian jerks his head toward Gold. Over the years, though relations between them have somewhat thawed, they rarely ever spoke of the past. It was necessarily, in Killian’s mind, in order to maintain what barely congenial interactions they did have between them. Milah and Bae, and the ways Killian had tormented Belle in the early years were unspoken facts between them. And now, already drowning in the guilt of failing the people he loved, he’s once again reminded of another person he’s wronged.

“I don’t know what Bae thought of me. We might have made some peace in the end, but much of our history wasn’t positive.”

“And yet it’s you who he trusted to save the two people he loved most in the world.” Killian raises an eyebrow in disbelieving interest. Gold continues, “Just who do you think sent the note encouraging you to go after them?”

“I–I didn’t know.”

“He did so knowing that it would likely drive the woman he loved into your arms,” Gold goes on to explain as Killian absorbs the weight of his words. “Do you honestly believe that he would have made such a decision if he believed you to be nothing more than a ‘one-handed pirate with a drinking problem’?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can’t have you wallowing in self-pity while the two of us attempt to find out way home,” Gold replies. There’s something in his tone that suggests something more, and Killian wonders if Weaver is shining through. Was it David or Snow that told him that they had been both?

“Says the man who is also wallowing in self-pity right this moment,” he gestures toward the glass in front of Gold. “At any rate, rest assured that level of self-pity will stand between me and my goals. I did spend two centuries trying to hunt you down.”

“To which I remind you that you failed.”

“My priorities shifted. ”

“A fact of which we are all thankful. Even in self-defense I doubt Belle would have forgiven me for killing you. For reasons I still can’t fathom, she’s quite fond of you.” Killian can tell that bothers Gold – that the man who ran away with his first wife is close friends with his second. He almost can’t believe it himself.

“She’d move past it. Belle has a kind heart and is exceedingly forgiving.”

“Too kind and too forgiving, perhaps,” Gold replies. Killian almost thinks it’s a pointed statement toward himself, but then he catches the Crocodile’s eye flick to the hand where his own ring should be. “It truly is her best feature.”

“Aye.” Sometimes, he’s astounded by his friendship with Belle. He’d been so terribly cruel to her in the beginning in his attempts to strip the Dark One of his happy ending. Years later, despite the apologies and mended bridges, it still makes him sick to recall how he’d treated her. He imagines the feeling is tenfold for the Crocodile.

“She wanted you and I to be friends, you know.”

Despite himself, Killian laughs. “Yes, well, proof enough that nobody’s perfect.”

“She’ll be so disappointed to discover that a curse did what she could not.”

“Maybe she will hope some of it sticks, aye?” For a moment, they are Rogers and Weaver again, two partners sharing their dark humor as an escape from the horrors of their chosen career path. It’s both familiar and unnerving. The thought, however, doesn’t stop him from saying, “Can you imagine the faces of everyone in Storybrooke, the two of us returning as bosom buddies? Emma’d haul me off to the cricket to check my sanity.”

“She’ll be more concerned introducing you to your child,” Gold says, sobering the conversation. “He or she will be starting to crawl around now, so you will be kept busy.”

Killian thinks the Crocodile means to be comforting, but the other man’s words feel like a punch in his gut. Years ago, the Dark One had told him that he wished he would suffer. Is this what he had meant? Not only losing Milah, but years later losing his own family. He can recall with distinct clarity the pain Milah had felt at being separated from Bae. He’d empathized then, but gods he didn’t understand. Not like he does now as he wrestles with the “ what-might-have-beens ” and wonders just how much he has missed.

The child he has now, the one at home whose name he doesn’t bloody fucking know is at the age where he or she will be crawling. He doesn’t know their hair color, or the color of their eyes. Does his child have Emma’s coloring or his? What does his or her laugh sound like? What makes them laugh? He’s wondering all of these things, has been since the moment his memories had returned.

“Does it get better?” he asks suddenly, needing assurance, something – anything – to keep him from drowning furthering in his own self-loathing as he careens further and further toward the bottom of the glass bottle. Milah had never found that peace, all thanks to the man sitting across from him. But gods, he can’t think of that, not right now, no matter how much residual guilt he feels. He wishes her were talking to Dave, but David is not the one here. Screwing his eyes shut, Killian pretends that the man opposite is still Weaver, his mentor, his friend.

“Does what?”

“The guilt? The regret? You found Bae again, were able to raise Gideon again. Did you ever forgive yourself for everything you missed?” Will I ever forgive myself for everything I’ve missed?

“No,” Gold replies, providing Killian the answer he knew he would he receive but didn’t want. “The ones you love may forgive you. Your child is young enough to hardly notice your absence. But you never truly will.”

“Ah.”

“But, I’ve also learned over the centuries, that’s fatherhood. You will always wonder if you can do better, be better, all because you want a better life for them than you had.”

Killian thinks of his father, abandoning both he and Liam to the seas for his own pleasure. His father never returned, but Killian vows he would do the same. He will return, sweep Emma and their child into his arms and never leave. Not again. “In order for either of us to do that, we’ll have to get home.”

“Indeed.”

“So where do we begin?”

#ouat ff #cs ff #captain swan #ouat speculation #golden hook friendship #ouat season 7 #s writes fic

[verdigrisprowl]

April 5 Blurr’s Horror Stream - Abattoir

Soundwave and Prowl both more or less agree that this movie constitutes a rather senseless waste of lives and resources.

Welcome to the 'speedxstealer' room. The chat room has been cleared by the moderator. B l u r r: / trudges in and settles on his couch. tugging flexibands off of his arm / ItsyBitsySpyers: *Ushers the twins in before him and heads right for his spot. Gets nice and comfortable there.* FakeProwl: *appears* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Pings hello to Blurr and Prowl both* B l u r r: / waves claw. Throws flexi band aside / ItsyBitsySpyers: //This one!// ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble's going along, as always.* FakeProwl: *nods. sits with Soundwave.* B l u r r: [[ lemme know when you're all ready, I guess ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: ((ready when ye be)) Whirl: ((o7 I am!)) FakeProwl: ((ready when this song is over)) FakeProwl: ((i'm learning hamilton one random song at a time)) B l u r r: [[ some guy in an african american lit class said slavery was necessary for our country to be this way ]] B l u r r: [[ and I literally slammed a hand down and went ALEXANDER HAMILTON DID NOT FIGHT FOR THIS SHIIT ]] B l u r r: Hamilton is 100% historically accurate and it makes my life complete. Also if you guys are ready , im ready. ]] FakeProwl: ((ready!)) B l u r r: [[ ive never seen this movie, but its about a haunted house so... okay [[ FakeProwl: ((yee)) FakeProwl: ((haunted houses are my fave)) FakeProwl: ((haunted things in general. haunted or possessed.)) B l u r r: same ]] FakeProwl: ((creepy invisible things in places)) B l u r r: [[ i just dunno how like good the movie is in general [[ ItsyBitsySpyers: *A quote about houses imprisoning its inhabitants. Off to a relevant start already* B l u r r: / lot of murder. He likes it / FakeProwl: *leeeans on Soundwave* FakeProwl: So. He lives on the road. He deceived people who resented him for it. He sold them a "promise," they sold him "themselves." ItsyBitsySpyers: *Adjusts himself to allow for good leaning contact. Would Prowl like to scoot up under a stretched arm?* B l u r r: Hey, Frenzy. /waves claw/ ItsyBitsySpyers: \\HM?\\ FakeProwl: Prediction: he's a drug dealer. B l u r r: C'mere. FakeProwl: *... yes. he would like to.* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Then so it shall be, and a hand resting gently on the far side arm. In the meantime, Frenzy jogs over to Blurr and bobs his head. Sup?* B l u r r: / leans foward a little / Think you and your twin-thing can come sit with me? I have... stuff for you mechs. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\WHO, RUMBLE? YEAH, SURE.\\ Raises his voice a little more. \\HEY, BRO. C'MON.\\ And plop, a Frenzy next to Blurr. A Rumble will follow shortly after. B l u r r: / smirks and looks at them both/ Comfortable? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[She brought him a plank?]] ItsyBitsySpyers: //Guess so, yeah. How come?// FakeProwl: ((the dialogue and costumes made the scene at the newspaper look like it was 40, 50 years ago)) FakeProwl: ((then she gets home and suddenly it's Modern)) B l u r r: [[ im so confused on time period ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: ((same)) B l u r r: ... How come ? /twitches finials/ I just got back from Earth. B l u r r: I've brought you things. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Shakes his helm a little. That was a corny line.* FakeProwl: Did she not say that fraternizing with the police introduces a conflict of interests? ItsyBitsySpyers: //Wha, me?// Slow blink. //I, uh. ... Okay, sure.// FakeProwl: If it does for her, then it probably does for him as well. They both need to take their work more seriously. B l u r r: ....Oh. They're dead. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[He seemed overchar--]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[...All right.]] B l u r r: / looks at Rumble and Frenzy / Yes. Which one of you wants gifts first? FakeProwl: ... You know what, never mind, she's about to walk into a brutal murder scene and she could use a police officer with her. B l u r r: [[ okay now hes in modern clothes ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Each of them grab an arm and start chanting 'me'* FakeProwl: ... Why is there only one officer? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Low film budget?]] FakeProwl: *snorts* B l u r r: [[ probably ]] B l u r r: ... All right, you can't both get it at once. Let's do... pick a murder weapon. B l u r r: I'm thinking of a weapon. One perfect for my most despised enemy. B l u r r: What is it? Whoever guesses it gets their gift first. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[He extinguished the youngling as well?]] ItsyBitsySpyers: //Duct tape.// \\PFFF.\\ B l u r r: mmm. Wrong. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\YER FIST AT LIKE A BILLION MILES PER HOUR?\\ B l u r r: ... Close enough. B l u r r: Someone stole an entire room? ItsyBitsySpyers: *Looks at Prowl.* [[Is that possible?]] FakeProwl: ... Not in one piece. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Frenzy cheers and sticks his hands out* FakeProwl: ... He's collecting murder scenes? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[It sounds like it.]] B l u r r: / plops a box into Frenzy's servos. Inside are a few interesting additions for better drill power / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Where would he keep them? Build a new house out of murder scenes?]] FakeProwl: Perhaps. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Frenzy holds them aloft, bounces up, and does a small lap around the room. It's safe to say he's excited and happy with his gift.* Whirl: ((frenzy omg)) Whirl: ((patoot alert)) B l u r r: / well, that works / FakeProwl: ... All of those murders are highly implausible. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Why?]] FakeProwl: A contractor murders his employer? A landlord murders someone he just rented a home to? FakeProwl: Botched burglaries make sense. Crimes of passion make sense. FakeProwl: What motive could a contractor have to murder the person who hired him and then kill himself? Or for a landlord to murder tenants he'd known a week? B l u r r: You're assuming that there needs to be a motive. FakeProwl: There's always a motive. B l u r r: Not always. FakeProwl: Always. FakeProwl: *gestures at the movie* Because these murders are so unusual—and because of the way that movies work—it's likely that this collector doesn't just happen to take crime scenes. FakeProwl: It's possible he causes them. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Frenzy stops mid-run* ItsyBitsySpyers: \\TROPHIES?\\ FakeProwl: Perhaps. FakeProwl: He wants a room—a room somehow tainted by murder—and causes it to happen. B l u r r: /shrugs/ B l u r r: Murder doesn't need a motive. B l u r r: Sometimes it just needs an itch. FakeProwl: An itch is a motive. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\WEIRDO. PULLIN' PIECES OFF IS EASIER.\\ FakeProwl: Or, alternatively, the room itself causes the murder, and he... I can't think of a better phrase than "arrest." He arrests the room. Locks it up where it can't cause damage. B l u r r: / shrugs / ItsyBitsySpyers: *Frenzy sits down to inspect the box's contents deeper. He's gonna get these installed as soon as he gets home.* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[It is a room. How does a regular room murder?]] FakeProwl: I don't know. Movies pull supernatural nonsense like that. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Wait. Isn't this what happened in the ghost busting movie?]] FakeProwl: It is. FakeProwl: So. He's constructing his own "ley line" nexus. Whirl: ((i can't tell what this guy is tryin to do with his voice. it almost sounds like he's trying to mimic a southern cadence???)) Whirl: ((wat r u trying to do linguistically my dude)) ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble nudges Blurr and sticks his hand out. He doesn't know what Blurr would think to give him, but... he's curious now.* FakeProwl: ((idk but i wish he Wouldn't)) B l u r r: / looks at Rumble and reaches for a box. Rumble's is bigger / B l u r r: I notice you seem to perk up at certain... things. /tilts helm / So, I thought I'd stop by a few places and get you something interesting. /it's the only thing he knows Rumble likes / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[It is a good thing Cybertron does not have these... ley lines. He does not want to think about what would come from them.]] FakeProwl: I'm fairly certain Earth doesn't either. It's just an interesting fiction. ItsyBitsySpyers: //Yeah?// He'll get to opening it, a little more cautious than his brother. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Earth doesn't need them. It has Unicron.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[That is, arguably, worse.]] B l u r r: Mhm. /props chin on claw / I noticed you were a little fond of - well, more than fond of- anyway. B l u r r: / motions to the box with his claw. Inside is a larger book with the good ol' hamilton star. And some sheet music, some signed things. A lot of concept art and costume designs. / ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble's visor could light up the room by itself right now* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Guess who's not paying attention to the movie for the entire rest of this film* FakeProwl: ((i was in the wrong window for a second, why did she come to this town? is it tied to the person buying the rooms?)) FakeProwl: ((i caught the story she gave the sherrif, just not whatever reason she had before it)) ItsyBitsySpyers: ((i missed it too, was shooing the cat off something)) ItsyBitsySpyers: [][][]I have that effect on people.[][][] [[It is easy to see why. Who touches another's helm like that to make their presence known?]] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble mumbles something that sounds like a thank you while he works his way through the human language a bit at a time* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Content capable of destroying lives, you say. He's definitely curious.* FakeProwl: ... Their children died before them... FakeProwl: They've turned away from their god... FakeProwl: She pointedly states that if she likes old things, she'll love this town... Did he make them immortal? B l u r r: / sees rumble's interest and settles back into the couch / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[...They slaughtered their young?]] B l u r r: / seems like everyone likes their presents / FakeProwl: Possible. He spoke of sacrifices. FakeProwl: *the officer is controlling, insults the person he claims to care about, and threatens to abuse his power. Prowl disapproves of him as a person and a cop.* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Everyone l o v e s their presents. Blurr will probably get a few himself next week.* B l u r r: / oh geez / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[No he didn't.]] FakeProwl: ((don't freeze now!!)) ItsyBitsySpyers: ((nooo come back screen)) B l u r r: [[ is it back? ]] FakeProwl: ((she was dragging her hands down her face and the music was building, what happened??)) FakeProwl: ((now I've got music and a random frozen screen)) B l u r r: [[ idk i havent been watching for the last good hour ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: (( ^)) FakeProwl: ((okay, now it's moving again)) FakeProwl: ((what happened to her face)) B l u r r: [[ ive been getting yelled at 8') ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: ((can we see her fa--oh dear)) FakeProwl: ((... i guess her face is normal now???)) ItsyBitsySpyers: ((are you gonna be ok speedy?)) B l u r r: [[ idk she's yelling at me cause dad's wasting money and it's my fault?? ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: ((no it's not. :| )) B l u r r: [[ i lost the whole movie lmfao. ]] B l u r r: [[ let me know when it's over, i guess ]] ItsyBitsySpyers: ((i'm so confused)) FakeProwl: ((same)) ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Did he not JUST tell them not to look.]] FakeProwl: "They're hiding something." And the sky is black at night. ItsyBitsySpyers: *huff* FakeProwl: Did he also not just tell them that nobody ever successfully finds it? B l u r r: When's someone gonna die? I'm bored. FakeProwl: So. He's been to hell. He's come back with... magic? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[She was killed because she escaped?]] FakeProwl: He does unknown things for the town and in exchange they sacrifice other people to him. FakeProwl: She wasn't killed because she "escaped"—she never escaped, her sacrifice was merely delayed. FakeProwl: And he's collected... they're not random tragedies, are they. Are they the sacrifices he was pledged? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[He thinks so.]] FakeProwl: And when he gets them all, what—hell opens up? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[The jailed human did say it was a case of cracking open the prison and letting the prisoners out.]] FakeProwl: That explains why all the murders sounded so peculiar. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[He does not like either officer.]] FakeProwl: *murmurs* me neither. FakeProwl: I'll be willing to consider the sheriff was offering a mercy once I actually know the alternative. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Small squeeze of Prowl's arm. A much better cop, as far as he has ever been on the side of the law.* FakeProwl: *isn't sure why he got squeezed, but takes a hand to squeeze it back* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Also good.* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Where do the screams come from? Do the dead echo?]] B l u r r: ... / that house is IDEAL / FakeProwl: Apparently. B l u r r: What a great house. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Tilts his helm. It's... it's hideous.* FakeProwl: ... Consecrated ground. There's no evidence of a school in all of this. So the school wasn't added to the rooms. Is it the foundation upon which this house was built? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[How does a murder happen in a room that was already taken away when the room was not taken away until there was a murder?]] B l u r r: What a great house... FakeProwl: ... None of them were taken away until after the murder, were they? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[She watched a video of someone next to a wall with a separation in it.]] FakeProwl: ... The video was taken inside this house, not inside her house. FakeProwl: Perhaps he simply recorded the replay of her death. FakeProwl: A murder is committed, the room is removed and reconstructed here, the death replays and can be recorded. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[...He supposes that is possible.]] FakeProwl: That also explains how her mother had a video of that boy being sacrificed where the wall was already bloodstained. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Slow nod. All right, that makes sense.* ItsyBitsySpyers: ((i missed that)) FakeProwl: ((it was a brief mention.)) FakeProwl: "... It would be a tragedy for you to go one step further." Apparently this whole... ritual, will be completed with a tragedy. FakeProwl: Do the both of them in there combined form the tragedy? ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Perhaps he kills her.]] FakeProwl: Perhaps. Stupidly waving the gun around like that when the only thing in the house is ghosts. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[They are bound to be on edge in this place. One wrong startle...]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[It would also give the dealmaking human the last child.]] FakeProwl: It would, yes. FakeProwl: *slowly slouches forward so he can put his elbows on his knees and cover his audials* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Looks over, concerned* ItsyBitsySpyers: @Prowl: (txt): Noise? FakeProwl: @Soundwave «Noise.» FakeProwl: *... has it quieted down? tentatively uncovers audials* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Nudges them back over. There's probably a lot of screaming to come.* FakeProwl: *... half covers* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Well. He was half right.]]] FakeProwl: *mutters* He certainly didn't seem to love her for who she is. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Agreed.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[...Why would the murdered victims be punished? What have they done?]] FakeProwl: They weren't punished. They were sacrificed. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[This involves them suffering? He would think their death was enough.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Human theology is strange.]] FakeProwl: He sacrificed his family for his hell-granted powers. FakeProwl: He used those powers to sacrifice hundreds, just to get his family back. FakeProwl: He could have saved himself a lot of time, effort, and grief—along with everyone else—by not sacrificing his family in the first place. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Indeed.]] FakeProwl: I'm sure that's the point. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Taps his free fingers against his leg.* B l u r r: / vents a little / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[He wonders if the hell creatures kept their promise. Such beings rarely do.]] RoBart: what song is this? B l u r r: [[ Aaron Bur, Sir ]] B l u r r: *Burr RoBart: thanks ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Dangle a promise, gather hundreds more, take back the original murderer and give nothing up.]] FakeProwl: He gave up years of his life and years of effort. FakeProwl: For no net gain. FakeProwl: From the evidence given, the powers he received were used for no purpose but undoing the original bargain. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Shakes his helm.* FakeProwl: *?* B l u r r: / twitches finials and claws / ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Many, many wastes. And the New English humans who benefited from his powers are likely bound as well. It is all disgusting.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble is distracted from the book by the music and the twitch. He looks up at Blurr* ItsyBitsySpyers: //Ya okay there?// B l u r r: / glances at/ Hn? B l u r r: Ah... Dodge likes this music, too. /snort / He's excited. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble scratches his chin for a second, then shrugs. Yeah, why not.*  //Tell him he got good taste.// B l u r r: / smirk / Hear that? He says you have good taste . /snicker/ He says thanks. FakeProwl: Did any of them "benefit"? We see no signs of a benefit. Just promises. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[The human in the chair stood and walked.]] FakeProwl: Ah. Right. ItsyBitsySpyers: //He's, uh. He's welcome.// B l u r r: /hums/ You know, you don't have to be nervous. He's the nicer one. FakeProwl: What of the rest of the town? The evidence indicates that none of them are satisfied with the bargain. There's reference to them being afraid. The town looks half-abandoned. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[...He cannot recall anything for them, no.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Traditional human interpretations of immortality are being held at one age forever. They would not have grown older.]] A pause. [[Unless he was cruel and their immortality comes when they are near-- ItsyBitsySpyers: death. He doubts it.]] FakeProwl: Mm. Yes, immortality seems unlikely. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Then he sees nothing else.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Still. They agreed to pledges and sacrifices. They do not come away clean.]] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Stretch.* B l u r r: / leans back and crosses arms behind his helm / Well, when I stop by Earth again, I'll get you something. B l u r r: / to rumble / ItsyBitsySpyers: *Immediately* //Sledgehammer.// B l u r r: A sledgehammer? ItsyBitsySpyers: //Big one.// B l u r r: A big sledgehammer... got it. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble cracks a smile and nods, then hops up and carries his box over to Soundwave's couch.* ItsyBitsySpyers: //Yo.// Half-afted salute to Prowl before he scrambles up the couch and gets docked on the arm* FakeProwl: *nods to Rumble* Hi. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Through Soundwave's speakers, a whisper:* //Next game.// FakeProwl: ... Hm? ItsyBitsySpyers: *Places a baseball on his screen.* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Frenzy runs back over to Blurr and sticks a hand out in the meantime* B l u r r: ... / looks at Frenzy/ Yes? B l u r r: / holds out claw? / ItsyBitsySpyers: *SHAKES THE HECK OUTTA IT then runs off to Soundwave too* B l u r r: / oh uh shake shake / B l u r r: ... / confused but he assumes that is a thank you / ItsyBitsySpyers: *Yep.* B l u r r: / oh well good / B l u r r: / he's glad the kiddos like their gifts / ItsyBitsySpyers: *You bet your aft they do.* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[We should be going. We have... things to repair.]] FakeProwl: *a farewell nod to Soundwave and to Rumble* B l u r r: / waves claw / FakeProwl: *next game. whenever that is.* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Tomorrow, actually. He'll set Prowl up with a feed. In the meantime, one last tiny squeeze and then he gets up, nods, and makes his way out.* FakeProwl: *that soon? he's lost track* FakeProwl: *flickers and disappears*

#chat

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 15

Chapter: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV

AO3 Linkage

Summary: Rhys and Feyre heal their relationship and confide in each other about their feelings towards each other. Sleeping under the stars may or may not be a thing that happens. :)

Chapter 15

“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s cold out here?”

Rhys didn’t look at me when he spoke. Just kept his attention peacefully fixed on the skies above. “Hasn’t anyone told you you’re a smartass?”

“A smartass who comes offering warmth.” I shook the sleeping bags so that they crinkled audibly. Rhys held out his hand, not getting up.

“What - you want to stay?” He nodded. “Out here? I think the tent would at least be warmer.”

Rhys chuckled darkly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d just invited me to bed with you, Feyre darling.”

“Please. You know what I meant.”

“Haven’t you ever slept beneath the stars, Feyre?”

Again, he held out his hand daring me to scoff one more time and I knew he’d stay out here all night if it meant he could still be a gentleman. A stupid prick of a gentlemen, undoubtedly. But a gentlemen nonetheless.

I tossed him Mor’s sleeping bag and laid mine next to him. I tried to hand him the spare pillow I’d brought, but he shoved it back at me gesturing to his own. “You don’t want it?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Besides, I figure you could use your beauty rest.”

We settled into our adjoining nests and then found ourselves with nothing but the nature of the lake surrounding us. The sky was mercilessly clear of clouds allowing the stars to shine hotly above us. Up here, tucked high away in the mountains, the smog of the city wasn’t so horrible and you could actually see the stars with some decency, connect them with your fingers to trace constellations and stories that lasted millennia. It was a real shame, I thought, looking up at that gorgeous expanse how often we missed it below the mountain where we trapped ourselves, to deny ourselves such an ethereal beauty on a daily basis seemed a crime. I could have gotten lost in it forever.

“I told you it was worth it,” Rhys said quietly next to me. I watched his breath come out white, dancing on the air as he spoke.

“Technically, all you did was ask a question that implied it was worth it, but you didn’t actually say it, so…”

“Do you also remember me calling you a smartass because that one definitely wasn’t implied.”

“Mmm.” I hummed low in my throat repressing the urge to throw the first insult I could think of at him, however ridiculous it might be. “Fine, you’re right.”

“Come again? I didn’t quite hear you. Neither did my phone. Give me a second to get it out so I can record you-”

“Prick.”

“Ah,” Rhys said, giving more weight to his next words. “So we’re back to that again. I call you darling and you call me prick and we pretend it all means… what exactly?”

Finally, taking courage from the little silver and blue embers burning billions of miles away against that dark ripple of velvet, I rolled my head to the side. Rhys was already watching me keeping a tight check on his emotions to see what I would do.

And it was odd then how in that moment alone when I could barely see him, when he was swathed in robes of darkness that shadowed his face, cast shadows around his body that swept beyond his back like the promise of wings and adventure, huddled in a small dingy bed of fabric that striped away the pressed shirts and polished shoes embodying a formality and a regalness only he ever found the power to invoke, that I discovered he had never been more handsome.

And I wondered if I hadn’t said what I’d said to him not because I thought he could never want me in all the ways I fast learned that I craved him, but because I was too scared of the possibility that he would want me like that, want me the way no one else in my life had.

“Feyre?” His voice was a soft, rich velvet to match the sky. “What… do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I texted you a thousand times, but Rhys - I want you to know I’m sorry and that those things I said, they had far more to do with me than anything you could have ever done. You’re perfect.”

“Ha,” he snorted with some degree of derision. “I am far from perfect and I deserved what you said. I haven’t exactly been fair to you. I told you once that I wasn’t snooping about just to get in your pants and I meant it, but that doesn’t justify the way I’ve thrown myself at your feet like a lap dog for the past several weeks - since I met you, honestly.”

Now it was my turn to adopt the derisive tone. “You weren’t exactly alone, you know. I flirted back. I showed up at your door every time I caved under pressure for whatever absurd excuse I’d concocted for why I couldn’t just deal with my own baggage. I’m… I’m the one who asked you to touch me in the cafe to make someone jealous.”

The last admission was almost physically painful. To me, it was the final nail in the coffin, a low blow that I didn’t envision he could move past, especially not when I’d called him a cowardly mess right afterwards for helping me.

“You can say that you flirted and teased and pushed too much all you want, but I’m just as much to blame, Rhys. I’m just as big of a - a mess.”

Rhys physically moved his entire body onto one side now so that he was completely facing me. His brow furrowed sharply. “You are not a mess, Feyre. You are beautiful and you are intelligent and you are capable and every single one of those is far from a mess.”

“How can you say that,” I stopped to swallow my hesitations rising in my throat like a bed of thorns that would choke me down, “after how horribly I’ve treated you - used you in my feeble attempts to run away from life - when I could say the same thing about you and know that you’d never believe me?”

The cold, white smoke that left him as he released his breath was more like a strangled gasp in his chest that shuddered to get out, fear or doubt the only things keeping it from escaping.

“Two years ago, there was a party over spring break. My sister was seeing this guy who was going to be at the party and she begged me to take her. She was only a freshmen, just a year younger than me and I knew our parents would kill her if I let her go - kill both of us if either of us went.”

I shifted onto my side the same way Rhys laid to better listen. His voice became deeper and more twisted with pain the further on he went.

“I was only a sophomore. I had no idea what I was doing except that I thought I was being a good big brother keeping her home and not telling our parents, but she snuck out after we’d gone to bed.”

Rhys stopped talking. It was dark, but I could feel his muscles straining, his voice struggling to get out and admit what I knew he was leading up to. Only one thing had ever made him sound so sorrowful before, so haunted.

“My mom got a call in the middle of the night from her,” he said, his voice near to shaking. “She was drunk and out of her mind and couldn’t find her boyfriend or anyone that she knew. I was asleep. Dad only told me later after everything happened about the call. He’d wanted to be the one to go and get her, but mom insisted she do it. My sister had called her after all. Her and dad had never quite clicked the way she did with mom.

“The hospital called us an hour later. My sister had found her keys and gotten in the car. She was about to drive off when her boyfriend caught up her. She wouldn’t get out, so he got in and my sister took off and when he tried to get her to slow down, she barreled through a red light and hit a car - mom’s car. She’d been drinking.”

My body went still as death as I listened. How he wasn’t crying, how he could even get the words out…

“You run away from your problems, Feyre, by flirting back with me. But you didn’t cause any of your problems. The world around you treated you like dirt. And you’re overcoming and I’m so proud of you. But me? I - ah….”

His breath hitched and a dry sob heaved out of his chest. On instinct, I drew myself closer to him and nestled my fingers in his hair, rubbing soothing circles over his brow with my thumb to calm him. “Sh…” I said. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

“I am a mess, Feyre. That’s why I stayed away the past week. You hit it right on the money whether you meant to or not. I created my monsters and came chasing after you when I knew you were off limits. I could have told my parents about the party and that would have been enough to keep my sister home. She would have listened. She knew where the lines were when it came to their rules, but I told her I wouldn’t snitch if she’d just stay in and she left. It’s my fault she died. Her and mom both.”

“No, no, no, no, no - Rhysand.” I couldn’t believe he saw it that way, that he could think so horribly of himself.

But you were a little… shall we say intense in the kitchen and I don’t know if that beer was intended to be your first or your twentieth.

I’m not drunk.

Just go home and if anything happens on the way home, you can call me and I’ll help you, okay?

The words came back to me with startling clarity, shattering through me with a fresh understanding that brought pain and so much empathy along with it. “That’s why you insisted I have your number,” I said. “The night of Lucien’s party when you took the beer away from me? It was because of your sister, wasn’t it.”

Slowly, closing his eyes to fight against the tears I could feel beneath my thumb as I stroked across his face, he nodded.

“Rhysand,” and I said his name with such surety, that his eyes snapped open at the sound. “What you did was not monstrous or damning. It was human. You did right by all of your family, then and now. And if you don’t believe me, you really only have to look at your friends to see how you’ve taken care of them - taken care of me. Your sister, your mom - it wasn’t your fault.”

He reached up to hold my hand and our heads pressed forward until they were touching. I nuzzled against him, back and forth, soft and soothing as the night. “You are extraordinary, no more a mess than I or anyone else.”

Beneath me, his skin was warm to the touch. I ran my fingers down his neck and pressed small circles along his shoulders. He never let go of me once.

“Feyre…” he said, my name trembling off his lips.

I unzipped my sleeping bag and found that his had never been zipped up in the first place. Our arms wound together until we were pressed chest to chest and he was huddling in my arms. I inhaled and the rich mix of citrus and jasmine that came off him, melting me to my core. It no longer felt it right to question what we were or could become, to doubt his affection for me. So I didn’t hold back in clinging to him, reaching lower on his abdomen until I found bare skin beneath his shirt to rest on and continue to rub gentle, healing touches to.

His arm snaked under me. My head came to rest at the crook of his shoulder. He peered down at me and held my face in his delicate hands.

“I find I very much want to kiss you right now,” he said. Save for my heart beating rapidly in my chest, I didn’t dare move.

“So what’s stopping you?”

A small, cruel feline smirk graced his lips. “I fear that if I started, I would never stop. And I’m not sure I’d like my first kiss with you to come after I’ve become such an unraveled mess.”

“That’s okay. We can settle for other kisses.” I tilted up as much as I could until I could reach him and pressed a hot, lingering kiss on his jaw and felt him quake against me. “But do please explain why you would deny a willing woman in your arms the simple pleasure of kissing you on a night such as this.”

His chest rumbled with laughter, a movement I rejoiced in feeling. “Cruel, wicked creature.”

“I liked it better when you called me beautiful, intelligent, and capable,” I purred and pressed another kiss further along his jaw, continuing the trail lazily down his neck, one slow and throbbing kiss at a time.

“I want to start over,” Rhys said while my lips journeyed across him. “I want to earn your trust again.”

“You already have my trust - obviously.” The words were mumbled into his skin. Rhys snatched my chin in his hands and gently tugged until I was forced to break away and look at him.

“I want to kiss you far away from anyone else,” he said. “Not somewhere where I can hear my brother snoring one tent over or where my cousin might intentionally intrude. I want to take you somewhere and make you laugh and smile like you did when you realized you were one of us this weekend. I want to kiss you not simply because the opportunity to do so is there, but because you deserve to be kissed romantically, impossibly, passionately - to the point of not even knowing who you are or where you stand without it.”

My blood raced for him, the only thing greater than my desire to take him now the need to see his promise fulfilled and all that it might entail.

“Do I get a sneak preview or…?”

Rhys barked with laughter, heedless of the night and passengers unknown who might be trying to wrestle with dreams and sleep. “Greedy,” he whispered nearing his head towards mine. His nose scrunched up mischievously as he spoke.

“With good reason.”

Another ghost of a laugh and then, and then… his breath was hot as it filled my skin. His nose scraped lightly down my cheek as he deeply took in the scent of me and whispered my name with a sultriness that could have melted the sun. “Feyre…” His lips touched down right at the corner of my mouth, so close and yet unbearably not close enough. I could have moved just a fraction of an inch and caught him, let him taste me and cash in on that promise early, but I paused letting him take his feel of me as his lips rested moist and loving on my skin.

We wrapped ourselves in each other for the rest of the night, falling asleep under the stars pressed as tightly together as we could fit. It was then I learned what real dreams were made of.

I had never slept so soundly in my life.

We got back early Sunday afternoon after a rematch of who could tear down their tent the fastest. Azriel won - again, but this time both he and Mor looked pretty smug about it.

I had homework to do and probably could have done with a good shower, but I wasted no time after checking in with dad in going to the hardware store and picking up paint. Dad went with me and helped me settle on just the right shades of violet, black, and blue.

I spent the rest of the afternoon locked away in my attic, homework and responsibilities be damned, and I painted and painted and painted until I saw nothing but endless, eternal night full of stars on every wall.

xx

#myfic #beneath the stars #beneath the stars: a feysand fic #bts #feysand #feysand fanfiction #feyre #rhysand #acomaf #acomaf fanfiction

[thegodshavehorns]

Necessary Distance

“To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.” Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods.

I.

Names. You have names beyond number. You are known across a galaxy of galaxies, from the Subspace Disk and the Relona Filament to Harrishuttel-2 and the Economic Principality of Fircant.

You were born heir to a throne, and then you ascended beyond a need for thrones. For ten billion years and more your countless names have passed through lips, fluttered on phosphorescent skins, and been signed by tentacles and limbs stranger yet, all in prayers and homage to you.

They have called you Leviathan Mother. She Who Has Ten Thousand Claws. The One in Relex. The Venomous Snake. But of all your uncountable names there is one which only fools and stalwarts fail to shudder at.

Once upon a time you took on the title of the Witch of Life. But before that, before everything else, your name was Feferi Peixes.

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II.

You stretch your jaws, not bothering to conceal a yawn as you follow Sollux Captor down the halls of the SkaiaNet complex. He said that the business was urgent, and your presence was needed “right fucking now.” You wouldn’t have guessed it from how slowly he leads you down, how he refuses to tell you anything at all.

What is he to you? Matesprit, auspistice, moirail, kismesis— he has been all these things to you, and other things which the old Alternian tongue cannot describe. Fifteen billion years is too long to stay in just one quadrant. But for right now, the two of you are nothing. It's too bad. Perhaps in another century you will be something once again.

In the bowels of the installation, Sollux pauses. He adjusts his dirty old lab coat, and then opens the door. “Old gods, meet the new,” he says as your eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. There are a pair of children inside. Infants. Human.

A hundred thoughts rise up inside you. Why are they here? Where are their parents? Did Sollux steal them away for some reason you can only guess at? Or, if they’re orphans, why have they not been left at the roadside, or whatever it is that humans do with abandoned young? What is it that Sollux is planning with them? What does he mean, the new gods?

It is the last question which you decide to voice.

“It worked,” he says.

He leaves you to mull that over for a few seconds. “You rebuilt the Game? But how— you’ve only been at work for a few years...”

Sollux nods. “We won’t succeed for years, but the board is getting set up.”

“And it sent them?”

He nods again.

“And what do you need me for?”

“They need a guardian. A mentor. Someone who can hide them, keep them away from attention.”

“So you asked me?”

“Aradia said that you were the best choice. Everyone knows that you like to keep your... projects under wraps. Even Vriska wouldn't bother you if you set aside space to raise a few mortals.”

You look at the children, still so young, and run the back of your claw against the male’s cheek. It would be foolish to try and fight the future, you think. And anyway, there is something stirring in you, an instinct for companionship, a yearning for company. You've created countless living creatures over the eons, but you've never been a mother before. Not really.

“What are their names?” you ask.

Sollux smiles. “They don’t have names yet.”

You’ll take them. Your wigglers. Your little grubs.

They are going to be gods.

You will never have to watch them die.

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III.

For the first few years, they continue to go unnamed. They need none, and they have earned none. It's better to not be named, for now. How could you know what will fit them when they are so young?

It is not until they are four years old that you give them their names. You take them from Hebrew, but in a modernized, abbreviated form that will not attract notice.

Jake. To supplant, to assail, to hold the heel. It was the first place where he bit you, but not the last. Perhaps the boy had thought himself a shark. It means to follow, as well. To be behind, and in this the name also serves him well; just as well you might have named him “Shadow,” he follows you around so much.

Jane. The creators are merciful, are gracious. For she has already demonstrated how she will extend an open hand to all the worlds in her demesne. It will break her. It will be the seed of greater strength, after she heals. The world of nature is not all red in tooth and claw, and her nurturing touch will be a boon once she has tempered it with the edge of necessity.

Harley. Jake and Jane Harley. “From the hare’s meadow,” it means— or “from the eagle’s meadow.” No one will look twice at them, should they need to move about among mortals. Not until they have attained the godhood which is their birthright— and then they will have names beyond numbering.

Your only regret is that you will not be able to see it for yourself. But as you look at the stars of this universe and long for their presence, their voices, once again, you shall comfort yourself in the knowledge that they are only gone from here, and in some other place they are still alive.

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IV.

You brush your knuckles against the back of Jane’s head, just as your lusus did with her tendrils when you were young. She nestles her head into the crook of your neck. You whisper soft lullabies, the ones which Gl’bgolyb sang for you so long ago.

“Mirmi etin tuklet, shita wirg fluket jar ma...”

It was years before you realized that you were copying your lusus in your whispers. You continued anyway. All three of you found it comforting, you and the children.

You keep her wrapped in your arms as you reassure her that you are not disappointed. And you're not. Jane's weakness was not her fault, but yours.

She is eleven, and perhaps a little old to be coddled like this, but you don’t particularly care for what humans do. You are not human.

“Mother....” she says, her voice shaking, and you run your fingers through her hair. It’s not like having a moirail. Not quite. But on the surface, it looks somewhat similar.

“I’m proud of you,” you say. “I am so very proud of you. You’ve come a long way, and you will go further still, my puntillita.”

When you found her, during her first attempt at surviving on her own, she was laying in the shade, parched to near-death, breathing so shallowly you almost feared you were too late. But Jane couldn't die, she couldn't, it was fated. But if she'd died, and you'd brought life back to her, rose her up, you know her mind would be empty, and a goddess with no soul would be-

“Please, mother, I can’t, I won’t be able to—”

“You will, you will. I believe in you so utterly.”

She is strong. She just needs to believe it, needs to try again, to look for water sooner.

“Mother, don’t...”

“Hush. You are a wonderful girl, and you are growing stronger every day. But this is important for you in so many ways.”

“Mother, please don’t make me do it. I’m just going to fail.”

You healed her, snatched her from the brink of death, and brought her home. But now that she's rested, it's time to try again.

You move your hand from the back of Jane’s head to cup her face, and turn her to look at you with her big blue eyes. “Jane. You won’t fail. I know you won’t. Call it a... mother’s intuition. But you need to tell yourself that you won’t fail, or your prophecy will fulfill itself. Now say, ‘I can do it.’ Aloud.”

“I... I can do it.” Jane’s voice wavers, and her eyes look to the side.

“Say, ‘I will survive.’”

“I will s-survive.”

“Again.”

“I will survive.”

“Again! Make me believe it!”

“I will survive!” Her voice is hoarse, but louder, and almost sounds like it holds conviction.

“There.” You move your hand to the back of her head again, stroking her hair, and your voice once more becomes gentle. “You can do it, Jane. I know you can.”

You hold her until she sleeps, and the next day, you bring her to the island, and let her go. A test run, to show her strength against adversity.

She survives, as you knew she would, and you heal her wounds with a mother’s pride. They will sing praises to her in eons to come, hymns and psalms to the glory of her name. Jane Harley, god of the new world. Jane Harley, the daughter of her mother.

--------------------------

V.

“Say it again.”

“We were wrong.”

“You lied to me.”

“What did you expect us to think? We didn’t know that the Game would give us these— these extras.” At least Sollux has the decency to look appropriately ashamed.

Your children are not going to become gods.

Their names. How hollow their names now seem to you. A mockery, a taunt. They are going to die. You have gotten too close to them. You thought you were safe. That they weren’t mortals. But they are.

And you aren’t. They can have no place with you. That much is clear. You will not be able to keep the necessary distance. You would pervert them.

They are life. They are mortal. They will never ascend. Already you can feel yourself beginning to entertain thoughts of prolonging their lives, keeping them at your side until the stars burn out. They were not made for that, to handle the weight of ages without end. They were born to die.

--------------------------

VI.

You don’t bother with trying to prepare them for the news. There is nothing that you can say that could ease their pain, and little point to it. Better to keep the blow swift and sharp and clean, than to drag this out slowly.

When you speak you keep your voice smooth and level, betraying not a hint of uncertainty. Over the eons, you’ve grown quite good at masking your feelings in the trappings of divinity.

Besides, if they hate you, then they will gather strength from that. But they will reap only weakness if weakness is what they see in you.

“As it turns out, we were wrong about you. You are not going to become gods. Our mistake. Anyway, you’re both old enough now, to grow up. So, you’re going to leave.”

They beg. They plead. They call you Mother.

Such a name, Mother. Mother. A billion civilizations and more have called you their mother, but none of them like your children have done. And you will never hear it again. There is a spike of grief, and you banish it. Love is a chemical, is biology. You can shut it off by merely thinking about it, prevent yourself from feeling this maternal pain. There will be ample time for that indulgence later.

“It's not about love. It’s not about you at all.” It’s never been about them, not really. It’s about the game, the end of the world. You were a fool to think it was about anything else. “I just can’t invest any more energy in you two. I’m going to take the bubble down now, so you should leave before you drown.”

They are life. They are mortal. They will never ascend. They can have no place with you, that much is clear. You will not be able to keep the necessary distance. You would destroy them. Already you can feel yourself beginning to entertain thoughts of prolonging their lives, keeping them at your side until the stars burn out. They were not made for that, to handle the weight of ages without end. They were born to die.

--------------------------

VII.

You fly. In the space of a heartbeat you have flown further than you have ever flown before, reached expanses never seen by any of the gods. You descend, gently, upon the first life-bearing world you find, a world which has never before seen the gods or known their power.

And with a thought, you begin to unleash devastation. You unleash plagues that spread and kill in moments. You create monsters. You kill them in ones and twos and you kill them by the millions as you twist their bones and warp their hearts. You return life to their dying bodies and twist them into a hideous architecture, conscious all the while of the horror that is being done to them.

This is part of life. This is okay. You are not stepping beyond your role at all. Sometimes something unexpected happens. Sometimes disaster strikes. Sometimes there are... there are meteors, and the world you love is destroyed forever.

That’s all that this is about. Meteors.

It has been— days, or months— when the world freezes around you.

“I must be swamping you wit)( work,” you say, the Tinge coloring your voice.

“there have been w0rse days,” Aradia replies.

“You )(ave a lot of nerve s)(owing yourself to me,” you snarl. “You knew.You knew, t)(ey wouldnt be gods.”

“i did,” she acknowledges.

You bare your fangs, then incline your head in the direction of your latest masterpiece. “)(ow do you like it?”

“y0ure wasting y0ur time. besides,” she adds, “there was a learning curve inv0lved”

You want to fly away. Find another world where you won’t be bothered. It doesn’t matter that she’ll know where it is before you do. But her last statement hangs in the air and forces a response. “W)(at do you mean?”

“there will be an0ther”

“No.”

“y0u had to have this s0 that y0u w0uld raise her well”

“)(-Her?” you stammer, as the Tinge fades out of your voice.

Aradia puts her hands on your shoulders. “she will be named jade. f0r the c0l0r of her eyes”

You open your mouth to say more. What are her favorite foods? Does she like being read to at night? How does she wear her hair?

Aradia disappears before you can say anything at all, and the words die on the edge of your lips. It is only after you have left your waste of twisted bodies that you realize that you have already begun to think of her in the present tense. She hasn’t been born, and yet she is already here.

Jade. Her name will be Jade.

--------------------------

VIII.

You see her eyes when you sleep. You wonder what shade of green they will be, but Aradia won't talk with you again, no matter how much you want to pump her for more information. You kill another world just to entice her to speak with you, and still she never shows herself.

You don’t need to sleep, but you find yourself doing it more and more often anyway. Sleeping lets the days go by faster.

How long will it be? As the years turn into decades and Jake and Jane grow older you begin to despair. You wonder if Aradia has lied to you, but you banish the possibility. She always tells the truth, you tell yourself. She doesn’t have to lie. She prefers to let you fill in the gaps with misconceptions and choke on them.

(Really, you just can’t bear the thought that she lied to you)

So you wile away the days deep in thought about diversity and designer biologies (The sound of her laugh, the color of her hair). You experiment and craft as you always do, building new forms of life as if you were a potter at the wheel (You wonder if she will like this one).

And you sleep, because in your dreams you can forget yourself and pretend that she’s already here.

(There is nothing worse than the sensation of waking up; it feels like falling)

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IX.

The Barkbeast was here before any of your kind were. None of you understood it. For a time you all thought that it had something to do with Kanaya. Even she did, for a little bit, but it certainly never listened to her. It was Aradia, of course, who settled the matter, but all she saw fit to say was that it had nothing to do with any of you.

It remembers you, though. You don’t know how many centuries it’s been since you last saw each other but it remembers you. The Barkbeast follows close behind you as you enter the house, and it whines quietly when you stop at the foot of the stairs.

This is Jake’s house. He’s here. Just up the steps, three doors down on the right. He’s here.

You start moving again and you don’t stop until you’ve reached the top. You haven’t come here to see him. You don’t know if you could see him without waking him and you don’t want to see the look on his face when he sees you.

But the girl sleeps like the dead. She doesn’t even twitch when you open the door and stride into her room. You sit on the floor next to her bed and just look at her. You still don’t know what shade of green her eyes are. But she is here. She is here and one day you will be able to look at her when her eyes are open, and that is enough.

You glance back to the Barkbeast. Jake named him Becquerel. A good name, for a good barkbeast, you think.

You tuck a strand of hair behind Jade's ears, and then you leave.

Soon.

--------------------------

X.

“this isnt f0r him at all. y0u kn0w he w0uldnt want this”

“W)(at do you know about w)(at he wants? )(ave you ever even talked wit)( Jake?”

“i have watched him fr0m afar. i have sp0ken with his l0vers. i have seen him in c0untless fr0zen m0ments as i have tended t0 0thers. but m0re than this... i have sp0ken with y0u fr0m a time when y0u have regretted it”

You calm. “Then you—”

“i will d0 it” She shakes her head. Just once, but she does not need to do it any more than that. “but he will n0t f0rgive you”

“He deserves it at least.”

“what he deserves,” Aradia replies. “is a life that n0ne of us were g0ing t0 all0w him fr0m the start”

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XI.

You had to kill him.

This is what you tell yourself when the memory of it grows too painful. His kind are meant to die. And he was trying to keep you away from her. Still... you know that he saw the future. You know that he saw Jade, in a time years distant from now.

You will see him one last time. You have made and will make sure of that.

“Mirmi etin tuklet,” you whisper. “Shita wirg fluket jar ma...”

Aradia has spoken with her just once. Sollux comes about once a month. Eridan, slightly less than that and Terezi slightly more. You would be jealous of how much Jade likes her, but Terezi prefers to speak with Jade for only brief periods of time, in the early mornings just after your daughter has woken up. Jade is yours, and yours alone.

You brush your knuckles against her once again and she nestles ever deeper in your long locks of hair. She is seven, but she is short for her age and you are tall for any human, and so she almost manages to disappear into the folds of your robes and the quilt that has been draped around you both. You continue to rub her head, and tighten your hold on her with your other arm. Through that part of you which is most intimately tied up with the Aspect of Life, you are made aware of the increased release of oxytocin that occurs in response to your actions.

Other chemicals flow through your own body at the same time, some of them in response to the knowledge that your daughter is content. A few of them do not have names, because you made them yourself and never revealed them to the world. You remodeled your physiology, your hormones and brain structure, to take on aspects that would promote bonding and attachment—to Jake and Jane, once upon a time, and now to Jade. Despite the pain, you have never been able to swallow the idea of ridding yourself of these qualities that make you just as much a lusus as you are a troll or a god.

It is raining outside, and you can hear the drizzle and the pitter-pat through the large window that the two of you are sitting under. It makes for a lovely background to your nursery songs. You love the rain. Jade loves the rain. More than anything else, you love that she loves it.

(More than anything else, you love her—but that was evident from the start)

There is a peal of thunder, but it is far away and not so loud that you cannot hear what she says amid the quiet roar. You tighten your grip around her and stiffen in reflex when you register her words.

“Can you...” She yawns a little bit. “Can you tell me the story of the Fox Sister again, Mom?”

You have never called her your daughter. You have never told her that you were her mother. You were afraid. You were afraid and yet you needed to hear this so desperately and it was not until this moment that you knew how much you were starving for the name.

And yet. And yet... she never calls you that again. You wonder why, of course. But you are too afraid to ask, too afraid of what the answer might be. So instead it haunts your dreams, the fantasies that you have only because you needed so much to hear it again that you were willing to brave the nightmares and suffer the wasted hours, until you hate that you ever have to wake up at all. The only thing that pulls you back from the brink is the worried expression that you see on Jade’s face when you wake up one time to find her beside you, holding vigil.

“You were asleep for two days,” she tells you, and you are thankful that you fell asleep where you did, because you realize that she only ate at all because the kitchen was so close to you.

You don't sleep again. Nor do you ever again hear Jade call you by that most precious of names. And you will always wonder why, what it was that you did wrong, or that you failed to do.

#feferi peixes #jade harley #grampa harley #nanna egbert #homestuck #godstuck fic #godstuck #Sollux Captor #Aradia Megido #necessary distance #revision